For those who are wondering, this is a story about sneakers

Holidays that explicitly celebrate those of parenthood tend to be jarring for me. Overly placed bouquets of flowers and various advertisements remind me that Mother’s Day is approaching. I limit my social media intake specifically to not bring up memories of relationships that have been broken for decades. Father’s Day tends to be easier for me to get through due to the proximity of the relationship I have with my dad. I recognize that I am fortunate that both of the people responsible for creating me are alive and in somewhat good health, however, I am learning the impact that these relationships, or lack thereof, has had on my life.

For the past year there have been heavy investments financially, spiritually, and mentally in undoing trauma. We can call it soul fixing if you will. Certain wounds have been sewn up so tight that even picking at their surface has required Herculean strength. I am also what some may consider an anomaly. Instinctively the assumption of growing up in a single-parent home was that it was my mother who bore the responsibility of raising me but it was my dad. I was his girl, never sleeping in my crisp white crib, but on his chest every night. His spotted pit bulls,Cleo and Samson, were located at each end of the bed keeping a watchful eye throughout the night. My parents divorced when I was two-years-old and my dad took on the role as a single father

Shortly after the divorce, my dad moved us to Murfreesboro, TN, a suburb right outside of Nashville. He took a job at working for Pillsbury. (and yes, for all those wondering, I did meet the Pillsbury Doughboy. We were friends). Everyone in the office knew me because I was attached to his hip. I sat under desks and played with dolls. Visited the test kitchens to try out new desserts and baked goods they were developing. On the weekends I drove the golf court on the course behind our house and would play a few rounds with my dad’s colleagues who fawned at the little girl little girl wanted to play golf with them. In elementary school I won a county-championship in golf based on the years on the course. As much as I loved those moment, by far my fondest moment was heading to buy sneakers with dad. Whatever shoe he bought he would always attempt to get me a matching pair. The Chicago Bulls and Charlotte Hornets were his favorite teams. I had more coordinating outfits than your favorite uncle stepping out for the summer. I wanted to be just like him. I even had my own credit card that I could pay for my sneakers with. It was our thing. I was his copy and paste, in the most literal sense.

Years later the trips to the sneaker stores faded as my dad began to be distant both physically and mentally. I was seeing my Grandma more often as she would drive six hours to pick me up in the middle of the week or bring me back to Indiana with her. She was frequently left calling around to babysitters or coworkers to find where my dad had left me because he couldn’t be found. The double life he was living as a drug dealer caught up with him falling victim to his own product. This went on long enough until my dad was pawning things from our house, couldn’t keep up with bills and ultimately wasn’t able to work. We moved back to Indiana to live with my grandma so that she could do what she thought she could always do, help him get better. This wasn’t the first time Juan was in this position, or the last.

What came with the devil on Juan’s shoulder was a person who became mentally and emotionally abusive towards the little girl who once idolized him. Like most people, we think our parents do no wrong until we are delivered the harsh reality that they aren’t just our father or mother, but human. Spending time and love for me was conditional; it was dependent on giving him my allowance to buy drugs or new electronics that were bought to replace the lack of relationships that I had with my parents. I’ve watched him disappear right before my eyes. His sickness turned the child into the parent taking up the duty to look over and take care of him; make food for him whenever he beckoned. I felt safest when he was sleep or not home at all. No longer was I a victim to his terror or demands. I got a break from performing or attempting to be the perfect child. The habits my dad started in Tennessee traveled to Indiana with us. He would leave me with family and not come back or completely forget to get me at all. One winter I came down with an pneumonia because he left on a binge neglecting that he was supposed to be home waiting on me to get off the bus. I was outside for three hours in the frigid cold until my grandma found me walking down the road trying to stay warm. He showed up days later saying he thought my grandma would be home before me, but ultimately I was okay because nothing “terrible” happened to me.

My dad entered rehab when I was in middle school. We moved out into our own place after staying seven years with my Grandma. He left the drugs behind but not the characteristics of the person who had been so heavily into them. The older I got, the space between grew. His dedication to his program, sponsees, and women that floated in and out of his life took the place of drugs but still out ran me in the race for his attention and at times safety. I detached from wanting to be anything like him. The sneakers that were our item of connectivity got shelved along with good memories that remained. The years that were spent with Juan outweighed the years I spent with the man I knew as dad. I was mourning someone who was physically right in front of me, and honestly, still am. I was conflicted with being a teenager and what felt like an adult concurrently. The parent I should have had was trying to step up when I had been guiding myself for years. We were at odds. The night before I turned 18 we had our biggest altercation to date that left me sneaking out of a window . I stayed with my grandma until I left for college.

It wasn’t until I left my hometown that Juan’s heart seemed to soften to me. I was at his alma mater. I had pledged my sophomore year and was the third generation to wear a line jacket on campus. I graduated within four years and had job offer on the table. The things that were achieved by my own merits were everything that he thought made him a great parent. I made him look good to his friends and others. The pressure (read stress) he put on me to be successful was reaping its dividends. What was blind to Juan was the relationship that was slowly crumbling before him. At one point I was working an internship and two jobs to not have to ask for anything. I didn’t tell him about being physically assaulted or a laundry list of other things during my 20s. Not because I couldn’t but I despised the thought of having to. To this day he still doesn’t know a lot of my own trauma that is being worked through.

Shortly after my 30th birthday, I began to realize how much damage that I was trying to hide from myself, and from others. In the midst of a time when it seemed like everything was going right and I was thriving I was simply just trying to survive on a daily basis. To my family I am still “little Juan”. At home Brittany disappears and Juanita is who they call on. I have this man’s face, physical features, and name. Everyone still jokes that Tanya (my mom) was just the vessel to clone himself. Resentment towards him nestled inside me for being given the space to consistently trip and someone being there to pick him up but the expectations for me were not as forgiving. Grace was easily extended to him while I was asking for mercy. Part of me is terrified of ever having children in fear of me being to them, what he was to me. I overwork at times so to prove to others. and more so myself, that I am nothing like him. A struggle that I continuously face is allowing myself to truly be seen. At times I don’t believe the love people say they have for me comes without a cost or condition. In order to heal myself, I have to heal from that.

A year later we are still working on our relationship. It isn’t always perfect or at times even good. My boundaries are set in stone as they are necessary for continuing to do my work. We disagree often but at other times find common ground. Things that were once buried out of embarrassment and hurt have been unearthed see the light of healing. I understood early on in my journey back to therapy that it’s dangerous to depend on someone else for the healing you need. The apology you are looking for you may never get. The wounds that exist in your life may not be yours by design but it is your responsibility to let them have air so that they may heal. It took a while for me to make peace with that. My ego searches for proving things that no longer need to hold weight. The focus has shifted to building my ability to receive not just for my inner child, but for the person I am now, and the person I want to be, but haven’t met.

This process has reconnected me with something else unexpectedly: my love for sneakers. Fond memories that were forgotten made way back into my life. Healing brought me back things that I loved. Juan came to Texas last summer and was surprised that I had restarted my sneaker collection, even laughing at the amount of shoes I have amassed. He was unaware of that just as much as he is unaware of most things in my life, like this story existing. Maybe one day that can change. Work on my soul led to soles. Just like the shelves I started to unpack, so did the boxes.

For all those wondering, this was a story about sneakers.

Written from quarantine with love.