by Margo Walter
Parent and child reunions are a prevalent theme on that show. These episodes end with the child or adult-child who has been searching for his or her lost parent, running into their arms with astounding joy and happiness. The story flips the coin, and the parent is joyous and free to have finally located their long-lost child. Everybody is smiling and full of happiness and gratitude that they have finally found each other. In my life, I expect no less of a production and outcome. A stunning young girl with long, flowing blond hair runs across the lobby of an expensive five-star hotel into the outstretched arms of her father, her “real” father and they embrace for the very first time. She does not ask him questions, but proudly announces, “You are my father.” The search is complete. I finally reach a significant destination on my roads to life.
If we rewind to reality, there was no happy rendezvous. On the contrary, there was resentment and a wall of anger that did not come crumbling down. “Why? Why? Why did you lie to me? Why didn’t you come visit me? How could you pretend that I didn’t exist?” Those are the questions that I wanted to be answered. My mother could not be honest, but why couldn’t he? Over the next decade, the answers would be revealed.
***
Back to that second summer in Switzerland, I was extremely stressed out and decided to return to college early and attend summer school. It was a tranquil escape from the family, from my mother, and I had met someone special, a boy who acted like a man. He told me that he loved me. I decided that attention was love and love was getting attention. This definition would be under scrutiny for the rest of my life.
***
Relationships to this point had all been very superficial because of my rule to not allow anyone to get too close emotionally. I had felt used by boys or men. Indeed, I had been sexually abused as a child and raped as an adolescent. Trust would be an issue for many, many years. Alcohol played a huge role in that teen rape, but I did not see the connections until years later. Lacking trust and flying solo were the only way I was willing to go at that point in time. However, the turn of events in Switzerland in discovering that I had a father and the total alienation of my mother influenced my relationships with others. Not only did I feel entirely deceived, but now I felt abandoned by my father. Every effort that I made to contact him was met with significant resistance. He told me that he had a real family, a wife and five children, four daughters and one son, and that I was nowhere in the picture. He commanded that I do not call him or write him at home because our “arrangement” was to be kept secret. I was not a long-lost daughter. I was an arrangement. I was given a post office box to write to, and unbelievably, he did write back. I was told never to call him for fear that someone else might answer the phone. In other words, that ugly word “shame” became a part of my new personal inventory. Something must be very wrong with me that my own father felt the way he did. My dream scene of outreached arms had become very distorted. I did not feel worthy of a good relationship with a man. With anyone.
I felt “unclean,” like damaged goods that no one would want. These feelings were complicated because there were times of change where I believed great things were possible. I started having manic days (my brain was on fire) when I first started college, and I felt I could accomplish great things. My thoughts were grandiose and secretly, I believed that I was destined for greatness. I learned to speak German and French in Switzerland and was fluent in both. For the first time, my studies in college were challenging, and sometimes I would stay up all night to do the work necessary to get the top grades I wanted and deserved. I had to change my drinking and drugging habits to accommodate my new study habits and social interactions. Sleeping and eating were important if I was going to learn how to stay healthy and excel in this new college curriculum. Confusion, feeling “up” one moment and “down” the next, made college life extremely difficult. I learned to self-medicate, and that is how I met my future husband.
***
“You will really like this guy.” I had heard that many times and had repeatedly been disappointed. Blind dates were definitely overrated. However, my defenses were down. I was trying to orchestrate this new arrangement with my new father and figure out where I fit in the scheme of things. Often, I was depressed and was not overly excited about starting my second year of college. A blind date to a frat party sounded just as good as doing my laundry. I gave in and agreed to meet this couple and this “fantastic” guy later that night.
Some research studies suggest we pick out a mate who resembles or has the personality of our parent. A girl looks for all the character traits of her father and searches out a boyfriend who exhibits similar behavior. All the research in the world was not going to change my dilemma. I did not really know my father. So, I threw fate to the wind and took this new guy hostage.
The original attraction was not just his good looks—he was also extremely intelligent. He was pledging for the top fraternity, and he could carry on a decent conversation. He did not seem overly impressed that my home address was Switzerland. He was an entrepreneur on campus as he sold shots of whiskey out of his briefcase. What more could one ask for?
The first date was a semi-blind date in that I had scoped him out earlier and liked what I saw. It was a double date with a girl from my home room and we decided to attend a fraternity party that had a free open bar and a list of drinks they were offering. It was an alcoholic’s nirvana. I suggested to my date, Wes, that we start at the top of the list and just go down the menu. I was also the first one to pass out. The two boys, who were also drunk, carried me back to my dorm room. I hugged the toilet bowl all night and was sweating something that smelled and resembled Vaseline. I found out a couple of days later that all my black and bruise spots came from being repeatedly dropped by my transporters.
However, it was love at first sight and the “shot seller” and I began a relationship that would span fifteen years. From that prophecy-filled first date until the very end, I was still searching. I certainly could not say I had found the image of my father because there was none. After my first encounter with my father over ten years down the road, I knew that this boyfriend and my father had nothing in common.
Movies like Hope Floats are what movie-goers flock to see. Engagements, weddings, remarriages, blended families, stepparents, and even adopted children that fare extremely well are the box-office hits. My story is obviously not a movie and would not fill the theater unless we rewrite Cinderella to include huge calamities, devastating trials, tribulations, hitting bottoms, and finally the fairy princess ending. I would never find my pearly slippers or flip-flops, as had happened to me years before. Prince Charming would have to be an incredible recovering alcoholic on his way to an AA meeting, who has a hot date with Cinderella, and brings her nothing but genuine love and happiness. We don’t like to rewrite fairy tales, and I was no exception. I expected a great deal from my first serious relationship and had no way of knowing how poor health, my alcoholism, and my relationship with his family would influence that outcome. In fact, that was my major problem. I still liked to make plans, but I was always planning the result and was time after time disappointed. It would be years before I discovered that I just do not have that much control. At some point, it is better to throw the future to the wind and let it blow where it may. Trying to manipulate people and things is just plain unproductive. What is worse is trying to do the same thing over and over the same way and expecting different results. After all, that is the definition of insanity. It was just stupid, “stinkin’ thinkin’” when you look at my past and all the unexpected results. Back to the college campus.
***
Wes and I began dating exclusively and decided to go to Vienna, Austria, for an educational experience. Our college had a reciprocal studies abroad program. This would be a joint venture for my sophomore year and Wes’s junior year. However, I returned to Switzerland the summer before to see my foreign friends, visit with my mother, and check up on
my younger brother and younger sister. I had not seen my older brother in years and heard that he was still living in California. There had not been many family get-togethers, and there was minimal contact with Edward. After all, he was only my “half” brother now, and that seemed to make him less important. In fact, I did not have any “full” siblings. When I counted all the halves, I had three half brothers, five half sisters, and no whole anything. None of my siblings that I grew up with knew about the Admiral (that is how I referred to my biological father). None of the Admiral’s offspring knew about me. It was one big family secret.
***
From the onset, that summer visit to Switzerland was very disappointing. My mother had leased out my bedroom to another young girl and forgot to tell her oldest daughter, me. Furthermore, the tenant was a lesbian and was expecting her lover to join her soon. I had never met a gay person and made assumptions that were way off the mark. I would learn more about her choices in later life and just had to accept that Jill was different. So was I, and it was still difficult to let her into my family. I liked her, and that threatened my own self-image. Did that mean that I was gay? I had never had any sexual feelings toward a woman, but I learned that summer not to discount that it could happen.
We did not need the money. Why rent out my bedroom? What was going on? Our Swiss chalet had been turned upside down and into a modern brothel. My mother was still dating but was not involved in any serious relationships. Men would come and go on a regular basis. It was difficult to not be judgmental and rate the male visitors after they left. Her choice of men was about a 4 or a 5 on a scale of 1 to 10, and I was generous.
The feelings were mutual. My mother had plenty of criticism for the man in my life, whom she had not even met. The other major complaint that I heard was how I had gotten too skinny (you cannot win) and how little time I was spending with the family. Truthfully, I would have lived anywhere but there that summer, given a choice.
If I forgot to mention Transcendental Meditation, now is the time. My mother was holding TM meetings at the chalet twice a week. It was the touchy, feely thing that came out of California, and the facilitator was a complete phony who charged exorbitant fees for his services. He tried to put the moves on me even though he was twelve years my senior. It was a good reason to go to town or take a solo hike away from the whole scene. However, you can find humor in most situations if you look for it.
During one of those meditation sessions, the TM guru, Michael, introduced the importance of touch. To illustrate the concept, he placed his hands squarely on a woman friend of my mother’s. He was holding her voluptuous breasts firmly in his hands. With horror, the woman screamed for him to “move his hands.” Much to the surprise of the victim and the other participants, the TM leader proceeded to move his hands in a circular movement, moving each breast with every motion. His comment was: “You told me to move my hands, and that is what I did.” Everyone was appalled, and I just broke out laughing and left the room. TM did not survive in Gstaad, Switzerland.
I did get involved with someone that summer, and we even “hooked up,” as the kids say today. It led to a hot and heavy sexual encounter in the sauna. I was supposed to be meeting Wes in the fall for our study abroad year in Vienna, Austria. The two of us had even discussed marriage, so it did feel like I was cheating in the relationship. It was very confusing. That contributed to my recklessness, low self-esteem, and constant drinking and drugging. After telling Steve, the summer fling, about Wes, Steve said that he didn’t really give a f*** and our sauna dates continued. Why not? I was paying for most of our dates, and Steve was not worried about commitment because he did not want any. After a summer that had the highs and lows of a new chapter in my life, the fall arrived, and I was off to Vienna for college and Wes. It only took three weeks, and I left Wes and the University of Vienna.
By this time, my family home bedroom was free, and I returned to the chalet in Switzerland. Hunter and Lynn were back in boarding school. The question, “Are you my father?” had been answered and yet, I felt totally lost. I did not understand why my mother waited until I was nineteen to tell me the truth. When I asked her to explain, there was a long pause, and she said, “The longer that I waited to tell you, the harder it got. I was afraid that you would be upset, and my greatest fear was that you would leave me forever.” Duh!
The poor communication with Mother, the total confusion about relationships, fear of suicide, and what to do about school were serious problems. Something had to break.
***
It was ski season, and Christmas just flew by. New Year’s Eve, I had a date with Steve, and we were back in the sauna. Slightly before the New Year was toasted, I made a significant decision. I needed to see Wes one more time before I totally trashed the promise of a life together and wrote him off entirely. I left ten minutes later and drove to Zurich airport. Impulsivity was one of my character defects. I called Wes and told him on what flight I would be arriving and to please meet me there. As soon as I reached Vienna and saw him on the tarmac, my heart was in his hands. I felt unconditional love for him that I had never felt for any human except my Grandma Lee. This was the man I was going to marry. Fortunately, Wes felt the same way. We boarded the train headed for a small ski resort with a funny name, Puchberg am Schneeberg.
Our plan was just to get married, finish out Wes’s college semester in Vienna, and go back to the States to start a life and complete our schooling. The plan seemed perfect and even sounded more like my “Cinderella” story. Unfortunately, or by divine intervention, no one would marry us without written parental consent because of our age. One must be twenty-one years old to marry in Austria or Switzerland or have written parental consent. Both Wes and I were only twenty. First, I called my mother and asked her to wire-transfer the consent. She refused. She said that she could get a wedding together in four weeks if we would come back to Switzerland and get married in a church near her home. This wedding was going to be all about my mother. Why was I surprised? Wes’s parents were even more direct. “Hell, no! We will not send anything, but we will fly over to Switzerland and you damn well better get married.” It was not exactly what we had planned, but the arrangement worked, and the wedding was the first time in my life that I did feel like a fairy princess.
Before my bridal appearance in the church, I had to walk up a stone walkway outside from the car to the front door. Hunter was giving me away. He was my escort to get me up the path and into the church. Big problem. It was snowing, cold, icy, and both of us had on dress shoes with very slick soles. For every step we made forward, we slipped back two. We were not making any progress and broke out laughing hysterically. It took ten minutes of organ music for my mother to figure out that there must be a problem. How ironic was it that Hunter was not only giving me away in the service but that it was he and I who were sharing the last funniest moment in my single life? I never loved my younger brother more than that day.
After the wedding (I have no recall of the ceremony), there was a limousine to whisk us off to Lausanne for our honeymoon. Having champagne for the two-hour ride was a mistake, and we were both plastered when we arrived at our dream hotel, the Palace. The monumental “wedding night” had to be postponed. I indeed was not a virgin, so it was no big deal.
Returning to Vienna was difficult. I was bored, not being in school and having the whole day to do nothing except wait for my new husband, Wes, who was attending classes. I did not know what to do. I was used to a frantic lifestyle, and there was no chaos and there was too much time to think. I was writing letters to my new-found father, but it would still be ten years before we would meet. Of course, he had been invited to the wedding, but he did not send a regret or show up. There were letters from the Admiral that played an important part in my story, and some will be shared later in my adventure through life.
Since my new husband and I would be spending the next four months in Vienna, which allowed Wes to comp
lete his junior year abroad, it was up to me to stay busy and not go stir-crazy. Vienna is a large European city with lots of beautiful parks in and around the suburbs. I found all of them. On the weekends, we would go to one of the larger parks, the Prater, a favorite. We did one of the things that we did best—drink wine. Once I had a buzz, Wes would get us on the right trolley, and we would head back to our apartment to make love, which is the other thing that we did quite well.
Spring break arrived and we took the train through the beautiful Alpine passes back to Gstaad. The snow was falling in flakes the size of maple leaves, and Wes’s mustache had little crystalized ice drops sticking to it when we exited the train. Besides looking like a scene out of Frosty the Snowman, it was extremely cold and just getting to my mother’s chalet was a challenge. The taxi took us up the mountain as far as it could muster and then we climbed on foot. The homecoming was sweet, as my mother had made a “Welcome Home” sign and she was legitimately glad to see us. We were there for two days and the shit hit the fan.
Peter and his fiancée were getting married the week we arrived. Peter was one of our Swiss ski buddies and his father owned the local hardware store. He threw a huge bachelor’s party where Wes got drunk, tried yodeling on top of a table, and fell and broke his collar bone. Meanwhile, back at the chalet, mother had lost her sweetness and was irritable and bored. She announced that the cold, snowy weather was keeping her homebound and she felt like a recluse. Her impulsivity and her eccentric tendencies took over. Within twenty-four hours of rescuing Wes from the hospital, with a bandaged collar bone, my mother had planned and began executing a vacation from Switzerland to the Bahamas for the three of us and my younger brother and sister who were still in Swiss boarding school. Who packs up their family and leaves a ski resort in the prime ski season because she is restless? Let the fun begin!