This story begins when my dad and my mom met in Mexico in their little pueblo called Tlaquepaque. My sisters and I have never really gotten the full story, but apparently they met at a juice shop. My dad was 64 and my mom was 24. My dad already had a wife and six kids and was living in Los Angeles, California. It didn’t stop them though. They fell in love, I suppose. My dad took my mom back to California with him where they started their own lives, regardless of his separate life with his wife and kids. He abandoned them. He abandoned them for her.
A year later and my older sister Monica is born in Verdugo Hills Hospital, surrounded by smiling parents and grandparents. Two years later, and I am introduced into the world. Lastly, my little sister Milagros is born a year afterwards. That was our family. It was Dad, Mom, Monica, and Milli (she preferred this nickname).
Growing up, I never really understood the relationship between my mom and dad. First of all, my parents were never officially married until a week before my dad died of Stage 4 lung cancer in 2014. Second of all, my dad totally lied about not having divorced his ex-wife so that my mom wouldn’t ask for them to get married in order for her to get citizenship, all in fear that she would leave him afterwards. You might need to read that over again. Confusing, I know.
Those weren’t the only problems either. My childhood was tainted with the endless arguments and the abusive jealousy that my dad had over everything my mom did. She wasn’t allowed to have friends, she wasn’t allowed to have a phone, and most importantly, she wasn’t allowed to go anywhere by herself. It was all in fear that she would cheat with another man.
I remember one instance when we were all at the park having fun. My mom looked over at the direction where another man was standing and that was all it took for my dad to become suspicious. They argued until it was decided that we weren’t having fun anymore. We all walked back to the car to go back home. My mom sat in the back of the car rather than in the front passenger seat because she was crying and did not want to be near my dad. These deafening awkward silences and sniffling sounds became one of my biggest fears growing up.
In an article titled “Emotional Abuse of Women by Male Partners: The Facts” by Springtide Resources, signs of emotional abuse include acting “overly jealous or possessive,” isolating her from friends and family, and controlling the finances as to not give her financial independence. My dad exhibited all of these.
First of all, there are two types of abuse: emotional and physical. According to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, “95% of men who physically abuse their intimatepartners also psychologically abuse them.” Luckily enough for my family, my dad was never physically abusive. However, one form of abuse is not lesser than the other. Both have their own serious and long-term consequences such as PTSD and depression.
I look over to my sister in the driver’s seat as I’m thinking about all of this and I ask her what she remembers about Dad. “He was a good man and a good dad, just not the best one” she reminisces with a far-away look in her eyes. Despite the fact that he acted like a complete asshole sometimes, I still loved my dad. I still do. I was only a child and all I wanted was for all of us to be happy. I did not realize what my dad had done was not healthy for a normal family. That is why it’s important for people to be aware of the signs and consequences of abuse. No one should undergo this, especially not vulnerable children that need love and strong role models.
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