One Last Visit

I talked to my daughter today. It wasn’t one of our best conversations. As in times past, we didn’t see eye to eye on several points. We are so very much alike that it isn’t odd that we have strong opinions and different outlooks. I’m not exactly on her list of favorite friends right now. It wasn’t always so. We were close, once upon a time. Over the years, she has travelled down many roads that I just couldn’t understand where she was going. I’m sure she felt that way about it herself, at times. There was a time when my words had weight with her, and she listened. Today was not one of those days, unfortunately.

My little girl is my only little girl. She has always had my heart in the palm of her hand. I hurt when she hurts. I cry when she cries. All the clichés about daughters being punishment for fathers having been rowdy young men have a lot of merit. A father of a daughter never looks at young ladies exactly the same way after they realize that the apple of their eye will soon be subjected to a world of young men….who were just like him. It’s an earth shattering revelation. Our daughters give us reasons to be gentlemen, and to teach our sons to treat women with respect, as ladies even. Chivalry is not dead. It should live in every heart of a daughters father.

She’s always been a trail blazer, a tomboy, and a friend to all. She’s also always been mischievous, plotting, and a bit of a ringleader. She’s never been a big follower. She’s a leader. That can be a good trait. Sometimes it’s not. My daughter is beautiful. She’s a friend to everyone she meets.  She’s loyal. She’s helpful. She’s creative and imaginative. She loves children, and has the heart of a child. She still loves to play. She’s both smart and intelligent. You can be one without the other, but she really is both. She has the eyes of an angel and truly cares about people. She carries within her genetic makeup her mothers great attributes and passions. I see within her eyes and heart the woman I fell so deeply in love with so many years ago. Whenever I compare her to her mother, I pay her the ultimate compliment, whether she sees it, or not.

As she grew to adolescence, the normal rebellious teen blossomed. It happens with most people. We grow to resent authority and rebel against the natural order around us. It’s normal. The home around her wasn’t normal, however. Every home has it’s problems, and ours was no exception. I’ll make no excuses, for I have none to give for myself. Between mental illness and alcoholism, parental examples were less than desirable for her, in her teen years. My shoulders, and my soul, are heavy with that burden. The weight of responsibility tends to bend our backs, and  at times it broke me. A rebellious teenager has much to rebel against, in such a house.

Marijuana, alcohol, pills and promiscuity are a parents natural foes. We saw all of them welcomed into my daughters life. She held the door open and ushered them in, just as a lot of young people do. Ditching school, sneaking out of the house at night, and hanging out with friends we didn’t like became battles to fight also. As time went on, it became clear to us that her drug problem was not getting better. A teen rehab became her home for a couple of weeks. It seemed to have no more effect than to make her resent us with renewed fervor. Episodes of outlandish behavior became the norm. Our own behavior wasn’t much better. She probably tired of the perceived “competition” of all of our abnormal, and bad, behavior. To simplify: she had a tough childhood during her formative years.

Even during the bad times, she showed the beauty that lay within her. She worked at a local Subway in the year before our world began to collapse under the combined weight of all our problems. She gave many a check towards keeping the lights on. She helped with the bills, at a time when I was giving up on life. I say that with pride for my daughter, but absolutely no pride in myself for my actions or the lack thereof.

We moved to Tennessee under less than grand circumstances. The lights were off, the rent unpaid, Mom had left, Dad had given up hope. There were still the children to care for, and they were all I cared about. We went to live with my parents, and to start again. I immediately found a job. What a blessing! We found a rental house in town, a couple of blocks away from my parents.  I kept talking to Mom, and she eventually came home. There was hope rekindled. My daughter, still only seventeen, continued her rebellion. She did it with a job, a car and quitting high school in her senior year. I understand why. I didn’t imagine everything would just fall into place like magic. My dreams of normalcy were short lived, an abortion of hope.

My father died of cancer, not even four months after we arrived in Tennessee. Then Mom had a departure from reality that I could no longer find within my power to deal with, and I took her to her mother’s home in Arkansas. Barely a month passed, and she took her own life. Tragedies, in life, often come in bundles. Hope can be crushed under the weight of such tragedies. It was. We moved back in with my mother. She freshly widowed, and myself freshly a widower. Our love for each other kept us both going forward. My love for my children was the one tiny wild flower under the broken bricks of my destroyed house. One child had not finished her rebellious stage in life. In many ways, she still hasn’t.

For the past fourteen years I’ve seen my daughter pass through the gates of hell over and over again. She’s ran the gamut of every parents nightmares. Her exploits would render Dr. Phil himself speechless.  She vanished without a trace for six months. She stole my checks and forged her deceased mother’s signature, also using her mother’s drivers license,  to write bad checks in three separate towns before I shut down the account. Her drug dealer/boyfriend/pimp took her with him to Memphis. Then she was sent to Florida, to be pimped out there. She’s worked the pole as a stripper. No bad thing skipped over her life. She walked down the sidewalk and stepped on every crack she possibly could. The sins of the child now belonged to an adult. The sins of her father haunted him with each and every step she took down the road to perdition.

There were good times in those fourteen years. There were bad times, too. The beautiful girl came home. She got jobs. Many jobs over those years. I had my share, as well. Even though I’d gotten sober when we came to Tennessee, I was still (and will always remain) an alcoholic. Maybe I was sober for two years, possibly three. I slowly began to drink again. Not a lot, at first. Then more. Then always. She passed in, and out, of the shadows and the light during the past decade of my life. Rehabs. Jail. Drugs. Horrible relationships that led to worse relationships. Each mountain climbed hid a valley of tears for her to plummet into. She lived with me, with boyfriends, with her brother, with acquaintances, and with strangers. At times, she simply “stayed with” people. She floated between being self-sufficient and indigent. She stayed on the race track of bad decisions like a nascar pro changing lanes for a better position. Crashes became not just a possibility, but a certainty.

By the time eight years had passed, I had acquired my own pair of DUI’s and lost jobs of my own. Then I met Laura. My life began to quickly change. Not only because of her, but she was the motivation for me wanting to change. She still is the reason I want to be a better man. When we started dating, my daughter was spending six months in a rehab in Memphis. Laura and I actually drove (ok, she drove-my license was revoked) to Memphis once a month to visit her. The trips helped us get to know each other. She was able to be at the wedding only by getting a special pass from there. She had to be back that same night. I’ve been married a little over six years. In that time, my daughter has been in no less than a half dozen rehabs, institutions, and hospitalizations for drugs and emotional problems. She’s lived in shelters and in the street. She’s had jobs by the dozen. She’s lived with me several times. I’d tried it every way I knew how. Heavy on the rules. No rules. I gave time limits, and left it open ended. When she exited her longest jail term, I helped her get employment where I worked. She excelled, and was going into management. Then a public intoxication charge lost her that job. Her lifestyle clashed with my life yet again, as she came home drunk again and again. Or didn’t come home at all. The cycle continued yet again.

In the past I’ve brought my daughter into my home. I only asked that she be sober in my house and not come and go at odd hours. I tried to provide a safe place for her to regain her footing in life. I just asked that she find a job, save her money, and get her act together. The last time I took her off the street, she got a factory job where her brother had been working for a week. Then they both disappeared into the darkness the first night after she’d worked there. No note. No explanation. That was about two months ago. She’s been living with friends, acquaintances and strangers since. I allowed both her and her boyfriend to house sit for us when we went on vacation. I paid her. She took the opportunity to order a food stamp card in that week. I said goodbye to them when we returned. She didn’t ask to stay. She knew how I felt. I had come to the conclusion that I was down to two options: 1. Take complete care of her for life or 2. Send her on her way. I opted for number 2. She and her boyfriend were both arrested breaking into somewhere to sleep after a few weeks. She received a thirty day sentence for that charge. She also violated her probation on drug charges from five years ago. That will see her stay in jail until June of 2019.

When I spoke to my daughter today, it was over a video visitation app on my phone, and she was in the county jail. She’d hoped that it was her boyfriend (whom she’d hoped had gotten out of jail) and was very disappointed that it was me. She still loves me, but let me know that she blames me for her being in jail. “You could’ve done something” she said, with tears in her eyes. She asked me not to visit her again, or call. She didn’t want me to send her any money, either.  She’s right. I could’ve done something. I chose not to. I’ve done my best to help her over the years, so many different ways and times. Not one of them had any long term effect that I can see. I chose not to because it’s not MY choice any longer. It never was, really. Now her plans include doing nine months in jail, after which she plans to go the east coast with her boyfriend. Because that’s where HIS parents live. I hope that whatever choices they make, wherever they go, she has peace, safety and happiness. It’s all I ever wanted for her. I love my baby girl with all my heart. My thirty two year old daughter will always own my heart. She may never want to see me again. I pray that’s not the case, but I will always love her. Maybe one day she will look back upon her life and reflect on her mistakes and choices and find truth that will change her outlook on life. I do that every day of my life. It helps keep me humble.

You can raise your children, Dear Reader, but you cannot live for them. Remember that.

K.S.

Author: Kevin Stone

Kevin Stone aspires to write stories that you will enjoy. I hope to tell tales of the Stone Family that all generations may to come may read. I'll also write stories of all kinds, true and fiction, just for you to enjoy. View all posts by Kevin Stone