The seminar began with opening remarks from the military installation's deputy commander. She shared that her sister had been a victim of domestic violence almost 40 years ago, when there weren't many resources available to help victims. Even though her sister escaped the cycle of violence, the deputy commander cried as I interviewed her. Obviously, the pain associated with her sister's struggle was still fresh, and my questions hit a little too close to home.
What she didn't know was that I was also touched by domestic violence in a way a child should never know. My father, an alcoholic, often used my mother as a punching bag, and he didn't care who was watching. These are memories that have haunted me my entire life, and I'm convinced they have something to do with why I consider myself a pacifist.
While I wouldn't wish domestic violence on anyone, I'm glad I saw what it looks like. I'm glad I was able to process what it meant. I'm glad my brothers knew what to do in order to save our family. I'm glad my mom was strong enough to become a single parent.
Most of all, I'm glad my dad recognized he needed help, quit drinking and sought treatment for alcoholism. He died almost three years ago, and when I visited the town where he lived to collect some of his belongings from his long-time companion, I heard stories about my father that were shocking -- not because they were bad, but because they were good. Every person I ran into told me how much they loved my dad and how he was such a kind and gentle man. Initially, these comments made me angry, because as a child, gentle moments from my dad were few and far between. There hadn't been much contact between us over the years and I felt robbed of knowing my dad in a way that daughters should know their dads. But I realize people change and I'm proud to know that he had friends who thought he was one of the nicest people in the world. Great job, Dad. I knew you had it in you.