I don’t know how you collected your demons and you never knew how your demons affected me.

I can either process your death in full honesty of how I feel, or I can do what I did for way too many years; Ignore how I truly feel to make sure I don’t hurt you or step on anyone else’s toes. 

Since I already practiced the later for the better part of my life which only made me lose myself all the more along the way, I choose to process your passing EXACTLY how I really feel- without hiding. Without trying to make sure I don’t disturb the perceptions of others, which may be a bit of a rollercoaster ride- like my chaotic childhood was.

There were too many parts that didn’t quite fit together. Trying to process my childhood has been like trying to paste together pieces from many different puzzles and getting a coherent picture. So many misfitting parts.

There was the God piece, the Joseph smith piece, the Bible piece, the Jesus piece, and then the polygamy piece. From this comglomeration I was supposed to define my existence and purpose for being here and to figure out how God expected me to behave. I will term this “the church part.” Memories of sitting in mormon services until my head hurt, keeping secrets about you having two wives and having services at home with you being the minister of the frightful gospel and administer of punishments doled out to your naughty brood of children following. 

There were so many pieces that would need entire chapters to describe, but just to mention a few, the undeserved whippings, the merciless tickling, the hysterical, red-faced laughter morphed into silly antic displays, then transfigured into anger spewing out snide and belittling words at me and marched me into an isolated room where I was demanded to pay attention while your demons were unleashed upon me with hateful, condemning, smart-ass words and often followed by more punishment. I never could figure out what exactly I did wrong- I just figured I must be something awful inheritantly.

Then there was the deep sleep piece. Oh what a relief to hear you snore, knowing you would be passed out for hours. HOORAY! Breathe a deep sigh of relief. 

Sometimes I was just alone in the kitchen, quietly drying stacks of endless dishes, unaware that one of your demons was slowly creeping up behind me, then in your deep-toned voice right behind my ear, “ELIZABETH!” Frightened and startled, I would turn around to watch you, red faced, cackle in glee, when another demon would emerge. “What’s that look on your face? You better wipe that off right now missy before I slap it off. Who do you think you are anyway?…” A long barrage of accusations and demeaning insults ensued and most of the time ended up in some form of punishment. Just one demonstration of the cycle of your abuse. 

Your Legacy

Now, you grew old. You grew feeble.

Now you have passed from this world. 

How does one process such madness as a celebration?

What legacy have you and your demons left behind?

I was somewhere between 7 and 8 years-old- the current age of one of my grand-daughters, when I made a conscious decision that when I grew up I was going to have 11 children (the headcount of children in my family at the time) and NO Daddy! I remember playing with my dolls and was very absolute that we did not have a dad in our family, because I was aware at that age that daddy’s ruined everything. 

THAT was the legacy my dad had left me with. Albeit, the “illegal” legacy; The “you just don’t know who he is today” legacy; The, “Its okay to feel the way you feel, just don’t talk about it,” legacy. 

It took me years to trust and like the male species. I escaped physically, but was held mentally imprisoned by your demons for years. 

Growing up with my dad was like living with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hide, without exaggeration. He left me with the legacy of a chaotic mind and split energy and emotions that have been the bane of my existence.

For there was a side of him that was an aspiring “man of God.” with noble intentions and high standards. He was deeply patriotic and worked alongside organizations fighting to keep America free. I have my personal moments with him where he demonstrated compassion. For a short time in my childhood I was able to live alone with him and experienced a completely different dad than what I was accustomed to. He took me to my first Mexican restaurant and instilled a love for Mexican food in me. He took me to see many old time classic movies in a beautiful old Grand theater in LA. 

I saw his love for theatrics, classical music, baseball, and heard some of his stories and dreams as a young man. There was a human heart inside of him that I deeply loved. I can recall being very young, riding on his shoulders, my little arms clasped around his balding head, and he was my world. Every fiber of my being worshipped and adored him. 

But as I grew- his demons shattered that experience. 

Where his demons all came from remains a mystery. Even where he himself came from remains a mystery. I know he was an only child and that his mother and her side of the family were severe alcoholics. Whatever he endured as a child, he kept under lock and key. But unfortunately, the alcoholism was in his blood as well and the demons that possessed him, and they were unleashed on his family when he was drinking- which was a majority of my childhood. 

Do I grieve that he is now gone? Do I grieve his absence?

How do you grieve the absence of someone who wasn’t ever really there for you and 95% of the memories you do have of his presence you spent wishing with every fiber of your being that he were gone forever?

And what is there to celebrate?

I do celebrate his release from the prison house of his body that was wracked with pain. 

But most of all, if I am going to keep this honest, I celebrate this one thing. I have waited all my life for this one thing. That he finally gets to realize how his actions hurt and wounded so many people. That he will not be able to escape his life review and to FEEL what I felt, what so many of my siblings felt as little helpless children. That he will be keenly aware of what it did to us all- and the ripple effect it had on our lives. I honestly celebrate this.

To FINALLY be SEEN, HEARD, and UNDERSTOOD, knowing that sorrow and regret will envelop him for a moment in time. 

And then, yes, I do celebrate the great unconditional love that awaits him on the other side and his re-emergence into pure, positive energy. 

What then remains?

The confusion I’ve carried my entire life.

How does one reconcile two incompatible emotions? One, a deep love and respect for the man he aspired to be, the man he longed to be, the dad he could have been, the husband he should have been, the man of God he claimed to be…

Yet, until his end, he still refused to find enough remorse for his insidious actions towards his family to offer a sincere apology and seek pardon?

How do I reconcile the Dad I wanted to love, whom I have shed countless tears for and prayed for over and again,

with the man of my worst nightmares. The man who left me a legacy of self-loathing, deep insecurity & inferiority, feeling dumb and incapable, confusion and despair?

How do you assimilate the man he could have been, the man you had brief glimpses of, with the demons he unleashed on you and your siblings as children?

There is no easy answer. It is a process that mirrors the the insensibleness of my entire childhood.

I cannot embrace the man without abandoning my wounded inner child. And this I refuse to do. She has been abandoned long enough. 

It has nothing to do with hate verses love, this I am certain of.

It has everything to do with honoring first my truth and my integrity.

It has to do with my refusal to pretend that a HUGE ugly, demented, elephant still sits in the middle of my childhood memories, isn’t really there. 

To be authentically me is to embrace that injured, wounded- no SHATTERED, child, and to firmly state

“She was irreversibly wounded by him- by her Dad:

Eugene Flaker

 R.I.P

I am left to grapple.