A timely reminder from one of my favourite postees on Facebook - the Bullshit Fairy, Autistic Artivist - this morning. Needless to say I shared this post, as it has tremendous relevance for us at present.
Yesterday was Judy's funeral service and wake. The placed was packed. Michael, Sandra and Darryl supported each other with love and courage. We all supported Lucky and Wendy and I supported our husbands. The service was beautiful and reminded us all of Judy's absolute passion for her family. Sandra's eulogy of her mother was honest, funny, priceless and heartbreaking. As it should have been. Darryl put together an amazing slideshow of Judy's life, which included us all, as a family. I finally felt a bone fide member of the Sofoulis clan. Wonderful.
But then the exclusion started. Michael's daughters by his first marriage were there. Looking like proper hip suburban mums, they ignored their father. Never spoke to him, never acknowledged him. Come on! These young women are in their 30s (!), their mother took them to Holland for 7 years as children, they returned to Australia, and shit continued to happen. How long until Michael is punished enough for his perceived crimes? In another 10 years? Or when he dies? All the while, Michael has 4 little grandchildren he has never been given an opportunity to meet. How long is this torture meant to last? When will they ever draw a line in the sand?
Michael's other daughter was there from his second marriage. The one who abused him in his own home, threw a pottery bird feeder at his front window and only contacted him when she needed money. This last time was for an MRI she said she needed to have. Pretty, vivacious, vacuous and hollow. Ignored him as well. Give her a clap, everybody.
Michael's son arrived at the funeral, dressed as a street urchin. He is almost 25 now, on New Year's Eve. I know how old he is. He chooses not to know the first thing about me. I could forgive him anything if he reconnected with his dad. We don't even know why he won't speak to Michael anymore. Is it because of Michael taking him to counselling, supporting him when he couldn't work due to depression, or giving him only $2000 of $2500 ( we used the rest on a professional clean of his family home) when he finished his apprenticeship. Or when he threatened to "cut your fucking throat, bitch". The cops were called over that one. Michael was the one who stopped him being charged that day. Or is it because. out of the blue, he tried it on to get a plane ticket home when he ran out of money in Europe? Congratulations, young man. You are a pillar of society.
He and Michael met outside the loos at Judy's wake. Michael said "hello...." There was no response. Jesus wept.
We chose to drive home last night. We had been going to stay at the old family home. But Michael was traumatised by yet another miserable encounter with his so-called children and wanted to flee to the safety of the House than Rocks. So we did.
Two of my biological children (who were included in the list of Sofoulis family members - thank you to Sandra, Darryl and Wendy) were there supporting Michael. What a contrast. Vanessa brought a rose for Judy, packets of tissues for us all and love for her adopted Dad. Alex, God love him, who has autism, came neatly dressed in his Warehouse Cafe uniform. He touched both Michael and Lucky throughout the service and only had to be reminded once not to hug too hard!
Today, Michael is quiet, physically shaking, pursued by his anxiety. He finally left bed at 10 am. He will probably retreat there later again. I hope all four of his biological children are really proud of their efforts. We discussed whether I would post this piece. We have tried dignified silence for over 6 years. It's time to share how it is.
We are also going to reconsider a decision about Christmas Day. We are supposed to be going to Toodyay to Darryl and Wendy's house. If Michael's son is there, he needs to behave in a civil way. We need an assurance. Otherwise I get to pick up the pieces of Michael the next day.
Enough is enough.
Ho bloody ho.
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