Status: Complete.
To Grandpa...From, Me
To Grandpa...From, Me
To Grandpa,
I’m not going to open this letter with, “Dear Grandpa.” No, that’s too much kindness for me to show you right now. I’ve come a long way from the scared little girl you hurt, and I’m not going to bother sugarcoating how I feel. You weren’t that type of guy, Grandpa, and so I’m sure you understand.
First off, I’d like to say that I’ve stopped wondering, “Why me?” There’s no use asking that question; you’re dead, so you can’t answer my questions, and you never had the guts to tell anyone else what you did. Unfortunately, neither did I, so it’s just between us. Now that I’m seventeen, and understand exactly what you did, I feel ashamed. Ashamed that I never told my parents; ashamed that I always lied to myself. Ashamed that I loved you unconditionally, even after the facts of what was done. The fact of the matter is; there’s no answer to that question; the question that plagued my mind ever since the day I realized that grandfathers aren’t supposed to do that to their grandchildren. I’d like to say I’m over it, and that I’ve let it go, but I’m still working on that eleven years later.
Now, I’d like to reminisce for a few minutes. Not because I miss you, but because I miss some of the things that we did together before you became a monster.
I remember, before I turned six, how I always wanted to spend time with you. I was always begging my Mom to take me to your house, so I could see you; so we could play with my dolls together, or watch reruns of I Love Lucy and I Dream of Jeannie. It was boring to any other little kid, and I’m sure I fell asleep more than once because they were ‘old’ shows, but that didn’t matter to a little girl who looked up to her grandfather like the sun rose and set on his shoulders. Of course, back then, I never realized that you had a disease; a disease that eventually took you from the world.
I remember one particular time when Mom let you move into the house with us. The conditions were that you weren’t supposed to have alcohol with you; you were an alcoholic, and you needed to get sober. You were killing yourself, even when I was a little girl. I never realized it. I didn’t realize it until much later, in fact. But that’s irrelevant, isn’t it? Everyone has problems, and I’m not judging you because you were an alcoholic. Mom let you move in with us, and things were great for a couple of months. You weren’t drinking, and we got to spend even more time together. I stopped wanting to hang out my friends because I loved you so much; you were like my father to me. When I wanted someone to talk to, even about stupid things like Dobby the House Elf and how he was so cute, or about Devin, my future husband (not really), you were there. We talked about things that I’m sure bored you to death, and you probably didn’t want to listen to me. But you did anyway. Because you loved me. At least, I thought you did.
That is the only memory that really sticks out to me as a positive memory of you, although in my journals from when I was little I wrote about everything we did. I just don’t remember them anymore; they’re written down forever, but lost in my mind. I’m a little angry at myself for allowing my hatred to consume those memories; I spent so many years hating you, and I forgot everything good you ever did with me and for me. For that, I want to apologize, but I simply don’t know how. I’m still not quite over the ‘blame game.’ And as of now, I still blame you, and I can’t bring myself to apologize for a lesser crime than the ones you committed against me.
The first memory in my mind that I can recall that things weren’t quite right with your mentality is when you were so desperate for alcohol that you drove a lawnmower eight miles on the back roads, which were scoria rock and dirt, to the next town over because the liquor store wouldn’t sell you any more beer. The sheriff caught you, and Mom had to go get you. After that, you only had one more chance in the house; if you blew it again, you’d be out.
A few weeks after that happened, I found your stash in the garage while I was looking for my cat with Grant. There was a twenty four pack of Budlite sitting in the garage, not even hidden. You weren’t there with it, but Grant and I knew; you had already gone in there that morning to get some beer, and you were probably already drunk. I started crying, and for the first time, it wasn’t you that comforted me, but rather it was my older brother; the older brother that always hated you for what you did. I understand now why he hated you; he saw what you were doing, the fact that you were slowly brainwashing me. I can’t be completely innocent of that; I was a strong-willed, and smart, little girl, and I’m sure I realized that you weren’t all that mattered. But it didn’t matter…because you were my Grandpa, and I loved you unconditionally.
Grant and I decided not to tell Mom and Dad about your stash. Instead, we took all the cans and emptied them out on the dirt before crushing up the cans and throwing them in the neighbor’s garbage can. We didn’t want Mom to find the box, so Grant burned it, and there was no evidence. You couldn’t be blamed for anything, and you’d still get to stay at our house with us. I could still hang out with you, and talk to you. But I think that was my turning point; by that time, I was just past six years old, and I realized that you were sick in a way that I’d never been. You had alcoholism, and it was bad.
After that, the memories jumble together. You passed out in The Rainbow’s bathroom, and the bar owner had to call Mom to come get you at two o’clock in the morning. But she still didn’t kick you out; you needed us, and I needed you. You got strip-searched in the back yard by a cop because you’d ran into a light pole while intoxicated. It wasn’t until I was a few years older that I realized the term for it was DUI. You nearly killed someone that day, and you had no shame.
But I was able to forgive you for being an alcoholic. I found everything to blame, except for you. I blamed my parents, for treating you so harshly about something you so obviously couldn’t control. I blamed God, for turning his back on you when you obviously needed him most. I blamed the weather; I blamed the town. I blamed the liquor stores for supplying you with your method of suicide.
I blamed myself.
But then, you did the one thing I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive you for. You took from me something that I can never get back, and I’ll probably always hate you for it, even though I don’t want to hate you anymore. You molested me; that’s something I’ll never admit to anyone with my voice. I’ve never told a soul; you and I are the only two that know. Sure, Dad had his suspicions. But I never told him, so he could never get mad at you. And back then, even after you did it…I wasn’t mad, Grandpa. I wasn’t even hurt. To be honest, I didn’t understand that what you did was wrong and illegal until I was about ten. For those four years after what you did…Well, Mom eventually booted you out of the house because of your alcoholism. Neither of us ever said a word.
After it happened, though, I didn’t want to spend so much time with you. I guess I take back what I said in the previous paragraph; I realized that something was wrong. I may not have been mad, but I knew that what you did didn’t feel right…It didn’t feel like it was natural. I cried, Grandpa, and begged you to not do it. But the fact that you did it anyway makes it even worse in my mind; it’s something I’ll never be able to forget, even though that’s all I’ve wanted since I learned the term for it.
So for six long years, I hardly ever saw you. From the ages of six and a half years old, to the time I was twelve, I saw you maybe twice. If Mom would go over to see how you were doing and ask if I wanted to go, I’d find reasons why not to. But then, when I was twelve, she invited you over for Christmas dinner. By that point in time, I had started hating you. I became obsessed with my hatred for you, in fact. I wished you’d die. I wished you’d burn in the fiery depths of hell, and that God would have no mercy on you. I’ve gotten over that amount of hatred, and while I don’t hate you to that extent anymore, I’m still hurt, feel betrayed, and…to some extent, I guess there will always be a little bit of hatred.
Mom didn’t tell me that you were coming over until she was walking out of the house to drive the forty-five minute drive to pick you up, and bring you home. I freaked out; I didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t seen you in so long; I strived to never see you again, and I was being forced to spend a sacred holiday with someone like you.
I couldn’t eat a thing the entire dinner. I excused myself to my bedroom, telling Mom and Dad that I just didn’t feel good, when in fact I didn’t. I felt nauseous having to sit next to you at that table and pretend everything was fine; pretend that I’d missed you. Pretend that nothing had ever happened.
Mom made me come downstairs to clean the dishes a few hours later, and while I did, she left the room. I felt extremely tense, and I felt like I was going to throw up. It was just you and me in that room. Mom and Dad had stepped outside to have a cigarette, and my little brother, Conner (Yeah, you know him; you know, the grandchild you never bothered to get to know?) was in his bedroom playing with his new game system. My older brother Grant was in Billings, with his girlfriend, so it was just you and me. You didn’t say a word, and stepped behind me while I was putting a plate in the cupboard. But I was prepared. You put your hands on my waist, and tried to hold me there, but I fought you off. I kicked, and struggled, and got free of you before I ran to the bathroom, locking the doors and hiding in the linen closet until Mom and Dad took you home.
I never saw you after that. Not once. I didn’t go to see you as you requested on your deathbed when I was fourteen. I had nothing I wanted to say to you, and nothing you wanted to say to me was important at that time. Looking back on it, I would probably change my mind, and go see you on your deathbed. Not to say goodbye; I would never grant you that much. Instead, I would tell you everything I’ve ever harbored, and get it off my chest in a way that writing this letter never will. I would tell you that I’ve never really forgiven you; that I’ve never gotten over it. I’d tell you that I still have horrible nightmares of what you did, and that sometimes I still wake up crying. I’d tell you that I’m afraid to let my boyfriend or any other person touch me because of the damage you caused.
I’d tell you that, because of you, I’m afraid of men, even though I’ll deny that to anyone who asks why I have issues.
You died on February 27th, 2005. It was two months to the day until my birthday; that’s how I remember. It was a cold Montana day the day you died, and I was headed to work. I stopped in at home after school to check in with my Mom before I was going to go over to my friend’s house, where I worked, and she told me. She told me that you had died of some kind of cancerous tumor in your mouth; that you didn’t even look like you. I tried to cry; I honestly did. After so many years of feeling nothing at all but hatred for you, I wanted to feel something. But I couldn’t. Not one tear fell out of my eye for you.
In the days following your death, there was a memorial in the town that you were to be buried in, a few miles away from my hometown. My father and brother went to say a final goodbye to you; I’ll respect Conner more than I ever have now, because to you, he was shit. You hated him, and for no reason. You never spent time with him; he was invisible to you. And he still had the guts to go to your memorial and say goodbye to you; see your face one last time, so he could remember you forever. They tried to get me to go with them, using the reasoning that you were my grandfather, and that I needed to say a final goodbye for closure. But I didn’t. I refused. My pride wouldn’t allow me to say goodbye to a monster like you. Instead, I went upstairs to bed, and for the first night in so long that I couldn’t even remember, I fell asleep without fear on my mind, and a smile on my face. I no longer had to be afraid of you.
The day of your funeral, I dressed in the typical clothes that I would any day. You didn’t deserve anything special. I wore a My Chemical Romance t-shirt, and my favorite pair of jeans with a pair of black skating shoes. I wore my winter jacket and my Cheshire Cat scarf, because it was a bitter cold day. Not many people attended your funeral; I can list most of who attended on one hand. My Dad’s sister, who never met you. Her husband, who didn’t like you. My Uncle Gordie and his wife Cheryl, who would have killed you themselves if they ever found out what you did. My aunt Myrna, who went simply because you were my mother’s father. Myself, my mother, my brother Conner, and my Dad. Grant didn’t bother showing up; he hated you, and I don’t blame him. If I’d had a choice, I wouldn’t have gone either. Believe me, I tried not to go. I tried everything, and Mom made me go anyway.
We sat through the service without saying a word. The minister didn’t have much to say except the typical funeral speech, and the typical funeral music. You had no favorite music that I know of; they played nothing you would have preferred. No one in the family had put together your service. The state did.
Mom decided not to go up to the cemetery, because she hasn’t been up there since my Uncle’s twenty-first birthday. It was two years after he had died. The rest of us drove up there, behind the car carrying your casket, and assembled at your gravesite. The preacher said a few kind words that I didn’t think you deserved, and you were lowered into the frozen ground.
I find it ironic, though, that though you caused so many people to cry throughout your life, not one single person cried at your funeral. Not your daughter, who you essentially ostracized and hated. Not your grandson, who you never cared for. Not my father; not his family. And certainly not me. That is the fact that I find sad. No one cared enough for you to cry at your funeral. It was then that I realized just how lonely you must have been in your final days.
This is where the letter ends, Grandpa; this is the end of my search for closure. I’ve finally realized that I’m never going to fully understand why you hurt me, and I’m okay with that. Well, maybe I’m not exactly okay with it. But I’m working on that. I don’t hate you so much. My goal is to completely forget that you ever existed by the time I turn twenty one; I don’t want the memories of what you did to me to haunt me for the rest of my life, and I’m going to do my damndest to forget you.
So this is where I’m going to say goodbye, Grandpa.
From,
Me
I’m not going to open this letter with, “Dear Grandpa.” No, that’s too much kindness for me to show you right now. I’ve come a long way from the scared little girl you hurt, and I’m not going to bother sugarcoating how I feel. You weren’t that type of guy, Grandpa, and so I’m sure you understand.
First off, I’d like to say that I’ve stopped wondering, “Why me?” There’s no use asking that question; you’re dead, so you can’t answer my questions, and you never had the guts to tell anyone else what you did. Unfortunately, neither did I, so it’s just between us. Now that I’m seventeen, and understand exactly what you did, I feel ashamed. Ashamed that I never told my parents; ashamed that I always lied to myself. Ashamed that I loved you unconditionally, even after the facts of what was done. The fact of the matter is; there’s no answer to that question; the question that plagued my mind ever since the day I realized that grandfathers aren’t supposed to do that to their grandchildren. I’d like to say I’m over it, and that I’ve let it go, but I’m still working on that eleven years later.
Now, I’d like to reminisce for a few minutes. Not because I miss you, but because I miss some of the things that we did together before you became a monster.
I remember, before I turned six, how I always wanted to spend time with you. I was always begging my Mom to take me to your house, so I could see you; so we could play with my dolls together, or watch reruns of I Love Lucy and I Dream of Jeannie. It was boring to any other little kid, and I’m sure I fell asleep more than once because they were ‘old’ shows, but that didn’t matter to a little girl who looked up to her grandfather like the sun rose and set on his shoulders. Of course, back then, I never realized that you had a disease; a disease that eventually took you from the world.
I remember one particular time when Mom let you move into the house with us. The conditions were that you weren’t supposed to have alcohol with you; you were an alcoholic, and you needed to get sober. You were killing yourself, even when I was a little girl. I never realized it. I didn’t realize it until much later, in fact. But that’s irrelevant, isn’t it? Everyone has problems, and I’m not judging you because you were an alcoholic. Mom let you move in with us, and things were great for a couple of months. You weren’t drinking, and we got to spend even more time together. I stopped wanting to hang out my friends because I loved you so much; you were like my father to me. When I wanted someone to talk to, even about stupid things like Dobby the House Elf and how he was so cute, or about Devin, my future husband (not really), you were there. We talked about things that I’m sure bored you to death, and you probably didn’t want to listen to me. But you did anyway. Because you loved me. At least, I thought you did.
That is the only memory that really sticks out to me as a positive memory of you, although in my journals from when I was little I wrote about everything we did. I just don’t remember them anymore; they’re written down forever, but lost in my mind. I’m a little angry at myself for allowing my hatred to consume those memories; I spent so many years hating you, and I forgot everything good you ever did with me and for me. For that, I want to apologize, but I simply don’t know how. I’m still not quite over the ‘blame game.’ And as of now, I still blame you, and I can’t bring myself to apologize for a lesser crime than the ones you committed against me.
The first memory in my mind that I can recall that things weren’t quite right with your mentality is when you were so desperate for alcohol that you drove a lawnmower eight miles on the back roads, which were scoria rock and dirt, to the next town over because the liquor store wouldn’t sell you any more beer. The sheriff caught you, and Mom had to go get you. After that, you only had one more chance in the house; if you blew it again, you’d be out.
A few weeks after that happened, I found your stash in the garage while I was looking for my cat with Grant. There was a twenty four pack of Budlite sitting in the garage, not even hidden. You weren’t there with it, but Grant and I knew; you had already gone in there that morning to get some beer, and you were probably already drunk. I started crying, and for the first time, it wasn’t you that comforted me, but rather it was my older brother; the older brother that always hated you for what you did. I understand now why he hated you; he saw what you were doing, the fact that you were slowly brainwashing me. I can’t be completely innocent of that; I was a strong-willed, and smart, little girl, and I’m sure I realized that you weren’t all that mattered. But it didn’t matter…because you were my Grandpa, and I loved you unconditionally.
Grant and I decided not to tell Mom and Dad about your stash. Instead, we took all the cans and emptied them out on the dirt before crushing up the cans and throwing them in the neighbor’s garbage can. We didn’t want Mom to find the box, so Grant burned it, and there was no evidence. You couldn’t be blamed for anything, and you’d still get to stay at our house with us. I could still hang out with you, and talk to you. But I think that was my turning point; by that time, I was just past six years old, and I realized that you were sick in a way that I’d never been. You had alcoholism, and it was bad.
After that, the memories jumble together. You passed out in The Rainbow’s bathroom, and the bar owner had to call Mom to come get you at two o’clock in the morning. But she still didn’t kick you out; you needed us, and I needed you. You got strip-searched in the back yard by a cop because you’d ran into a light pole while intoxicated. It wasn’t until I was a few years older that I realized the term for it was DUI. You nearly killed someone that day, and you had no shame.
But I was able to forgive you for being an alcoholic. I found everything to blame, except for you. I blamed my parents, for treating you so harshly about something you so obviously couldn’t control. I blamed God, for turning his back on you when you obviously needed him most. I blamed the weather; I blamed the town. I blamed the liquor stores for supplying you with your method of suicide.
I blamed myself.
But then, you did the one thing I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive you for. You took from me something that I can never get back, and I’ll probably always hate you for it, even though I don’t want to hate you anymore. You molested me; that’s something I’ll never admit to anyone with my voice. I’ve never told a soul; you and I are the only two that know. Sure, Dad had his suspicions. But I never told him, so he could never get mad at you. And back then, even after you did it…I wasn’t mad, Grandpa. I wasn’t even hurt. To be honest, I didn’t understand that what you did was wrong and illegal until I was about ten. For those four years after what you did…Well, Mom eventually booted you out of the house because of your alcoholism. Neither of us ever said a word.
After it happened, though, I didn’t want to spend so much time with you. I guess I take back what I said in the previous paragraph; I realized that something was wrong. I may not have been mad, but I knew that what you did didn’t feel right…It didn’t feel like it was natural. I cried, Grandpa, and begged you to not do it. But the fact that you did it anyway makes it even worse in my mind; it’s something I’ll never be able to forget, even though that’s all I’ve wanted since I learned the term for it.
So for six long years, I hardly ever saw you. From the ages of six and a half years old, to the time I was twelve, I saw you maybe twice. If Mom would go over to see how you were doing and ask if I wanted to go, I’d find reasons why not to. But then, when I was twelve, she invited you over for Christmas dinner. By that point in time, I had started hating you. I became obsessed with my hatred for you, in fact. I wished you’d die. I wished you’d burn in the fiery depths of hell, and that God would have no mercy on you. I’ve gotten over that amount of hatred, and while I don’t hate you to that extent anymore, I’m still hurt, feel betrayed, and…to some extent, I guess there will always be a little bit of hatred.
Mom didn’t tell me that you were coming over until she was walking out of the house to drive the forty-five minute drive to pick you up, and bring you home. I freaked out; I didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t seen you in so long; I strived to never see you again, and I was being forced to spend a sacred holiday with someone like you.
I couldn’t eat a thing the entire dinner. I excused myself to my bedroom, telling Mom and Dad that I just didn’t feel good, when in fact I didn’t. I felt nauseous having to sit next to you at that table and pretend everything was fine; pretend that I’d missed you. Pretend that nothing had ever happened.
Mom made me come downstairs to clean the dishes a few hours later, and while I did, she left the room. I felt extremely tense, and I felt like I was going to throw up. It was just you and me in that room. Mom and Dad had stepped outside to have a cigarette, and my little brother, Conner (Yeah, you know him; you know, the grandchild you never bothered to get to know?) was in his bedroom playing with his new game system. My older brother Grant was in Billings, with his girlfriend, so it was just you and me. You didn’t say a word, and stepped behind me while I was putting a plate in the cupboard. But I was prepared. You put your hands on my waist, and tried to hold me there, but I fought you off. I kicked, and struggled, and got free of you before I ran to the bathroom, locking the doors and hiding in the linen closet until Mom and Dad took you home.
I never saw you after that. Not once. I didn’t go to see you as you requested on your deathbed when I was fourteen. I had nothing I wanted to say to you, and nothing you wanted to say to me was important at that time. Looking back on it, I would probably change my mind, and go see you on your deathbed. Not to say goodbye; I would never grant you that much. Instead, I would tell you everything I’ve ever harbored, and get it off my chest in a way that writing this letter never will. I would tell you that I’ve never really forgiven you; that I’ve never gotten over it. I’d tell you that I still have horrible nightmares of what you did, and that sometimes I still wake up crying. I’d tell you that I’m afraid to let my boyfriend or any other person touch me because of the damage you caused.
I’d tell you that, because of you, I’m afraid of men, even though I’ll deny that to anyone who asks why I have issues.
You died on February 27th, 2005. It was two months to the day until my birthday; that’s how I remember. It was a cold Montana day the day you died, and I was headed to work. I stopped in at home after school to check in with my Mom before I was going to go over to my friend’s house, where I worked, and she told me. She told me that you had died of some kind of cancerous tumor in your mouth; that you didn’t even look like you. I tried to cry; I honestly did. After so many years of feeling nothing at all but hatred for you, I wanted to feel something. But I couldn’t. Not one tear fell out of my eye for you.
In the days following your death, there was a memorial in the town that you were to be buried in, a few miles away from my hometown. My father and brother went to say a final goodbye to you; I’ll respect Conner more than I ever have now, because to you, he was shit. You hated him, and for no reason. You never spent time with him; he was invisible to you. And he still had the guts to go to your memorial and say goodbye to you; see your face one last time, so he could remember you forever. They tried to get me to go with them, using the reasoning that you were my grandfather, and that I needed to say a final goodbye for closure. But I didn’t. I refused. My pride wouldn’t allow me to say goodbye to a monster like you. Instead, I went upstairs to bed, and for the first night in so long that I couldn’t even remember, I fell asleep without fear on my mind, and a smile on my face. I no longer had to be afraid of you.
The day of your funeral, I dressed in the typical clothes that I would any day. You didn’t deserve anything special. I wore a My Chemical Romance t-shirt, and my favorite pair of jeans with a pair of black skating shoes. I wore my winter jacket and my Cheshire Cat scarf, because it was a bitter cold day. Not many people attended your funeral; I can list most of who attended on one hand. My Dad’s sister, who never met you. Her husband, who didn’t like you. My Uncle Gordie and his wife Cheryl, who would have killed you themselves if they ever found out what you did. My aunt Myrna, who went simply because you were my mother’s father. Myself, my mother, my brother Conner, and my Dad. Grant didn’t bother showing up; he hated you, and I don’t blame him. If I’d had a choice, I wouldn’t have gone either. Believe me, I tried not to go. I tried everything, and Mom made me go anyway.
We sat through the service without saying a word. The minister didn’t have much to say except the typical funeral speech, and the typical funeral music. You had no favorite music that I know of; they played nothing you would have preferred. No one in the family had put together your service. The state did.
Mom decided not to go up to the cemetery, because she hasn’t been up there since my Uncle’s twenty-first birthday. It was two years after he had died. The rest of us drove up there, behind the car carrying your casket, and assembled at your gravesite. The preacher said a few kind words that I didn’t think you deserved, and you were lowered into the frozen ground.
I find it ironic, though, that though you caused so many people to cry throughout your life, not one single person cried at your funeral. Not your daughter, who you essentially ostracized and hated. Not your grandson, who you never cared for. Not my father; not his family. And certainly not me. That is the fact that I find sad. No one cared enough for you to cry at your funeral. It was then that I realized just how lonely you must have been in your final days.
This is where the letter ends, Grandpa; this is the end of my search for closure. I’ve finally realized that I’m never going to fully understand why you hurt me, and I’m okay with that. Well, maybe I’m not exactly okay with it. But I’m working on that. I don’t hate you so much. My goal is to completely forget that you ever existed by the time I turn twenty one; I don’t want the memories of what you did to me to haunt me for the rest of my life, and I’m going to do my damndest to forget you.
So this is where I’m going to say goodbye, Grandpa.
From,
Me