In January 2019, my husband sustained a traumatic brain injury. Things were rough for awhile.

In November of that year, The Box arrived. It had ostensibly been sent by my estranged father and had a generally innocuous appearance, but I just couldn’t deal with it. He and his wife had a history of cold/snotty/abusive behavior, so who knew what was in there? Photos documenting my relationship disasters and other failings? Chocolates laced with anthrax? 

Maybe there’d be a missive from his wife along the lines of the things she’d dumped on me for decades, such as “Your grandmother was a bitch. And according to your father, your mother’s mother was too.” Or her recounting the details of my father shooting my childhood dog and placing the hapless creature in a plastic garbage bag. “Oh,” she’d said with a sneer in her voice, “Are you crying?”

There were so many similar events that I could write a book.

Maybe she’d cooked up another of her fantasies, along the lines of “Ha ha, we both laughed when you were shown the door at that place you worked.” Yeah. Ha ha. Except that never happened. I’ve been fortunate to have worked with some amazing people and have been included on memorable projects. I have never, ever been ‘shown the door’. It’s more the case that, out of an abundance of kindness, the places I left offered more money/stock as I exited. But, hey. Maybe that fantasy sounded good to her, so she convinced herself that it was real. There’s a lot of that these days, with people spouting toxic lies and pretending they’re real.

Perhaps the box would include a note from my father himself, one of those cold, pseudo-legal compositions in which he blamed me for tragic events while excusing his own behavior. The non-denial denial, as it were. Because hurting me was less important than his pride and keeping the peace at home.

Really, there was no telling. But I did know one thing: in between trying to help my husband recover and trying to keep the household stable for our son, I just didn’t have the mental or emotional energy to deal with whatever was in that box.

In subsequent years, the blows kept coming: political upheaval, the pandemic, and cancer. I acquired what is, I guess, referred to as “smiling depression”. I kept putting one foot in front of the other and dealing with situations as they came up. I also stopped enjoying many of the things I’d previously loved.

The box gathered dust. It became a trauma box, symbolizing pain and broken family relationships. Soon it was joined by other things I didn’t feel up to dealing with, such as a cancer box and the artwork returned after my last exhibit. Before I knew it, the box had been sitting in the corner of my workroom for the better part of five years.

Today I opened it. I knew it would be rough, but it was time. I’m tired of being haunted by things like trauma boxes, and I want to clean up my own messes while I’m still strong and capable.

I plugged in a paper shredder, in case my father’s wife had sent something cruel or embarrassing, and I slashed the box open with a box cutter. My husband appeared in the room to support me, with that sixth sense he has.

And … to my shock, it wasn’t horrible. My father had sent some of the indigenous artwork acquired when we lived in Australia years ago. I had thought I’d never see those pieces again. He also sent a letter, which I handed to my husband to read and summarize, and a disk labeled “family tree”.

I appreciate it. I don’t know when I’ll be able to bear reading the letter or looking at the disk myself, but I appreciate everything that was sent.

I have castigated myself over the years for not handling the relationship with my father better. Most folks have at least one relationship that is challenging, and they deal with it somehow. My husband, for example, has vastly different political and life opinions from his parents. But he loves them and they love him, and he calls regularly to check on them. They just talk about non-controversial issues, I guess, and there’s acceptance on both sides that it’s best to avoid topics that are difficult.

But his parents aren’t mentally ill. His father isn’t crushed beneath depression and paranoia, and his mother doesn’t have NPD. (At least, I suspect that is what my father’s wife has.)

A counselor might have helped me beat down my PTSD and cope with ongoing relationship issues, but I don’t think the central facts of the situation would change. The price of having a relationship with my father would be enduring coldness, humiliation, extreme rudeness, and abuse from him and his wife. Every time, every time, every time I tried to visit my father, I got a big fat dose of it. And every time I even thought of seeking his counsel or confiding in him, I wound up with my face smashed into a huge reeking pile of feces. Often the situation was instigated by his wife, but he chose to be complicit.

My love, gratitude, and sincere hope that he and the rest of the family will have good lives has never changed.

My willingness to endure abuse has.