Life as a Daughter of Agent Orange, Part 3

I was quite unsure of which path to take this story down after part two; there are so many memories that are scrambling in my head and the emotions of each memory paralyze the nerves in my hands, preventing me from typing this next part. There is a video on Facebook showing a father teaching his little girl the right way to express her emotions, especially when she is upset. Whilst watching the video, I came to realize, if I had been taught as she has now been taught, my life would be completely different. I would not have bottled up over a decade's worth of raw emotions only to have it expressed in harmful ways such as cutting or having suicidal thoughts. I would also like to think that, if my dad had never been exposed to Agent Orange, I would have had a more stable emotional development. Some parts of my story may be shocking.

I have only started to learn how to positively express my emotions within the past five years; I am 27 years old and only now am I starting to open up about my emotions starting in 2000. The first year of dad's change (2000) was horrifying. I recall how much my parents would fight and my younger sister and I would be on the second floor in the hallway by the stairs listening. I would wrap my arms around my sister in an attempt to protect her from all the anger. There were thoughts about a divorce and I knew in a heartbeat which parent I would choose if the judge asked—my mom. I was not terrified of her; I did not have to worry about her snapping into a different mood, her eyes changing into little black holes, or her threatening to throw one of my favorite books away (I loved books as a child). I would confide in my maternal grandmother (not knowing that she had a deep dislike for my dad) and it helped because I knew she loved me and was always there as a safe haven for me. When she passed away in August of 2002, that safe place to talk was gone.

2002-2003 was one of the worst years of my early teen years. Dad was still not able to get control of the effects of Agent Orange and the mood swings were just getting worse. I loved my dad and wanted so badly to please him, but starting then, nothing I did seemed to be good enough. With my grandmother gone, I started to confide in a couple of close friends. Unfortunately, there was no way they could understand what I was going through, let alone think any of it was legitimate. One of the scariest incidences of that time was on picture day. I was super excited because I had a super cute shirt picked out with sleeves like a bell. Now, my dad used to be a stickler for eating what was put before you no matter what. Breakfast that morning was chocolate malt-o-meal. I have always had a terrible gag reflex and that morning was no exception. I could not get the food past my throat and kept gagging. When I said I was unable to eat it because I was gagging, dad started yelling at me, telling me I had to eat it. When I, again, refused, he grabbed my left arm and pulled me off the chair so hard my arm nearly came out of its socket. I went to school crying and my picture that day was that of a child trying not to cry.

The only reason I'm sharing this particular incident with you is to let the blocked emotions of that time out. I know that, if my dad had been in his right mind, he never would have acted in that fashion. I was angry about that part of our father-daughter history for many years and I believe that moment was the foundation of my hatred and bitterness towards him. My high school years were not much better than my middle school years. At some point, my friends became tired of hearing about what was going on at home, so I lost another haven. Even when I would visit their homes, I knew I was limited in how much I could say and how detailed I could be. Because there was a lack of understanding, my friends rarely came over to my home. I typically went to theirs—their dads did not raise their voice over the slightest infraction and would actually ask me about school in a way that showed true interest.

I felt quite alone most of the time in the struggle with Agent Orange. The dominant side of my personality is quite feisty and expressive, but when Agent Orange started taking over our lives, that part of me would always spark a mood swing in dad. I literally had to force myself into submission to the chemical, which meant no witty remarks, no friendly debating, no speaking my mind, no standing up for myself, and learning how to be a victim of verbal and emotional abuse. This is different from Biblical examples of submission (setting aside one's desire for the betterment of a loved one); this is an example of a victim submitting to their abuser simply because I did not know I could stand up for myself. I started burying my true feelings deep within my core, but, as with all things buried, there comes a time when the earth shifts and uncovers that which is hidden.

There have been a few times where I hid so many emotions I could not hide another tear. The first time was just before my 15th birthday. My sister and I were talking to each other from our bedrooms (it was a school night and we were both supposed to be in bed and be quiet). She commenced the conversation, yet it was when I was responding that dad yelled at us to be quiet. To my emotionally-challenged ears, it sounded like it was all my fault (again) even though I was not the one who started it. In that moment, I could not handle the wave of emotions raging through my veins; I was so angry at him for yelling at me and I was desperate for it to end, so I picked up my pillow and tried to smother myself. Thankfully the pillow was quite the airy one and since I have a speck of cowardice in me, I wanted to live. The only people I have ever shared this with are my immediate family (my dad is exempt from that group). I did not know any better; everyone who I had felt safe talking to no longer listened.

A few months after I turned 15, we started seeing a family counselor. Even with playing the song "Perfect" by the group Simple Plan for dad, nothing changed. He still made the choice to call me "brain-dead" the few times I asked for his help with math homework. It got to the point where I believed him and my grades started to slip; thankfully, mom noticed and put an end to him helping me and reversing my perception of myself (to this day, I will sometimes say I am a genius in a way that can be perceived as arrogant, but it is really a simple maneuver to overcome that previous mentality).

I still had no voice of my own, and I did all I could to not be the target of his mood swings. Alas, it was either myself or my mom who received the brunt of it. During my mid-to-late teen years, dad was cruel to my mom, but in tiny, manipulative ways. If she was not home from work by a certain time, he would accuse her of neglecting her family; she had to ask permission to go see or help a friend; she was at his beck and call. But because she worked during the day, she did not receive the full effect. It was during these years that she and I started to really connect. I was maturing and was starting to see things beyond my own troubles, but, unfortunately, it was also during this time that the second earthquake happened, unlocking ragged emotions.

It was shortly before going on a trip to Washington D.C. with my history class (I either just turned 17 or I was going to turn 17) and dad was picking me up from school. I do not recall what triggered him, but he erupted like a volcano at me. I could feel the anger swelling from deep within my soul because I knew I had not done anything so bad to deserve being treated like that. When we arrived home, I waited to cry until I reached my room. As I was crying, my body was trembling so hard from my anger. I looked around for something sharp and came across Avon eyebrow trimmers. I snatched them from my dresser and made 17 gashes on both legs. I had chosen my legs because people do not notice legs as much as arms. Those scars have long since disappeared, but the memory of them remains in my mind to remind me of where I have come from. Thankfully, I did approach my mom about cutting my legs. She and her best friend made me promise I would come to them if I ever felt like harming myself again.

While I wish I had someone to teach me how to be emotionally intelligent at a young age, I would not be the person who I am at this moment—I would not be a strong woman who has finally found her voice. I would not be an overcomer of abuse. I would not have the courage to stand against any mistreatment. I would not have fought to have my feisty personality regain its dominance. Even though I had been let down by friends, I have been surrounded by kindred spirits who not only listen, but provide healthy options of dealing with my emotions and choices.

Please stay tuned for part four.