4 - The Leaving

Once upon a time my mother married my father. He was a charming man. He was a handsome man, in her eyes, and very witty. They lived together in the United States for a while, until it became apparent that he would never be happy here, and needed to return to Sweden. They moved there before I was born. They were happy, they were sad. I was never supposed to happen. I was a bad idea for a couple like them, but mostly for a man like my father.

He was an unhappy man. He was not always nice. In fact, he was frequently cruel. As a young woman I have known men like this, and have had friends who knew men like this. While they were with you, everyone else in the world was safer, because while they were with you, they took all of their unhappiness out on you.

This was my father. My father, who when I was just home from the hospital after hernia surgery, and was crying, took me and squeezed me so hard to get me to stop that I had hand prints on my body.

My mother made a very good decision, then. She made the decision to leave my father. I will never blame her for this. It was the right thing to do. I will never blame her for leaving. I will never blame her for anything, really. I don't mean to point fingers.

When my mother returned to the United States with me, I was still very small. I don't even know what year it was. I don't even care. I just know I was walking and talking, and when we came off the plane the first thing I said to my grandmother was "Hej!"

My mother came to stay with my grandmother and grandfather. My father came soon afterwards. He promised to change. He promised to get help. He agreed to see my great aunt for psychiatric care. She's treated so many of us.

She said that he had that personality disorder... I can't remember the name. I'll remember it later. Oh. Borderline personality. She said he was psychotic. I think that she was probably right. Something was not right anyway.