My Life Story

My first memory of my dad is at Christmas time. I would have been 15 months at the time. I remember only the moment in time and the feeling associated with it. I was placed down next to my two older sisters, who like me, wore velvet christmas dresses trimmed with white lace. Behind us was a lit christmas tree. The room was large. Something pokey was placed on my head, stars for decoration. I didn’t like the feeling of it against my scalp.  I was confused. My parents were standing next to each other, watching us. I do not remember their facial expressions nor what they were doing. But I remember looking at my Dad and feeling fear and hate. For reasons I cannot identify, I did not like him. Not even at  15 months.

Fear is the only word that would consistently describe my feelings toward my dad, Papi. Never once did I ever look at him and think, I love you. But I loved him.

I loved him for the person he tried so desperately to raise me to be, despite his own faults. I loved him for the experiences he gave me. I loved him for loving his family to the point that he did what he did…for his family. Right? I love him for the magic. The magic. For the structure he gave my childhood and his best efforts to push me to be better, try harder and never give up. For having meetings with me every month asking what hobbies I like doing, what I wanted to keep doing, teaching me about finances, and buying me my first anatomy when I told him I wanted to grow up to be a pediatrician or asking me if it would be okay if he transferred me to a private school in Utah that had one of the best Art programs in the state, because he knew how much I loved and was good at art. I loved him for so deeply loving my mother and the lengths he went to provide for my family; his seven children, the best way I believe he knew how. The laughter and personality that exuded from his best attempts to be the person that I know he wanted to be.  I love him for trying, because I know he did. I love him for his deep passion for life, his extraordinary ideas that he brought to life to see the light in his children's eyes explode. EXPLODE. The man constantly smiling behind the camera who had failed at everything, but had seven kids, and knew he would do what he could to keep that alive and together. I love him for raising me and doing the best he could. 

But hate. Hate there was. And I hate him. 

I hate and fear him for being the person that I feared and was told I would be one day.  I hate him for the experiences I’ve put myself and others through because of what I learned from him as a child. For me and my siblings mimicked behaviors. For the physical and emotional abuse I endured for years. For letting my mother protect him over her children. For what he did to my childhood by targeting me my entire life. Only me. The abuse. The trauma. The screaming. Sitting in the bathtub with my hands over my head, hoping he wouldn’t break down the door to hit me, again. Rocking myself back and forth trying to escape to another place in my mind. Somewhere far away from that bathroom in Sandy, Utah. ‘Close your eyes and go numb. It will be over soon. Go limp. Do nothing, say nothing.’ Escape. Escape to somewhere where I was safe, and nobody was about to break through the already broken door and hit me. Again. 

And then it would happen. And then it would be over. My mom would be home, and nobody would talk about it. We would be happy again. Playing with friends outside on our 4 tower playground that my dad built for us. Neighbors flocking to our house to play games, and see my dad. We were the popular house on the street with that playground papi built and his character pulling and alluring people in. They would all called him ‘Papi’. It made me jealous and confused. Don’t call ‘MY dad what I call him.. Papi’ but also… do they like him? How could they? Should I like him too? We would play until exactly 6pm at night when the west light would start to reflect off of the back porch. Mom would call us all in for dinner that she would make from scratch every night. Mom. My safe place. She let me cry in her bed after my dad would yell or hurt me. My safe place?

Everyone loved my dad . It made me happy. It made me proud. “Be proud” Papi would always say. You’re a Martinez child from Spain, an amazing country, and you have Martinez in your blood. Be proud. I was proud. But I would never be like him. Ever. I would grow up, move out, and not be him. I couldn't imagine how he would be a part of my life when I got older, and it gave me anxiety if I thought about it. But he had a secret. And I was only a few years away from that secret destroying… or saving my life.