carasuntoldstory

[carasuntoldstory]

The First Trauma

Hi, I'm Cara. And if you're reading this, then that means I finally decided to tell my story.

Sometimes, you don't actually know how traumatic something you've gone through is, and for much of my life, all of my traumas just seemed like normal things that happened. That's what they all became to me. It was just normal. It wasn't until I was a well seasoned adult that I realized just how traumatic my experiences had been.

And to tell you my story, we have to start at the beginning.

It was August of 1990. I was five years old. My little brother was three. Our parents were high school sweethearts and had been separated for a couple of years at the time. They had both moved on. Our mother was married to a new man and we had a brand new baby sister who wasn't even three months old yet. And our father was dating a woman who had a couple of daughters. One was seven and the other was also five like me, just a few months older.

My dad was out drinking at a bar with his girlfriend. Her house was within walking distance from the bar, so when they left, my dad was walking her home.

For some reason or another, they began arguing about halfway between the bar and her house. And another man who had been drinking at a house party nearby decided to be a good Samaritan and intervene.

He came up and told my dad to, "Leave her alone," referring to his girlfriend he had been arguing with. My dad told the man to, "Mind your business." And the two of them began to fight.

My dad's girlfriend had had just about enough of this nonsense, and she turned her back and huffed away. But little did she know what would happen next...

The man fighting my father had a knife, and he pulled it on him, slitting his throat open.

The wound was ten inches across my father's neck.

And who knows how he managed to do it, but he ran. He ran for his life, holding onto his neck the whole time. Blood spilling all over the train tracks where he was stabbed. All over the pavement around the corner and up the block to his girlfriend's house. But somehow, he made it. He pounded on door and the windows for help.

He collapsed there, right on her front porch.

An ambulance came. Paramedics worked with him all the way to the hospital. But it was no use.

My dad died on August 4, 1990 at 1:37am. He was 27 years old.

And I remember that day like it was yesterday.

My brother and I were playing on the floor. He was riding on top of his yellow Tonka truck, and I was riding on top of my pink Barbie corvette. We were just sitting on top of them, scooting on the floor pretending we were driving them. It was something we did often.

Our mother called us into the living room, and in-between sobs and tears, she said two very simple words to us. "Daddy's dead."

I knew what "dead" meant.  It meant my Daddy was in Heaven.  I understood.  Perhaps I didn't understand the permanence, but I understood what she was telling me.  My brother didn't.  We were both quiet as our mother just sat there crying. So I did the only thing I could think to do. "C'mon, lets go," I said, and I took my little brother back into the next room and we started playing again where we left off, like nothing ever happened.

I remember picking out the outfit I was to wear to his funeral.  It had to be pink, with black polka dots.  I insisted. And I remember walking in to the funeral with my mother and little brother... I can still see him laying there in the casket.  He was wearing a white dress shirt and a grey vest.  He wore a tie around his neck, only it wasn't around his shirt collar where it was supposed to be.  I didn't realize why back then, but as the years have passed, and I still remember that stupid tie around his neck, I've now realized it was to cover his fatal wound. 

How sad is that? 

And to this day, I still see him laying there.  I see it all.  Someone left him a red rose.  There were heart-shaped pillows with him.  They were embroidered with, "Dad" and "Brother".  My little brother, three years old, wanted to know, "When is my Daddy going to wake up, Mommy?  When is he going to get out of that bed?"  She just looked down and cried. She couldn't answer him.  But his five year old big sister could.  "He's not going to wake up. He's dead." 

To this day, I'm still not sure how something like that came out of my mouth at only five years old, but it did.  I was such a "brave, big girl," while all the adults around me mourned and cried. I understood that he was dead, but I did not yet comprehend the permanence of what life without him would be like. I mourned for him in my own time, and all these years later, I still do.

Some time after he passed, I'm not sure how long, I went to the house where he died to visit his girlfriend and her daughters, my "step sisters" as I always called them. And I swear, I could still see the blood stains on the sidewalk. And in the window screens. My mom swore it was gone, and that I either made it up or that it was all in my head, but I swear, I saw it.

The man who murdered my father was arrested the same day it happened, and the whole time he sat in jail awaiting trial, he proclaimed his innocence. According to him, he was just a good Samaritan saving a battered woman from the man who was beating her. But to this day, the woman claims my dad never touched her; they were arguing that night, and that was it.

And I say this all the time, but I'm so glad social media didn't exist back in 1990, because my dad's story was all over the news. Even back then, some articles painted him as the good man I knew him to be, but others portrayed him as a woman beating monster. I see the ignorant comments left on social media posts today. I could never imagine having to read the comments people would leave about my father's story.

On May 21, 1991, more than 9 months after my father's death, his killer was sentenced to 40 years in prison for first degree murder.

40 years.

Let me remind you, my father was 27 years old. He was so young. He had so much life ahead of him.

He didn't even get to see me off to kindergarten. Of all the milestones a parent looks forward to witnessing their child do, he didn't even get as far as my first day of kindergarten.

But I'm the lucky one, because I actually have a few memories of him to look back on. My younger brother who was three years old at the time? He has ONE memory of our father. Just one. And it's a good one. But it's just. one.

40 years. And do you know what's even worse than that? Indiana's Good Time Credit. At the time of his incarceration, he was able to earn one day of credit for each day served, which cut his prison sentence in half. So lets take that 40 years and make it 20 years instead.

On May 12, 2010, I received the call I had been dreading; my father's murderer had been released from prison. I knew it was happening. I knew my phone would ring that day. But it still hit me like a slap right across the face and brought me to my knees.

Let me just say, when you have lost a loved one to murder, NO amount of time is ever justice enough. Never.

After 20 years, this man was free to reconnect with his own family and to meet his grandchildren and go on about his life.

Meanwhile, my dad is six feet in the cold wet ground and my children and my brother's children will never know him.

We barely knew him ourselves.

A few weeks from now will mark 31 years since his death. 

The pain never goes away.  It gets easier to deal with as time goes by, but it never truly stops hurting. 

I cried on my 27th birthday because I was the same age as him when he died. And I cried even more on my 28th, because that meant I was officially older than him. And on August 4, 2017, the day he had officially been gone for just as long as he had been alive? Oh yeah, the tears were heavy that day.

The grief comes and goes, and usually it comes when I least expect it. And the older I get, I mourn a little less for the little girl who lost her daddy, and more so for the young man who lost his life way too soon, and for all the things he didn't get to experience.

Today, my dad would be 58 years old. And that's still young. But instead he is eternally 27. Forever young and handsome.

I miss him so much.

"What is grief, if not love persevering?" -Vision, WandaVision, 2021

#trauma #childhood trauma #true crime #crime #murder #trigger warning #gore #death #mourning #violence #grief