Story One. "How could he?"

From Chapter One: Fears.

How could he? Why would he leave? How could he leave his kids? Were three out of the four questions I asked myself regularly as my nose would wrinkle because my eyebrows would inevitably change shape in constant wonder. How could he? How could he leave? How could he leave his kids? How could he leave me? These questions became stronger as my brain, body, and heart developed. No one knew the real answer to these pounding and heavy questions. All they could say was that he, my father, used to be a one-of-a-kind human. The type of person that, like me, never goes unnoticed in a crowd. A singer, a musician, a race-car driver, a great dancer, and my Mom’s best friend. They also would say, “it was not his fault, he was sick. He had suffered a lot.” 

I was dancing on stage in my role as Gretl von Trapp, at a performance at school. All, and when I say all, I mean all of the furniture and props for the play were from my house. My grandmother was generous to let me take her favorite couch to become part of the home of the Von Trapp family. It was beige and brown, with swirl patterns that raised above the lower layer of cloth. I loved brushing my hands against that couch, it was soothing… satisfying. The couch had prominent dark ball shaped wooden legs larger from top to bottom. It seemed to have the same legs at the top of the couch but inverted. The stage smelled like my house, a mixture of Peruvian food with incense. I had rehearsed so much for this role and for this day. What I had not rehearsed was what would happen during the end of the play, when my fictional Dad Captain George Von Trapp would give me a big hug. I was deeply in character and felt shivers down my spine, through my mid-60’s dress all the way down to my toes. Automatically my head turned to the right towards the audience looking for my father. I always looked for him. I always wished one day he would “wake up” from whatever high dream he was having and he would realize he needed to show up. I squinted my deep dark brown eyes and frowned my unibrow to make the distance shorter in my search. He wasn’t there. And that was the day I finally understood what Freddy Mercury meant when he sang “sent shivers down my spine.” The fear of my father potentially being there, or not. I was afraid, either way. 

Around the age of twelve, I was able to answer those four questions with an answer that at the time felt powerful and empowering: Poor man, he was in so much pain and had such terrible trauma, that he lost control. He was not able to control the urge to use, the urge to fly away from this world and from his unprocessed pain. This loss of control drove him away from his family, from his children, from me. And in the process, it destroyed my brother’s five-year-old heart and I would dare to say, his soul. I was only a baby when he left. I was around that age when babies are able to utter a few first words, around the time eating solids was becoming routine. I was only eight months old. Even though from an awareness perspective his non-existence was not clear to me, physiologically and emotionally his absence disrupted my natural process of evolution. Research conducted by California State University suggests that Fathers play a hugely important role in the mental health of their children much later in life. Family Sociologists are fascinated with the effects of father-abandonment, mainly focused on the impact of Childhood Emotional Neglect (CEN.) Children are born literally “pre-wired” with some very specific emotional needs. Attachment theory, initially developed by John Bowlby and later expanded upon by Mary Ainsworth and others, focuses on the impact of early relationships, particularly the parent-child relationship, on emotional and psychological development.

Thanks to loads of scientific research, we now know, without a doubt, that in order to grow and thrive as an adult, children must feel loved and emotionally attached to their parents. Emotional neglect points to these three main issues in the future of the child who experiences father-abandonment: Lack of trust, guilt, and shame, and lack of self worth. To put it in statistics, according to the National Father Initiative 1 in 4 children in America live without a father in the home, this number increases in other parts of the world and makes children more likely to abuse alcohol and drugs.  

To quote Dr Maté again, he often discusses how early traumatic experiences, including disruptions in attachment relationships, can contribute to a range of mental and physical health issues. He connects the dots between childhood trauma and the development of conditions such as addiction, chronic stress, and autoimmune disorders.

I always knew I was different. Back then, there was no term for it. ADHD was not a thing. I was simply a “bad child”; one who couldn’t sit still, pay attention, or abide by norms and rules. I was so afraid of turning out like my father. I fought with everything inside of me to not experience all the side effects of having grown up without a father. I feared I would become one more statistic. I wanted to defy it. And the only way to do it was by taking full and absolute control of my life, my actions, my path. I attached myself to outcomes, I decided I was going to be in charge of the show, or so I thought. Using drugs, as my father did, meant losing control. Losing control was not going to be an option for me. I became a control junkie. A fearless one.  

From my studies to the type of friends I chose, and from when and how I would have sex. I grew up at a time when HIV was not under control yet. A time where looks for women included tailored skirts and pantsuits, slip dresses, hot pants, and skirts in satin, metallic, sequin, and vinyl fabrics. It was the mid-90s and I was not about to lose control over my lovely handsome first love. I had a plan. I would be the driver of my infatuation, of the “situation.” As we planned our first time with details and precision I gave him conditions that probably eroded some of the romance and serendipity of the moment. If he wanted to become the first one in my ‘book of romance’, he would have to get tested for STDs and for HIV and of course I would have my first gynecologist appointment. That was the first time I felt any foreign object enter my body in that area. It felt cold just like the sterile room we were in. I still remember the posters on the ceiling. Somehow they felt that as one’s insights were examined, posters of kittens and puppies would be the best imagery to accompany such an uncomfortable experience. Everything seemed to be in its right place and we were both healthy. Imagine that, I was almost eighteen, much older than my friends when the moment came. And even though I was scared, I had full control of the process and of course of the outcome. Down to the time and place. I felt so scared of love, closeness, or my own sexuality, that I made us both experience our first time as if it were happening in a lab environment. All clean, controlled and without room for failure or *sigh* much romance. 

Drugs, alcohol, riding in cars without seatbelts, none of that was in my playbook. A playbook of absolute control I had created for myself. However, I still had an adventurous and explorative mindset. One that allowed me to move to the United States on my own right after I turned 18, breaking up with that first love I had thrown so much energy into. Even moving to Oklahoma was done with absolute control. And I want to make sure I make the distinction between control and planning. I am not a planner, and probably never will. I live in the moment to a fault. Having the control to me stays closer to its literal meaning - To have control is to have the power to run something in an orderly way. The order happened inside my head and I would even dare say inside my heart. It became the synonym of not fucking up or the synonym of not abandoning things, especially not abandoning your kids. It became my guiding star. My proudest skill. 

I made it to my 24th spring in one piece and without having lost control even though I was already well into my second marriage. Or so I thought at the time. Looking back, I now realise how much I was using controlling things and people to avoid feeling the enormous pain, fear caused in my nervous system. I was covering it all up. And I was thriving at it!

One evening my teal colored flip-phone Nokia rang its glamorous ringtone connecting me to an unknown collect caller. It was him. It was my father. I can still remember what I was wearing. I had just returned to my townhouse apartment where I lived with my roommate from Brazil as my husband at the time had moved away for work. I was wearing my waitress uniform, one of the 3 different uniforms I wore daily to be able to pay for the last semester of University. I smelled like enchiladas, cheese, and pico de gallo wrapped up in grease. I was in my room which was filled with paintings I had done during the 5 years at the University of Oklahoma’s exquisite Fine Arts Program that I had been invited to join along with 20 other lucky ones. I fell down onto my butt sinking into the low queen bed perfectly made with an orange Walmart duvet. When I heard his voice, every sound around me disappeared.

There he was, and I was not even looking out to see if he showed up this time. Do you know who I am? He asked after saying his name in a deep voice which sounded familiar as if stored in the hard drive of my soul. I couldn’t speak. No words would come out of me. I wanted to scream, “How could you? Why would you leave? How could you leave your kids? How could you leave me?.” But all I could say in an almost inaudible voice was “yes I know who you are.” The remaining pieces of the hole in my heart instantly began to fill up. It was not totally empty because my grandfather had gone beyond his limits to fill the space between love and disappointment and between low self-esteem and confidence. Also, I was one of the few lucky people in life to have had not one but two out-of-the-ordinary step fathers. One who taught me to travel, hike, and build things with my hands; and the other one who guided me through my inner wounds and pointed me in the direction of respect and acceptance. 

But I digress. Back to that college apartment; my father asked me how I was doing. A question that at the time felt so trivial it made no sense coming from him. I was about to lose it. To yell, to hit and break shit. I could not believe his indecency. “How are you doing?” Where does one start to share the past 24 years with the type of detail I like to tell stories? I was silent again. I experienced a profound sense of unfamiliarity and vulnerability, a departure from the sense of mastery and command I had grown accustomed to. My dear roommate peaked through the thin door as if she knew something was going on inside my room and inside my heart. She made a question mark with her eyes and eyebrows. As soon as she did, an ocean of tears poured out of my eyes onto my nasty apron. “It’s my father, my real father,” I shared in Portuguese. She dropped to the bed and sank into it, putting her arm around me, and squeezing my shoulder so strongly it felt like a deep-tissue massage. I finally answered him, “I am good.” We exchanged a few words. I believe I paid more for the silence on that collect-call than for the words we spoke. He asked me if I would ever meet him. I said yes. Other than my daughter almost dying in my arms, I do not recall feeling more intense fear than at that moment. The type of fear that paralyzes and makes you feel nauseated. 

Even though it was summer in the southern hemisphere the afternoon was grey. It was not uncommon for the city to be covered in gray clouds that resembled the belly of a donkey. However, that particular day needed to be sunny. Unfortunately, and to my surprise, I could not control the weather and I had to surrender to that feeling of “blah” the grey afternoon brought to my body and to my emotions. It was the day, after 24 years the day had arrived. I would finally ask him all those questions that banged from side to side inside my mind. I parked the tiny blue Fiat I had rented. The car was so tiny I learned to perfect parallel parking during that trip home. We parked it under an overpass near a busy street that led to a giant roundabout. The building had multiple apartments with Christmas decorations and lights that were dancing in all sorts of directions. As we walked past the colorful flower market up to the apartment where the meet-up was scheduled, I stopped. I couldn’t take one more step! A suffocating grip paused me, rendering me motionless in the face of an overwhelming force that robbed me of the ability to move. I had lived my life choosing the route characterized by absolute dominance and meticulous command. And even though I had rehearsed this moment over and over and had watched endless movies where a kid finally meets their father, I certainly did not feel I could play the part. Anthony, my second husband, was taking each step with me.

We had role-played and rehearsed it countless times, but nothing could prepare me for such a defining moment in time. Anthony held me deeply into his chest and asked me a question without speaking. His deep ocean-blue eyes asked if I wanted to leave. They also reminded me of how much I had been dreaming of this moment. I resumed my slow walk, rang the bell, and heard his voice through the intercom. I looked up to the third floor in slow motion where the apartment was and realized the sun had set and it was dark already. Christmas lights were shining even brighter making it blurry to see up to the window where he peeked his head. We walked up the stairs for what felt like two and half decades.

My heart was raising, butterflies were dancing not just in my stomach but also in each of my organs, and even though my hands are not known for sweating heavily, they were. My parasympathetic system was out of whack. And I could feel the fear in every single one of my senses. A few questions to help me cope and control the situation popped up “how will I greet him?” “Do I hug him or do I shake his hand?” “Is a kiss on the cheek appropriate?” “Do I punch him in the gut so he feels what I am feeling right there in the middle of the stomach where the esophagus meets disappointment?” The door opened and we walked in. There was a foldable table with foldable chairs near the window towards the end of the almost-empty apartment. I identified the bathroom immediately just in case I would vomit or have explosive diarrhea. Every part of my nervous system was lit up, just as randomly as the Christmas lights outside the window. I have erased much of the memories of that encounter, out of control I imagine. But the one thing I remember clearly, almost as clear as the beige polo he was wearing, is when he told me he always looked at my life from a distance. Alberto, my father, knew details of my life only a person watching would know. Learning this was one of the hardest things to diggest in my life. In fact, I am still chewing that one up when eventually comes into my current relationships, uninvitedly.       

I didn’t see him ever again. I went on with my life after the time he called me to ask for money. I turned the page and decided to remain in my “perfectly designed” life path. I didn’t need him, I told myself.  About twelve years later he reached out to me again on Facebook, proposing a meet up. He wanted to meet his grandkids. I was living nomadically with my family and Peru was not in my immediate plans, we were based in Europe. Secretively, I also do not want to be faced with his presence again. I knew it would hurt my brother deeply, and probably me as well. My kids, however, wanted to meet him. One day, flying back to Europe from a business trip to NYC, I finally decided that the next time we went to Peru I would make a plan for him to be able to meet my kids. Just a few days later, on a Friday afternoon my mom walked into my  tiny Airbnb bedroom in Toulouse, France to let me know that Alberto had died from a heart attack the night before. I became furious at first and then Alani, only 12 years old at the time, invited me to lay my head on her lap and said “Mami it is ok to be sad and cry.” I took her offer, stopped intellectualizing, felt the feeling, and cried a river. That night we fell asleep listening to my Mom sharing stories about my Father. I slept deeply that night and in the morning I finally stopped looking for him to show up. Who knew that would be the beginning of my healing journey. Healing my fear of being left again. A deep wound I had learnt to cover up with my own additions: perfectionism, overdoing, and control. 

2023 update. I wrote the previous story in 2020. And today, thanks to the healing work I have done and to Dr Shefali’s coaching and teachings, I can say that my four questions were answered with this very important and life-changing narrative: My father didn’t leave me because no one can leave you. Only you can leave yourself. He had so much trauma and pain he couldn’t be there for me. But he didn’t leave me, he left himself.