SUPERNOVA*

Monday, April 03, 2006

The White Knight

As children we often regard our parents as Mythic Heroes (or villains, as the case may be). As a child with an overactive imagination I was no different; I thought my Daddy was the single most amazing man on Earth. I thought he was tall, dark, handsome, and above all else strong. This image was easy to cultivate because the most I really knew of him in those years was as a disembodied “Holiday” voice and the occasional visits when he was in the area. Obviously I was one of those children, the ever growing crop of babies from broken homes. I wouldn’t know just how broken until I was well out of childhood and on my way to becoming the dysfunctional (and slightly cynical) adult I am now.

Back in the day, when I was known for wearing tiaras and tap shoes to Preschool, I just knew my daddy was the greatest man in the universe. It didn’t matter that other daddies were home every night. It didn’t matter that other daddies actually tucked their babies in. It didn’t matter that other daddies came to tee ball games and ice cream socials and sat through two hour long masses with their families. No, my daddy was better than them all because I was his little princess and absolutely perfect, right down to my little frilly bobby socks.

It never occurred to me that things were hard on my mom, that she hated working two jobs and going to school full time to get her degree in Elementary Ed. She was the sort of mother who, no matter how her day had been, was more than willing to play dollies until bedtime. When you’re a six year old, and a princess to boot, it doesn’t enter into your thinking that any of these things might be strenuous, that perhaps the happy smiles and polite conversation that passes between adults is really chalk full of never ending bitter resentment.

If you ask my Auntie Carol, the problem actually started when I learned to talk. Until the moment I could string together more articulate sentences than my father, he was a pretty amazing dad, at least in the way children measure. We don’t notice things like the fine dusting of white powder and the rolled up twenty on the kitchen table. We don’t register that when Daddy is home to play every day, that actually means he isn’t working and that means food and money are scarce. The moment you when you finally start to notice, the moment you can register that chaos and craziness; the image of your “perfect” Daddy dies, and with it goes that last shred of childlike innocence.
The image finally shattered completely when I was just fifteen. I think in retrospect it had been coming for a long time. However, the first time I really lashed out, that I really said, “It’s your fault we were never a family. It’s your fault I binge, purge, and bleed,” was the night of my sixteenth birthday. I was nineteen before I knew all of the details, before the ugliness of that time could soak into me, but from this one man, this one fantasy, a million epiphanies have sprung forth.

I learned (the hard way) no matter how much someone loves you; sometimes they can’t help but let you down. I learned that while approval from the parental units is nice, it can’t take place of the validation and power loving yourself first gives you. Most importantly though, I learned that there are no mythic heroes, there are no white knights, and real love comes not from being with the “ideal”, but by seeing (and accepting) imperfect people perfectly. You come to real love and happiness by loving someone not despite their faults, but because of them. I’ve also learned; sometimes all of this is a lot harder than it sounds.

xoxo SJ at 10:33 PM.

About Me

Name ♥ Sara
Birthday ♥ o1//o2
Horoscope ♥ Aquarius
School ♥ Of Hard Knocks

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Listening to ♥ Blue October Reading ♥ Reservation Blues

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