Day 6: Crys Wood

Community Project

Oct 8

Sometimes the Answer Is No

All our prayers are answered; it’s just that sometimes the answer is No.

When my cat died after 19 years of steadfast companionship, I said he was my last pet, and I savored what a relief that would be – no more litter box, no more vet bills, no more hairballs...

I loved my Suzu, and he was dear to me, but who needs the hassles? I was better off without a fur-baby, I said, and I truly, firmly, sincerely believed that.

For oh, say … two weeks.

Then a series of strategic miracles led me to the new love of my life, Horidashimono, my lucky find – Momo for short.

And I gotta tell ya, life with a 1-year-old kitten is noooothing like life with a 19-year-old cat. My old boi had mellowed so very nicely over the years. He’d become placid, relished his quiet comforts, and couldn’t hop higher than a chair seat.

But in Suzu’s pawprints followed this lively little lunatic who’s fit and agile, interested in and excited by everything, prowls the house looking for adventure, and climbs to the highest point in any room to keep a vigilant eye on his domain. And also nap.

Which means I said a helluvalotta NOs to Momo in these first months together. I still say it, and so does he.

I scoop him off the kitchen counter and put him back on the floor – No, Momo. He scratches and thumps on the closed bathroom door – No, Mama. I push him away when he plays too rough with his teeth and claws – No, Momo. He pushes me away when I scratch or rub him too hard or too long or in the wrong place – No, Mama.

And slowly, surely, we’ve acknowledged and adapted to the other’s boundaries, preferences, and moods. It’s been the Summer of Twelve Thousand NOs, but never once did I feel rejected by him, or he by me – we’re cozily snuggled in my bed as I write this, as we are every morning.

Our NOs were never personal. They would’ve been the same for anyone or anything who behaved the same way. We knew ourselves, so they were neutral, and we were new to each other, so they were necessary.

And for all the Nos that shaped the road to comfortably sharing our space and time, everything else between earth and sky, from sea to shining sea, was a YES.

Yes, you can sit on my lap. Yes, you can scratch behind my ears. Yes, you can nap with me. Yes, I’d love to play. I’d love a treat from you. I’d love a hug from you. I’d love to receive your love.

Waking up to ready love is a miracle I appreciate every day.

Because I know what it’s like to live with someone and without love.

I know of rejection that is unquestionably personal, of delivering affection that’s unwanted and dismissed, of being taken care of without being cared for or cared about, of wasted and squandered emotion.

My (step)father didn’t love me, and that affected and directed my choices for 40 of my 50 years.

To be fair, it’s likely that he doesn’t really and can’t quite love anyone, but that’s the realization of a middle-aged woman after a decade of therapy and thoughtful recollection.

As a child, as a teen, as a twenty-something, I didn’t have the facts or the focus to absorb that. All I knew was that fathers are supposed to love their daughters, and he loved my (half-)sister, but he didn’t love me. My mother said that he did, but I think that was wishful thinking. I don’t recall him ever saying so.

I do remember him giving me a heap of chrysanthemums for my 16th birthday, and a snazzy red Honda scooter to help me get around campus. I remember him scooping me up and racing to the hospital when I gashed my preteen knee, and then holding my hand with tears in his eyes while they stitched me up.

And I remember other things, too…

I remember being berated about the lone B on report cards filled with As.

I remember him shaking his head with disgust while saying, “Looking at you makes me sick.”

I remember a regular routine of little things, things so small and subtle they’re indescribable, but they were no less impactful.

I remember his browbeating lectures with their unanswerable questions, and never once being asked what I thought or wanted or needed or felt.

I remember my younger sister, his real, true blood-kin daughter, getting away with just about anything and getting almost everything she asked for and much that she didn’t.

Her, he hugged and held and smiled at and listened to and bought clothes for. Her, he praised and enjoyed and supported and adored.

And me? Not so much.

I remember him having some windfall and giving each of us children a big chunk of money. Everyone got the same amount – except me, the only stepchild, who got exactly half as much.

I remember every time I called home from college and got something next to nothing – he’d say Hello, I’d say, Hi, It’s Crystal, and he would say … nothing … nothing … nothing.

He’d leave me hanging by his brittle, brutal silence for five seconds … ten seconds … twenty. I’d blink first and ask to speak to my mom, and he’d string me up again for five seconds … ten seconds … twenty. And then, at last, he’d hand her the phone, all without saying another word.

I remember the day I stopped calling home. I remember the day I stopped calling it Home.

I remember when he left my mother and called all his children to explain, affirm, and console – all his children except me.

I remember the gifts he brought that next Christmas: a computer for N—, a car for R—, and a daughter-daddy ski trip for S—. And for me? There was nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Looking back, it’s like he never wasted an opportunity to show me that I was unworthy of connection, attention, and affection … or even everyday politeness and courtesy. I wasn’t good enough and never would be.

He never said the words, but it’s not as if he had to.

I remember him being friendly, nice, and kind when my mother or others were around. He was a different man when there were witnesses. His actions, his reactions, and his true feelings – they were things to hide when he could and lie about it when he couldn’t, and that left no doubt in my mind.

He was the only father I’d ever known and the only father I would ever have, and I desperately wanted, desperately needed his love.

But, apparently, that was too much to ask.

Later, I’d hear tell that it hadn’t always been that way. I’d hear that his monster of a mother had verbally shamed him for taking care of this other man’s child. She mocked and sneered at his sense of responsibility, his loyalty, his efforts at love.

Which was absurd, coming from her, as I also heard that she abandoned him to his grandfather so she could go about her life untethered, unbothered, unburdened. And that she cultivated her proud career and shining reputation while her child suffered the parenting of a bitter and sullen old man.

My stepfather was a first-class asshole – and I expect he still is – but, to his credit, at least he was there, and he often tried. He didn’t have the requisite skills for the job, but he always showed up for work.

Later, I’d learn that he was (and likely still is) an alcoholic of epic proportions.

Later, I’d hear that he could be similarly unkind to his own kids.

Later, I’d see that I am loveable, that I can be loved, and that I am loved, just as I am – and that I am and always have been plenty goddamned good enough.

And later, with help, I’d recognize how it’s impossible for someone to give you what they don’t have, especially when it’s the very thing that they hunger for, shield themselves from, and feel they don’t deserve.

My (step)father was an exceptional executive and a stellar breadwinner, but he harbors a sad and angry soul, his occasional kindnesses outdone by his continuous, casual cruelty.

He didn’t love me, alas, and thank God.

He was, as it’s said, the rock we all broke ourselves upon. He’s in his 80s now, and part of his legacy is a trail of shattered marriages, rocky relationships, and five children who are either in therapy or should be.

All his children stick to him out of loyalty – except me. My history with him made it that much easier to sever all contact and set myself free. They call him, visit him, check in, and bring gifts, but from me, for the past 10 years, he’s got nothing.

Nothing.

And now, in the sanity of that 10-year silence, I wonder at my childhood years of yearning, so hungry for something that wasn’t on the menu, something that poisoned everyone else who had it.

Yet, I stayed hungry for a father’s love, that stuff of myth and legend – the warm affection and deep connection that’s sturdy and robust, earnest and honest, unconditional, unshakable, unbreakable.

I spent my 20s, 30s, and 40s looking for that love in All The Men, and it’s just as well that I never found it in them, because, eventually, at last, with nowhere else left to look, I sought it in myself.

It took a long time and a good bit of help, but I came across it one day. I’d looked all over from coast to coast, across the waters, to hell and back, and there it was within me – never lost, and yet found, and shining like new money.

In boundless abundance, and in the last place I looked, I met that love I’d longed for. Smiling and then laughing, it was delighted to see me. And it didn’t even mind all the waiting.

* * *

Maybe it’s the same for you?

Where have you looked for love? Where have you found it?

And what did you do when the love you had for someone didn’t meet with an equal love for you?

xo
Crystal

Crys Wood believes in the power and the promise of words – in whatever format and wherever we find them.

With that belief, her varied education, training, and experience have followed the growth of new media (and social media) as she’s helped her clients get the word out through blogging, podcasts, ebooks, workbooks, online courses, and video captions.

She’s a writer, too, and secretly posts memoiric essays to her Facebook Friends and Patreon subscribers. Her first online writing workshop, RE«MIND, attracted 70 writers from 10 countries over 4 continents.

She lives quietly in Big Sky Country with Mr. Montana, Momo the Magnificent, her inner voices named Moi and Mimi, and stacks and stacks of books that she hasn’t had one minute to read.

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