Perfectionist Rehab

My foster father called me on Easter.

My little family had spent a few days in northern Vermont to celebrate my birthday. We were driving back home on Sunday, singing along to Disney music and giggling.

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.

My phone glowed on the dashboard.

I picked up my phone, and my mouth ran dry. My heart started pounding in my ears.

A missed call from foster family’s landline.

“What is it, hon?” My husband asked.

I try to swallow around the lump in my throat.

“I have a voicemail.”

My husband smirked at me.

“You going to listen to it?”

I took a deep breath.

“I don’t know. It’s from their landline.”

My husband’s eyebrows flew up.

“You’re joking.”

I shrugged.

“I don’t know what to do.”

My husband grabbed my hand.

“I’m behind you, whatever you decide.”

I steadied my breath.

“I think I have to listen to it.”

My husband sighed.

“You know what they’re going to say. They’re just trying to weasel their way back into our lives.”

I nodded.

“I know. I’m not saying that I’m going to start talking to them again. I just need to know what he has to say after all this time.”

It was my husband’s turn to nod.

“Okay. Do what you need to do.”

My hands were shaking as I unlocked my phone screen. I opened my voicemail, and pressed play.

“Hey, Michelle. It’s Dad. Listen, I want you to know that I think about you every day and I love you so much. I hope you and your family are doing okay. Listen, your mom’s not doing well. I’m not sure you care but call me back if you do.”

My husband waited while I listened to the message.

“So? What does it say?”

I blinked back tears.

“It’s what I expected. My foster father says that he loves me and that he hopes we’re doing okay. He says that his wife isn’t doing very well.”

My husband scoffs.

“Like not doing well as in she’s depressed because of her own actions? Or not doing well as in she’s dying again?”

Eight years ago my foster family pulled me back into our toxic relationship in the same exact way. My foster father called me to tell me that he loved me, and he left a cryptic message about his wife’s health. I found out later that she was suffering severe internal bleeding due to multiple ulcers in her digestive system. Surgery corrected the lesions and she was good as new shortly after.

We continued talking for two years. Then, once they became comfortable, they fell back into the same old pattern.

Wild accusations. Abusive language. Hostility. Harassment. Bullying. Belittling. Mocking. Gaslighting. Manipulation.

It was Father’s Day, 2020. The world was still shut-down for Covid precautions. I, like many other people at the time, believed that the world would reopen in August. I had collected birthday presents for both of my foster parents, a mother’s day present, and a father’s day present. They were collecting dust in their brightly colored wrapping on my dining table. My foster family and I were planning to have a huge celebration at the end of the summer. I was going to have a cookout and present all of the gifts to them from our time spent apart.

My foster father called me the morning of Father’s Day to whine about not having received any presents that year.

“You know, you really broke my heart. I thought you cared about me. And what about your mother? After all she’s done for you? How could you not think of getting her something for her birthday or for Mother’s day?”

I tried to explain to him that I hadn’t forgotten to get them anything. I repeated that I had all of their presents stored for the end of the summer party we had been planning. My foster mother snatched the receiver out of his hand.

“You’re a selfish brat, you know that? How dare you not get us anything. Who do you think you are?”

Her diatribe lasted a full twenty minutes. She illustrated every slight, disrespect, and misconduct I had presented in the previous two years. She mocked me. Insulted me. Berated me. Assaulted me with her acrid spittle.

I was twenty-seven at the time. I wasn’t a child anymore. I knew that I didn’t have to tolerate nastiness from anyone in my life anymore.

“Are you seriously throwing a tantrum over gifts right now?”

I was miffed. The same people that don’t know when my own birthday is, who routinely forgot to celebrate my own life events, were handing me my ass over presents.

How utterly juvenile.

“I don’t have to listen to this. This is ridiculous. You don’t get to shout at me over presents. Are you four?”

I hung up the phone and blocked their numbers.

I didn’t speak to them again until my eldest was two days old.

I called my foster family to let them know that I had had a child. I thought it was the right thing to do. I didn’t want them to find out from someone else that I had a son. I thought it would be kinder if they heard it from me.

I received no less than fifteen multi-page letters filled with hate, rage, disdain, and accusations.

You just wanted to hurt us.

They’ve already made up their mind about me. They are determined to view me as a petulant adolescent. A broken child. A desolate. A pathetic.

They’ve reinforced their hostile opinions so many times I have memorized them. I was mocked every time I requested an apology. I was informed that their behavior was justified because I am an asshole.

You don’t have to justify yourself to your inferiors.

I decided to call my foster father back. He refused to answer the phone.

This is another power play. He needs to be the person in control of every situation.

He calls me back a few minutes later.

“Hey, pumpkinseed. How are you?”

I’m definitely not answering that honestly.

“I’m fine, and you?”

Missile after missile.

“Good, good. Hey, listen, I’m glad you called. I just love you so much. I miss you. I think about you all the time. You know, we really want to see the kids. Do you think we can put all this juvenile stuff behind us? You know, I made up with my sister, and we’re talking again. And life is too short, you know? Your mom’s not doing well. She’s having heart problems, and she’s on stroke watch. She’s going to have surgery next week for her heart. We really want to see the kids before she goes.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I’m sorry to hear that your wife isn’t doing well. I don’t mean anything nasty about this, but you guys are in your late seventies. It’s not surprising.”

My foster father laughed.

“So do you think we can start over again?”

I paused and chose my words carefully.

“I forgave you a few years ago, but I need you to understand that this isn’t about anger. I’m not angry with you.”

“Okay.”

“I need you to understand that after everything that happened between us, I am not going back on my decision. You will not do to my children what you did to me.”

He becomes enraged.

“What are you talking about? What did I do to you? I gave you great childhood!”

“I’m sure that you believe that. And that’s part of the problem.”

“What are you talking about? You’re not making any sense.”

“You are incapable of apologizing, for one. You don’t think that there’s anything wrong with what happened in your house.”

My foster father scoffs.

“I hope you learn this lesson at some point, Michelle. People make mistakes. No one is perfect. Can’t you just let bygones be bygones? Just get over it already.”

“I am over it. I don’t forget it either. I will not expose my children to your behavior.”

“What did I do that was so terrible? I gave you a great life!”

“You made sure that I knew I was never your daughter.”

“That’s in your head! You’re absolutely delusional! What is wrong with you? You’re in la-la land! How can you say that about me, you’re breaking my heart!”

Sweat beaded on my upper lip. I felt the familiar feeling flood my chest.

Shame.

Guilt.

Fear.

Maybe this was all in my head. Maybe I am as awful as they say. Maybe none of this really happened.

I stopped myself. I take a deep breath and I count to ten. I notice what I can smell. I notice what I can taste. I notice what I can see. I notice what I can feel.

I notice what I can hear.

“Michelle? Michelle? Are you there? ANSWER ME.”

“Yeah, I’m here. My decision is final. I’m sorry you and your wife are having health problems, that’s really unfortunate. Have a great Easter.”

I hung up the phone and re-blocked their numbers.

I’m sure that he truly believes that he gave me a great childhood. The abuse I sustained was just a regular Monday night for him.

Abusers will double-down when you confront their behavior because they do know that what they did was wrong. They’re ashamed. They don’t want to admit that they caused you pain.

The only logical solution in their eyes is to make you shut up.

Lies. Insanity. Slander. In this case, libel.

I know I’m not perfect, but I do know that I make amends when I make mistakes. My children hear apologies far more frequently than I wish, but I’m trying every day to be better. Calmer. Wiser. Steadier.

My children will never be responsible for managing my own emotions.

And I’ll be damned if I let those bastards break my boys too.