Excerpt from the book, “Essays from Dysfunctional Families: Dysfunctional Betrayal”

Dianna U.

Eddyville, Oregon

My grandmother felt really bad as she was dying. I thought it was just physical pain, but it was more guilt and shame pain than physical. I went to visit her in the hospital and she told me she was holding on to some truth that she could not hold on to any longer. I was confused as she began to talk only because I didn’t know if she or the meds were talking. She said the family had a dark and dirty secret, but she believed that I had every right to know the truth. My grandmother then said everyone should know who their real father is; in fact, it is their right to know. She began to talk about why she never agreed with artificial insemination and that it was of the devil. Every child, she told me very emphatically, should know where they come from and that should never be a secret.

I wasn’t sure where she was going with all of this, but before she fell asleep she did say, “Your father is not your daddy, he is just a good man who did what was right.”

She never regained consciousness and about a week later we had her funeral. I didn’t tell anyone about what happened, but I couldn’t shake what she’d said off of me. I had to know what she was talking about. I had to know what she was trying to tell me. I secretly tried to find out for myself who my father was, but all the papers and documents had my father’s name on it; the man who my grandmother said is not my father. I then got the idea to hire a private detective, but I knew I didn’t have the cash for that.

About two months later I finally got the courage to come clean and approach my mother. I told her what my grandmother told me and I could tell that my grandmother was not making anything up. Just by the response my mother made with her face and body told me that the man I had thought was my father is not. She told me that she couldn’t tell me just yet and that I had to wait until she was ready. She then told me not to ask my father.

Three more months passed and I continued my life as if the previous events had never happened. I tried my best to forget about it, but it just would not leave me alone. I then decided to dishonor my promise and ask my father. I approached him and had this knowing feeling that he would indeed tell me.

In 1990 my mother’s brother was sent to the Persian Gulf to fight in the war. He returned before it was over due to him going AWOL. They said he went crazy after witnessing his partner die in a shootout along with killing a child not realizing he was a child. When he returned home he was incoherent and did not know who he was. My mother took him in because she felt obligated being that he was her brother. The doctors told her he belonged in a mental ward, but my mother would not admit him to one.

To make a long story short, after my mother was raped by her brother, she sent him to a mental hospital and nine months later I was born. My mom’s boyfriend assumed the position of dad and about two years later they married. They all agreed never to tell me the truth, but I guess the guilt was eating my grandmother alive. My real father does not know I exist. He is doing much better, but still lives in the mental hospital. It’s crazy because now that I know the truth I actually wish my grandmother had never said anything. This is one piece of truth I’d rather not know.

Excerpt from the book, “Essays from Dysfunctional Families: Dysfunctional Betrayal”
https://www.amazon.com/Essays-Dysfunctional-Families-Betrayal-Version/dp/1505654165/ref=sr_1_2?crid=MLNO3WTFPEKS&keywords=essays+casey+bell&qid=1642527200&sprefix=essays+casey+bell%2Caps%2C67&sr=8-2