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Life as a Daughter of Agent Orange, Part 5

A Chemically-Forced Submission in a Self-Absorbed World

By Elizabeth AdolphiPublished 6 years ago 8 min read
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Part four was probably seen as a bit harsh, especially towards those outside my immediate family—it is how I viewed life at that time and remember, I was only a teenager. I did not have the maturity that I have now for better observation skills and discernment. In my emotionally wild teen years I was harsh and quick with my judgments and unforgiving with what I saw through those skewed eyes. I know there are things said and done that I have never been told about where people stood by dad and my family—as I said, as a teenager I was not the best person to share things with because of how quickly I would jump to the wrong judgmental conclusion. I do not apologize for what I wrote, but I want my readers to understand that is not who I am anymore; I lived what I lived, but I have grown past who I used to be.

When I entered community college I had a really tough time adjusting to the "adult" world with higher expectations for coursework and attempting to break away from the feeling of childhood from high school years. With all that had been going on with Dad up to that point (2008), it was a wonder I had not broken down yet. In my first year of college I had my first anxiety breakdown; the last eight years had finally caught up with me and my young brain could not handle it anymore. I did go on medication for it and it did pass, but it should have been a warning sign that things were not as well as they appeared to be. I still had to deal with dad threatening to take the car from me for a minor infraction (probably a slight edge in my tone), but I would remind him it was my only way to school and work and he had no right to deny me a way to succeed in life.

It was during my early college years (2008-2010) my dad and little sister started to really bond. She was a silly girl with a wacky sense of humor that can only be part of our family genetics. Dad and her had said humor and silliness in common whereas I have always had a more dry and slightly sadistic humor and I act more grownup than he does. She had no problem with his weird, silly songs—she was still young enough to enjoy them. To say I was a bit jealous of their relationship is an understatement. It is as if as I grew up into an adult that Dad could not mentally keep up with and I was stuck in the preteen and early teen years. We did have a couple of things that were "ours," but watching 24 together was not a strong enough bond for us to keep going after it stopped airing. With each passing semester I wondered if what I was doing and who I was becoming was making him proud—to this day I do not know.

I started volunteering at a winter camp in 2008 where I was able to learn and grow in ways my dad should have taught me but never did. Camp taught me how to lead, how to constructively fail, how to grow in my faith, how to be a better example, how to be a servant to others, and to put my desires on the bench and focus on someone else. There is a family there that I made my adoptive family; as parents they were always what I imagined mine should have been and as daughters they were given what I should have been given. They showed me a better way of parenting, of being a family. They have been there for me through everything even though we are hundreds of miles apart. With the help of the matriarch, I was inspired to read a letter I had written for Dad; when I read it to her she cried. Her eldest daughter has also inspired me. She has inspired me to clear my mind before letting anger arise, to find a more peaceful solution rather than yelling at Dad, to learn how to lean on God as the perfect Father. I would not be the woman I am today without that camp and without my adoptive family—I would be full of bitterness and completely unhappy.

When it finally came time to prepare for graduation and find a university to transfer to, it was a tough choice. I desperately wanted to leave home, and maybe I should have, but at the time I made the decision to attend a university closer to home. Graduation day came and I can say I have one picture of my dad and I where I can see for sure and for certain he is proud of me. Of course he did not vocalize it, but the look was there in his eyes. He was considering not coming because of all the scents with perfume and cigarette smoke, but my mom and I told him he had no choice. It was a moment where I could say I was also proud to be his daughter; I do not have many, but I lay claim on that moment.

Starting at the local university was a good challenge. I excelled in all of my classes and I did enjoy commuting from home. But (there is always a but!), I had to deal with a dad who refused to treat me like an adult or even speak to me like an adult. He would try to sing his silly songs from my childhood as if it were the greatest hit in the universe. I was told when to do things around the house and it got to the point where I rebelled and grew lazy on purpose. I wanted a way to get back at him and that is what I came up with—not the greatest decision, I admit, but it is what I had at the time. Mom even tried to talk with him about treating me like an adult, but he still did not understand. I felt I was constantly his shadow and I needed an escape. Luckily my mom's best friend was renting a place seven minutes away from my campus. On nights when I did not have to work, I would sleep over. I was there as often as I could be; the feeling of her home was one of warmth and love. She helped me to grow into a young woman rather than stay (emotionally) a teenager.

While I do not recall any major events during the first year and a half of university, I vividly remember my feelings. I was full of anger and bitterness. I was struggling with those feelings and my moral duties as a daughter. My faith was still strong, but my anger and bitterness was overpowering. I was angry because the dad I knew and loved had been stolen from me, the dad before the Agent Orange struck. I was robbed of having a father call me beautiful, of talking about boys with, going out on father-daughter dates with, and one who could teach me how a woman is to be treated by a man. I was bitter because I felt unloved and unwanted not only by my dad, but by any man—I brought my "daddy issues" into every crush I had and would set myself up to be deemed unworthy since that is the picture my dad showed me. My bitterness stopped me from trusting men in general and from being able to accept what hand my family had been dealt.

There were moments where I would start thinking if he died I would not blink an eye—I would be free from him and the craziness he brought to life each and every day. As I attempted to control my whirlwind of negative emotions, I began to develop OCD in little ways such as, how my bed was made and picking my cuticles. Consciously, I did not know what I was doing and by the time I did it had become a solid habit and way to de-stress. Amidst all of that, my grades were quite well and I was presented with a choice of studying abroad. For my major (International Studies) it was a requirement; the only choice I had was the "where." I nearly jumped out of my skin for the opportunity because it would get me away from Dad for half a year! I did not know of the financial burden it would become later on, nor did I care; I just wanted to escape. I wanted to run away from wishing my dad would die so my mom, sister, and I could be free; I wanted the chance to feel like a proper adult with nobody telling me when to eat, when to wash dishes, how to load the dishwasher (which I had loaded many times before), and not needing permission to run an errand. When asked by a family member in Wal-Mart what dad thought about me going, I told them he did not have a choice and that it was my life. See, I was running away!

As I am writing this and reliving those moments I can feel a slight edge enter my senses. I have since grown past what I am sharing (I will talk about that at a later time), but there are memories of feelings which cause my heart to grow heavy with sorrow. In my self-absorbed bitterness I wished my dad were dead; I did not think about his other daughters from a previous marriage or his grandchildren—it was selfish of me and I have no excuse, but having yet to be taught how to move on from all the trauma, I was allowing myself to continue to be his victim. I still had a lot to learn about life, myself, Agent Orange, and what God was going to require of me in future years.

Please stay tuned for part 6.

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About the Creator

Elizabeth Adolphi

As a child I had a flair for the dramatic; as an adult, the flair has turned into a subtle, yet continuous hum. I love to see the world through different scopes and to tell stories based on the takeaway. Cheers!

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