All children go through the process of individuating from their parents, more or less, and becoming their own persons in adulthood. I am no different in that regard. Admittedly, I got a little stuck along the way; there were some speed bumps and derailments along the path of my psychological development. I think it’s that way for all of us.
We become physically separate before we are physically independent. Toddlers have strong desires for autonomy. I used to set traps for my dad. I used to plot and threaten. I don’t know what he thought. I thought I was going to kill him. After he killed my mom, I stopped fighting him, and, for many other reasons as well, he and I were stuck in a long-lasting pattern of violent, one-way engagement.
At 12, I mostly shut down while he was hitting me. I would cry about it later, sometimes, if I was alone, if it hit me.
At 14, I was making peace with a world in which each day, at some point, he was going to end up punching me in the face.
By 15, I was used to being beaten regularly, just looking, each moment, for a way to avoid it.
After he killed Sandy, everything got more serious. Each angry punishment/interrogation turned to him standing over me, debating the prudence of mercifully letting me live when I carried a secret that could send him to prison. That’s right; he was being merciful. Killing me was the only path that made sense. If he had been a monster, any less loving and human, I would have burned in that ditch, right on top of her. Well, that’s how he would present the situation. See? Things got serious.
I began to study the beatings. I was waking up, at least to my physical reality. Dissociating for the relief of pain and fear was no longer my automatic response. I could feel every blow, hear every word, and just stand there, taking it. After one three-hour evening beating with a baseball bat, Dad was surprised that I could still walk. I was starting to take pride in my strength. Yeah, I knew that was a little bit sick at the time, but I didn’t feel guilty. I wasn’t the one running the show.
Still, it was miserable to live that way. I wanted a change so desperately! I wanted to take charge of my life, but I didn’t know how to do that without his permission. I didn’t know how to do anything without his permission. He had told me, although indirectly, that he wanted me to hit him back, to stand up for myself. So, I knew that was an option. I just couldn’t do it. Whenever he was hitting me, we were already too far into my failure as a human being for me to find the will to fight back. I would just stand there, feeling completely hopeless, worthless, and ashamed of the miserable excuse for a human being that I had become.
Interestingly enough, my dad had already explained this process to me. It would take me years to connect his stories with our everyday experience. Back then, I just went through the motions of school, family gatherings, and secret abuse helplessly, hopelessly, day after day, watching the years peel away with no conceivable end in sight.
Dad had a lot of stories. One of his favorites was about an unnamed hit man who didn’t have the courage to kill. This man would befriend a target and take them for a ride in his car. He would just drive, waiting for his passenger to express curiosity about their destination. When this would-be killer started to see his victim getting nervous, fueling his courage, he would pull out a gun and gesture with it, still smiling and pretending this was only a ride. Then, as fear mounted in the car, he would set the gun on the seat between them. Once both men knew that both men knew that the passenger was too frightened to reach for the gun, our killer would have the nerve to pull over and complete his task. Dad spoke of the victim’s fear and lack of action with disdain.
I knew he was disgusted with me for standing there, arms at my side, receiving his blows defenselessly. That disgust would ramp up his intensity, often spiraling a simple grocery store mistake into a near-death experience for me, full of righteous judgment and total disregard for any human value I might have held in his eyes previously. Fear and shame angered him. He would take me to that place and then take it all out on me. I would have continued to just accept my fate, but he was making me nervous. How far would he go? Would he kill me like he killed Sandy? He might, and it might be that any one of these violent interactions would be my last. I started thinking more about hitting him back. That’s what he wanted; right? I couldn’t do it unless I could stay convinced that he wanted it.
In my senior year of high school, I went through this whole cycle with him several times. He wasn't punching me in the face every day. A totally different routine had set in, periods of calm punctuated by irregular, shameful beatings, my dad saying his worst while back-handing me repeatedly, me bleeding and crying, standing still and taking it, beating myself up inside for being unable to hit him back. I was holding onto hope that I could muster my courage while I felt the cement of his judgment curing irreparably. Would I stand up and fight back in time or become the "worthless cocksucker" he insisted I had been all along?
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Stand for Jesus, Part 2
But then, the LORD provided for me...
A little Baptist church, two weeks before voting day, had posted on their front yard bulletin "This house is against the amendment." I saw it and planned to attend.
Just like my dad, years before, I liked to preach Jesus to the people who would listen, people in my everyday circles, people who didn't intimidate me, but, in the months leading up to voting day, I was becoming more angry and vocal. I figured if someone was going to use a passing greeting as a window for their parroted politics of hatred, that I would feel free to detain them for a speech about hypocrisy. Usually, I still strive to be the polite boy that my church had trained me to be, but, if someone was going to present to me that they loved Jesus and also felt compelled to support laws which judged others, then I was going to tell them they were out of touch with Jesus, love, people, and common sense. I was getting some strange looks, just like my dad, years before.
So, with an amendment to our state constitution in the balance, mere weeks before the vote that everyone was talking about, my friend and I joined a small Southern Baptist congregation for their morning worship service. We were greeted warmly and took our seats in an orderly fashion, just like everyone else. True to their signage out front, these nice Christian folks seemed to be on board with making sure that no two people of the same gender ever offend their god by entering into a legal contract of marriage. The senior pastor played a video about the threat posed to that holy institution of one man and one woman by anyone who might dare to live differently. Then he drove his point home with a short speech about the "homosexual agenda."
I was boiling inside, angry, antsy, ready to scream. Still I sat, perhaps like my dad, in church, years before.
My mind was racing. Should I speak? What would I say? The questions, thoughts, and feelings were flooding my brain, making it hard for me to even think which lead me to familiar feelings of worthlessness. Of course I would just sit there, timid, ashamed, quiet. Would I always feel like a sheep?
While I was wrestling with my own self-doubts and confusion, the senior pastor introduced a guest speaker who took the podium and announced the title of his sermon with a power-point slide, something about the Hebrew meaning of the phrase translated as "Thou shalt not.."
And I was mad again, over my self-consciousness, back to caring about right, wrong, and a whole world full of people who had no interest in following these people or their god, much less in having it forced upon them by the laws of North Carolina. Away from "should I speak?" I was looking for when I would speak.
And then he handed it to me.
"We can't just sit quietly. We have to have the courage to stand and speak for Jesus!"
I stood. My hands clapped loudly down on the pew back in front of me, hushing the guest speaker mid-sentence and drawing all eyes to my conspicuous non-conformity. "I'm sorry for interrupting," I began, "but I have to stand and speak for Jesus."
"Amen!" a parishioner shouted.
I had the floor.
"We've heard, this morning, some discussion of the upcoming vote to amend North Carolina's constitution to limit marriage in this state to one man and one woman. This is an important topic. Tens of thousands of real people will be directly affected, and, obviously, this issue is important to all of you. Your sign out front declares this import. I feel like the subject warrants our attention and further discussion, and I believe God is directing me to speak today."
Whispered from the other side of the room "I think he's one of them."
"I'd like to tell you a story." I continued. "There was a man who had two sons. One son believed in following the father's rules and was sorely vexed by his brother who had chosen to live his own life by his own rules. The obedient son, so sure that he knew the father's will for himself and his brother, decided that he would travel to the disobedient son's home and physically force him to obey a particular rule, a rule which the father had not bothered to enforce. Now, when the father finds out what has happened, will he be proud of the obedient son for forcing his unwilling brother? Or, will the willfully disobedient son's forced obedience be of any value to the father? Or, could it be that the father weighs the heart and desires love and mercy over self-righteousness and judgment?" That's pretty much what I said, and then I sat down.
That little church was very quiet as eyes turned from me toward the senior pastor who was making his way to the stage. He began scolding me for rudely interrupting their service, telling me that if I had had an issue, this was not the time or the place to bring it up. I would have taken it politely, but he was pointing his finger at me and lecturing way too long. So, I stood up again and began to answer him. A woman two rows in front of me raised her hand, shouting "I move that the speaker be silenced!" I continued talking but noticed that I was being surrounded by strong men in suits and ties. None of them were as big as me, and, since I've faced much more menacing foes, I simply continued to argue with the pastor, sometimes ignoring him to speak directly to the congregation.
When I moved into the center aisle and began gesturing and speaking freely, I realized that lots of people were talking, including my friend who was very busy getting in between me and the men in suits, reassuring them that I was not a threat and that physical force was not necessary. Funny. I felt more that, if anyone was in danger of receiving physical abuse, it was me.
At this point, I must have completely dissociated. I have no memory of what happened next. My friend says that I was shouting over the congregation "You're ruining people's lives!!" while the men in suits were crowding me out the door. I only remember suddenly being on the front steps of the church, looking at the senior pastor as he leered at me with what my father would have called a "shit-eating grin."
"I see you, Mother Fucker. I see you." Those were my last words to him as he closed the door in my face.
My friend and I went and had a nice lunch and lamented that we may only have cemented that congregations bigotry and blindness to others. I don't know. My dad would have been hugely impressed with me. I felt proud, but, then, the whole experience, combined with a victory at the polls for Hate, just weeks later, left me feeling like there's something really wrong with this world we've inherited and co-created, especially among the people who think they're on the so-called "right track."
May God have mercy on us all. I don't give a shit about God or church anymore, but I'm proud I stood up for Jesus, love, and mercy. What is mercy anyway? Have homosexuals committed some sin that requires anyone's forgiveness, or should rule-oriented folks just shut up, mind their own business, and spend a little quiet time in front of their mirrors?
A little Baptist church, two weeks before voting day, had posted on their front yard bulletin "This house is against the amendment." I saw it and planned to attend.
Just like my dad, years before, I liked to preach Jesus to the people who would listen, people in my everyday circles, people who didn't intimidate me, but, in the months leading up to voting day, I was becoming more angry and vocal. I figured if someone was going to use a passing greeting as a window for their parroted politics of hatred, that I would feel free to detain them for a speech about hypocrisy. Usually, I still strive to be the polite boy that my church had trained me to be, but, if someone was going to present to me that they loved Jesus and also felt compelled to support laws which judged others, then I was going to tell them they were out of touch with Jesus, love, people, and common sense. I was getting some strange looks, just like my dad, years before.
So, with an amendment to our state constitution in the balance, mere weeks before the vote that everyone was talking about, my friend and I joined a small Southern Baptist congregation for their morning worship service. We were greeted warmly and took our seats in an orderly fashion, just like everyone else. True to their signage out front, these nice Christian folks seemed to be on board with making sure that no two people of the same gender ever offend their god by entering into a legal contract of marriage. The senior pastor played a video about the threat posed to that holy institution of one man and one woman by anyone who might dare to live differently. Then he drove his point home with a short speech about the "homosexual agenda."
I was boiling inside, angry, antsy, ready to scream. Still I sat, perhaps like my dad, in church, years before.
My mind was racing. Should I speak? What would I say? The questions, thoughts, and feelings were flooding my brain, making it hard for me to even think which lead me to familiar feelings of worthlessness. Of course I would just sit there, timid, ashamed, quiet. Would I always feel like a sheep?
While I was wrestling with my own self-doubts and confusion, the senior pastor introduced a guest speaker who took the podium and announced the title of his sermon with a power-point slide, something about the Hebrew meaning of the phrase translated as "Thou shalt not.."
And I was mad again, over my self-consciousness, back to caring about right, wrong, and a whole world full of people who had no interest in following these people or their god, much less in having it forced upon them by the laws of North Carolina. Away from "should I speak?" I was looking for when I would speak.
And then he handed it to me.
"We can't just sit quietly. We have to have the courage to stand and speak for Jesus!"
I stood. My hands clapped loudly down on the pew back in front of me, hushing the guest speaker mid-sentence and drawing all eyes to my conspicuous non-conformity. "I'm sorry for interrupting," I began, "but I have to stand and speak for Jesus."
"Amen!" a parishioner shouted.
I had the floor.
"We've heard, this morning, some discussion of the upcoming vote to amend North Carolina's constitution to limit marriage in this state to one man and one woman. This is an important topic. Tens of thousands of real people will be directly affected, and, obviously, this issue is important to all of you. Your sign out front declares this import. I feel like the subject warrants our attention and further discussion, and I believe God is directing me to speak today."
Whispered from the other side of the room "I think he's one of them."
"I'd like to tell you a story." I continued. "There was a man who had two sons. One son believed in following the father's rules and was sorely vexed by his brother who had chosen to live his own life by his own rules. The obedient son, so sure that he knew the father's will for himself and his brother, decided that he would travel to the disobedient son's home and physically force him to obey a particular rule, a rule which the father had not bothered to enforce. Now, when the father finds out what has happened, will he be proud of the obedient son for forcing his unwilling brother? Or, will the willfully disobedient son's forced obedience be of any value to the father? Or, could it be that the father weighs the heart and desires love and mercy over self-righteousness and judgment?" That's pretty much what I said, and then I sat down.
That little church was very quiet as eyes turned from me toward the senior pastor who was making his way to the stage. He began scolding me for rudely interrupting their service, telling me that if I had had an issue, this was not the time or the place to bring it up. I would have taken it politely, but he was pointing his finger at me and lecturing way too long. So, I stood up again and began to answer him. A woman two rows in front of me raised her hand, shouting "I move that the speaker be silenced!" I continued talking but noticed that I was being surrounded by strong men in suits and ties. None of them were as big as me, and, since I've faced much more menacing foes, I simply continued to argue with the pastor, sometimes ignoring him to speak directly to the congregation.
When I moved into the center aisle and began gesturing and speaking freely, I realized that lots of people were talking, including my friend who was very busy getting in between me and the men in suits, reassuring them that I was not a threat and that physical force was not necessary. Funny. I felt more that, if anyone was in danger of receiving physical abuse, it was me.
At this point, I must have completely dissociated. I have no memory of what happened next. My friend says that I was shouting over the congregation "You're ruining people's lives!!" while the men in suits were crowding me out the door. I only remember suddenly being on the front steps of the church, looking at the senior pastor as he leered at me with what my father would have called a "shit-eating grin."
"I see you, Mother Fucker. I see you." Those were my last words to him as he closed the door in my face.
My friend and I went and had a nice lunch and lamented that we may only have cemented that congregations bigotry and blindness to others. I don't know. My dad would have been hugely impressed with me. I felt proud, but, then, the whole experience, combined with a victory at the polls for Hate, just weeks later, left me feeling like there's something really wrong with this world we've inherited and co-created, especially among the people who think they're on the so-called "right track."
May God have mercy on us all. I don't give a shit about God or church anymore, but I'm proud I stood up for Jesus, love, and mercy. What is mercy anyway? Have homosexuals committed some sin that requires anyone's forgiveness, or should rule-oriented folks just shut up, mind their own business, and spend a little quiet time in front of their mirrors?
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Stand for Jesus, part 1
There's something wrong with the world today
I don't know what it is
There's something wrong with our eyes
We're seeing things in a different way
and God knows it ain't His
It sure ain't no surprise. -Aerosmith
My dad, Ernie Christie Jr, loved Jesus. You know how people say they love Jesus, but then they're afraid to stand up for their faith? Yeah, my dad wasn't like that, not like other people. Ernie was quick to let his emotions out. He would stand up for his faith. He would fight for his faith. Well, he would start swinging his fists over a joke. He would kill my pets for eating his food off the counter. But, when it came to talking about Jesus, Ernie Christie relied on his words. I watched him deliver many a sermon to many a fisherman, many a homeless drunk, and many a prostitute. He didn't seem concerned with their approval or disapproval, just the message in his heart. Some of it was a little crazy, but some of it was really insightful, forging perspectives on God that neither the church nor my rabid atheism have been able to dismantle, at least for me. How's that for a teaser? Ah, but I'm digressing. I want to highlight his impulsivity relative to his internal prohibitions and his internal prohibitions relative to his social surroundings.
Ernie was pretty bold about the teachings of Jesus with people who didn't frighten him, but I remember feeling awkward for him as I watched him ingloriously suppress himself to seem "well-behaved" in church. After he got out of prison, Grandma would encourage him to dress up and go. It only happened a few times. I remember observing him in that environment. He looked stifled and neutered, afraid to misstep. I'm sure now that he was sitting in those pews, boiling inside, yearning to regain his strength, stand tall, and turn over their idols and sacraments, all of which he considered an affront to the Jesus he loved. Dad was vocal with me about his opinions after the services. "Those people wouldn't have known Jesus if they ran over him on the way to Sunday School this morning. Damn homeless bums!"
Who doesn't stifle themselves in church? The devout may become completely out of touch with the feeling, having traded their right to fight for personal authenticity in exchange for a simple, settled false confidence or, rather, a denial of their abject submission. At 12 years of age, I had happily accepted the religious role which had been proscribed for me, already beginning to shame myself for any internal discomfort. Did I feel stifled? It must have been a weakness of my flesh. Obviously, conformity to Baptist propriety was God's will for me and everyone.
One time, Jesus drove people out of the temple, and it's still remembered. Maybe that kind of rebellion is not too common. I'll go easy on my dad for being shy. I went to church every week while my dad was in prison. At the time, I didn't understand his appreciation for the angry side of my happy, smiling savior.
I felt comfortable in church during that time in my life. It was my most comfortable social circle. Everyone loved Sammy. I could be flamboyant and speak freely. Of course, I was just really good at giving the crowd what they wanted. At age 12, I wasn't thinking for myself, so speaking freely was little more than clever parroting of what I had heard before. Dad's silent discomfort in church and angry vocal apologetics on the boat docks or at the bar were confusing for me. We just didn't feel the same way about Christianity. I loved Jesus. He loved the character in the gospels. All that whipping of people and turning over of tables in the temple made me uncomfortable.
When I was eighteen, I got him to let me attend a wednesday night Bible-study group for people my age. We met in the home of a very wonderful family. They showed me lots of love. Dad seemed suspicious, but talking about girls there that I liked seemed to ease him into reluctant acceptance.
After a few years, the group moved, trading welcoming home for cold church basement, loving family for organized leadership. When the new leader asked me to consider becoming a lay ( non-paid) leader in the group, Dad broke his silence. He thought it was wrong. The true follower of Christ wouldn't accept. "The greatest among you will be the servant of all." I argued that I would be serving.
"Then why be called a leader?" he asked.
I married a girl in that group, had children, and generally gravitated toward church service and leadership. Over the years, Dad became more supportive and less judgmental about my mainstream approach to following Jesus.
I cheated on that girl, repeatedly, and ended up leaving family and church altogether.
Years later, as a pot-smoking atheist with a girlfriend 20 years my junior, I felt the call to attend a church.
North Carolina voters were being dragged to the polls over some perceived need among believers to make sure gay people couldn't marry in North Carolina. It was already illegal, but, I guess the church needed to make it extra super bad. They were talking about it like they needed to stand up for Jesus by limiting the lives of those they judged. I had been hearing the two-faced rationale for months. It's hard to fight with folks who talk about how much they don't judge gay people when justifying their support of one man one woman marriage.
But then, the LORD provided for me...
A little Baptist church, two weeks before voting day, had posted on their front yard bulletin "This house is against the amendment." I saw it and planned to attend.
To be continued....
I don't know what it is
There's something wrong with our eyes
We're seeing things in a different way
and God knows it ain't His
It sure ain't no surprise. -Aerosmith
My dad, Ernie Christie Jr, loved Jesus. You know how people say they love Jesus, but then they're afraid to stand up for their faith? Yeah, my dad wasn't like that, not like other people. Ernie was quick to let his emotions out. He would stand up for his faith. He would fight for his faith. Well, he would start swinging his fists over a joke. He would kill my pets for eating his food off the counter. But, when it came to talking about Jesus, Ernie Christie relied on his words. I watched him deliver many a sermon to many a fisherman, many a homeless drunk, and many a prostitute. He didn't seem concerned with their approval or disapproval, just the message in his heart. Some of it was a little crazy, but some of it was really insightful, forging perspectives on God that neither the church nor my rabid atheism have been able to dismantle, at least for me. How's that for a teaser? Ah, but I'm digressing. I want to highlight his impulsivity relative to his internal prohibitions and his internal prohibitions relative to his social surroundings.
Ernie was pretty bold about the teachings of Jesus with people who didn't frighten him, but I remember feeling awkward for him as I watched him ingloriously suppress himself to seem "well-behaved" in church. After he got out of prison, Grandma would encourage him to dress up and go. It only happened a few times. I remember observing him in that environment. He looked stifled and neutered, afraid to misstep. I'm sure now that he was sitting in those pews, boiling inside, yearning to regain his strength, stand tall, and turn over their idols and sacraments, all of which he considered an affront to the Jesus he loved. Dad was vocal with me about his opinions after the services. "Those people wouldn't have known Jesus if they ran over him on the way to Sunday School this morning. Damn homeless bums!"
Who doesn't stifle themselves in church? The devout may become completely out of touch with the feeling, having traded their right to fight for personal authenticity in exchange for a simple, settled false confidence or, rather, a denial of their abject submission. At 12 years of age, I had happily accepted the religious role which had been proscribed for me, already beginning to shame myself for any internal discomfort. Did I feel stifled? It must have been a weakness of my flesh. Obviously, conformity to Baptist propriety was God's will for me and everyone.
One time, Jesus drove people out of the temple, and it's still remembered. Maybe that kind of rebellion is not too common. I'll go easy on my dad for being shy. I went to church every week while my dad was in prison. At the time, I didn't understand his appreciation for the angry side of my happy, smiling savior.
I felt comfortable in church during that time in my life. It was my most comfortable social circle. Everyone loved Sammy. I could be flamboyant and speak freely. Of course, I was just really good at giving the crowd what they wanted. At age 12, I wasn't thinking for myself, so speaking freely was little more than clever parroting of what I had heard before. Dad's silent discomfort in church and angry vocal apologetics on the boat docks or at the bar were confusing for me. We just didn't feel the same way about Christianity. I loved Jesus. He loved the character in the gospels. All that whipping of people and turning over of tables in the temple made me uncomfortable.
When I was eighteen, I got him to let me attend a wednesday night Bible-study group for people my age. We met in the home of a very wonderful family. They showed me lots of love. Dad seemed suspicious, but talking about girls there that I liked seemed to ease him into reluctant acceptance.
After a few years, the group moved, trading welcoming home for cold church basement, loving family for organized leadership. When the new leader asked me to consider becoming a lay ( non-paid) leader in the group, Dad broke his silence. He thought it was wrong. The true follower of Christ wouldn't accept. "The greatest among you will be the servant of all." I argued that I would be serving.
"Then why be called a leader?" he asked.
I married a girl in that group, had children, and generally gravitated toward church service and leadership. Over the years, Dad became more supportive and less judgmental about my mainstream approach to following Jesus.
I cheated on that girl, repeatedly, and ended up leaving family and church altogether.
Years later, as a pot-smoking atheist with a girlfriend 20 years my junior, I felt the call to attend a church.
North Carolina voters were being dragged to the polls over some perceived need among believers to make sure gay people couldn't marry in North Carolina. It was already illegal, but, I guess the church needed to make it extra super bad. They were talking about it like they needed to stand up for Jesus by limiting the lives of those they judged. I had been hearing the two-faced rationale for months. It's hard to fight with folks who talk about how much they don't judge gay people when justifying their support of one man one woman marriage.
But then, the LORD provided for me...
A little Baptist church, two weeks before voting day, had posted on their front yard bulletin "This house is against the amendment." I saw it and planned to attend.
To be continued....
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Choose My Dad So I Know It Was Real
They say I'm an inspiration.
"After all you've been through, it's amazing that you turned out so well." they say.
Things like that....
They ask what happened to my dad to make him the way he was.
It's like people think our childhood experiences have something to do with our adulthood results. I certainly do. In the nature vs. nurture debate, I'm mainly concerned with nurture. It's what we can adjust, assuming nature doesn't overpower its influence. My own childhood has certainly had lasting impact on my adult life, and I can see why observers would marvel that I am not burning down houses and beating up women.
Dysfunctional parenting seems to repeat itself through the generations. Breaking cycles and chains of abuse is tricky work and, according to "people" requires bravery. Am I brave? Have I broken some cycles? I'll certainly take some credit, but the proof is in the parenting. Neither my father nor I can be judged only in the context of our relationship. We may blame him for how he raised me but not without knowledge of how he grew up. I could be blamed for my own parenting mistakes, but most of my readers would be quick to excuse me based on my origins. We are fathers and sons, mothers and daughters.
On the other hand, what is the source of positive change in parenting styles? Can parents be blamed but not credited? If I'm some kind of inspiration, some strong survivor, how did I get that way? I think it would be a mistake to scrap nurture theory simply because my dad killed people. His total influence on the man I have become cannot be limited to the horrific abuse that somehow didn't turn me into a monster. The miracle of my normalcy is simpler than that and may be hard to swallow.
My dad raised me to be the man that I am. He forced me to question myself and my actions. He gave me a moral code to live by. I never experimented with drugs or sex when I was a teenager. I didn't go to parties. Instead, whenever I wasn't in school, I was my dad's constant companion. He not only monitored my time but held sway over my words and thoughts. He was always setting the emotional tone, always teaching a lesson, always imparting some bit of wisdom. Any time we weren't working, he was talking. They say parents should listen to their kids, but he judged every word so harshly that I barely spoke at all. I still remember the stories. They're coming to this blog soon. My apologies. After countless hours of stories from his life, I have a hard time processing it all. Maybe he fucked up my head. But hey, he raised me to be praise-worthy, apparently.
My own thought is that he so violently ran over my mental landscape, that other people now find it quite easy to navigate through my space and get what they want from me. So, they like me. They say I'm a survivor. They say I'm brave. They rightly perceive that something could be boiling inside of me, miraculously contained. Me? I'm locked inside, revealing layers of myself in riddles, still feeling absolutely trapped. Dad (and a whole lot of others) said "children should be seen and not heard." I still haven't overcome that one.
Any surprise that telling my life story is hard? I feel alone and unable to connect with anyone. It's ok. It only hurts when I've made the "mistake" of letting myself love someone. That's where my frustration surfaced this year. I'm sorry this post is so complicated or maybe just badly written.
My dad taught me to act right. The world pats me on the back for his handiwork while condemning him and praising the facade I still maintain for my own protection. Inside, I just wish the whole world would burn. Don't praise me. Thank the monster you've already condemned. He gave me a full dose of dysfunction and then forced me to contain it. He passed on all the generational pain he could. He didn't break the chains. He tied up my soul with every link. Someday I'll explode, probably privately, unnoticed. That's how I was trained. I'm not happy with my life, but it seems like everyone around me is happy about the cage he built for my mind. When they say I'm great, I feel like they're praising him. When they say he was a monster, I shrink inside, convinced that it's only a matter of time before that judgment falls on me.
My own thought is that he so violently ran over my mental landscape, that other people now find it quite easy to navigate through my space and get what they want from me. So, they like me. They say I'm a survivor. They say I'm brave. They rightly perceive that something could be boiling inside of me, miraculously contained. Me? I'm locked inside, revealing layers of myself in riddles, still feeling absolutely trapped. Dad (and a whole lot of others) said "children should be seen and not heard." I still haven't overcome that one.
Any surprise that telling my life story is hard? I feel alone and unable to connect with anyone. It's ok. It only hurts when I've made the "mistake" of letting myself love someone. That's where my frustration surfaced this year. I'm sorry this post is so complicated or maybe just badly written.
My dad taught me to act right. The world pats me on the back for his handiwork while condemning him and praising the facade I still maintain for my own protection. Inside, I just wish the whole world would burn. Don't praise me. Thank the monster you've already condemned. He gave me a full dose of dysfunction and then forced me to contain it. He passed on all the generational pain he could. He didn't break the chains. He tied up my soul with every link. Someday I'll explode, probably privately, unnoticed. That's how I was trained. I'm not happy with my life, but it seems like everyone around me is happy about the cage he built for my mind. When they say I'm great, I feel like they're praising him. When they say he was a monster, I shrink inside, convinced that it's only a matter of time before that judgment falls on me.
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Shared Burden
When my dad died, I flew out to California to make funeral arrangements. I was going through the motions, doing what needed to be done next, picking a headstone, writing a check, having a nice lunch, making sure my suit was clean and pressed. My grandmother was my constant companion, holding me together. Then the casket salesman asked me if I would like to see his body.
He was lying still on a plain metal table, dressed and prepared. We were alone in an empty room. There was one chair. I sat. He looked different, bloated, unnatural. Suddenly something broke inside of me. I cried "I'm so sorry!" and then I fell across him and cried uncontrollably, blubbering, sobbing. I wanted his forgiveness. I wanted his love and approval, and it was too late to get it. Our relationship was seemingly over, and I was left with nothing but my own self-doubt and insecurity.
Reader forgive me. It has been six days since my last blog entry.
When I sit down to write a new blog entry, one of two things happens. Either my mind is as blank as the page, or, when I'm able to feel and remember, the flood of thought and emotion is completely overwhelming. I start new each day but often get lost in my words. The list of unpublished entries grows. I wish there was a way for me to tell the whole story in a single word, a way to be done, but I don't know what that word would be. Death? Sex? I can feel it all at once, sometimes, and in those times, my body convulses and contorts. I can't find words, but I can scream like a wounded animal, fighting for its life. The scream expresses everything, but I'm the only one who hears it. And so, it stays within me.
In my 20's, I told Sandy's story by doing good deeds and apologizing all the time. Hell, I still apologize. In my 30's I told the story in dreams and flashbacks. I told my wife what I remembered. I sought to recreate and re-experience by picking up hookers on my way home from work. I "told" my story to everyone though I'm sure no one could make sense of it. The people around me could only watch my anger, shame, and misdeeds with shocked confusion. When my dad died, I began telling bits and pieces to counselors. I'm 42 now, and, honestly, the more this story becomes clear in my mind, the more I wish I could just die in a horrible accident and be done. The telling doesn't make it go away.
Can I just write it out and put it all behind me? Is that what you imagine? I'm not convinced. I'm doing it, because I feel like I have no other choice, but I can't help feeling like I'll finish feeling more undone and broken than ever. You'll have a book to read for a week or so, and I'll have the rest of my days alone. Whatever story I write will not be a full expression of my experience. I carry that alone. I can write a book. Then, my experience will include that I wrote a book. Even if I could take all of you along for the whole experience of my life and show you all of it, would that heal me? Look what it's done to me already. Why would I want to "share" that experience with anyone.
Lying over my dad's body, I was filled with the deepest sense of lost opportunity. I hadn't reached him. I hadn't said what I should have said. I felt profoundly alone. Today, eight years after his death, I can't help but feel all alone.
Dear Reader, I know I am not alone. Thank you for joining me here. Thank you for carrying these small pieces WITH me. Once you know what happened, you will always know what happened. That part never goes. Maybe, just maybe, if I tell you enough, if we share enough common understanding here, then, when you put my book down and move on to other things, I might be able to follow your lead. I can't undo what's happened, but I have a little sliver of hope that I might be able to move on to other things too, someday. Maybe if we all learn to share our pain, we can all move forward together. I hope so.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Writing for Myself.
Having endured fairly severe abuse during childhood, I grew up feeling rather alone. That I'm not alone, that so many of us have horrific stories to tell has slowly dawned on me in adulthood. Honestly, I've had to heal quite a bit to even realize i was only seeing my own pain. Escaping the gravitational pull of denial and memory repression has been no easy task. For most of my life, I haven't wanted to hear about others' pain; I viewed their expressions as competition for limited possible attention and care in this world. If my pain was not the worst, then no one would ever care. Today, I still feel like people don't really care, but I understand why. No one could ever share their love with me in a convincing way, not enough to convince me. I felt alone, and I kept myself there. I knew no other way to think or feel.
November is National Novel Writing Month, apparently. I've signed up. I'm writing a novel. I've set aside the retelling of my life story to discipline myself with this new project. The idea is to just get words down every day for a month, no editing, no revision. By November 30th, I should have a 50,000 word rough draft. That's the idea. Friends have told me to just free-write, just let the words out, just get them down on paper. What's coming out so far is extremely dark. I think I'm writing a horror story.
My sophomore English teacher had us keep a journal. I would just put down words without editing or revising, without worrying about where it was going. That's what she told us to do. I still remember the day my dad came into my room while I was doing homework. He picked up that red spiral notebook and began reading. I had three entries at that point.
Later that evening, sitting crouched over my bible, watching drops of blood hit the pages, I tried to focus on my reading while I waited for the next blow to come. I had to balance paying attention to his ranting about the dangers of free-writing with my conscious connection to God. I heard him telling me how a teacher could turn my work over to a police detective or psychologist who might then realize I was the weak link. I heard him explain how they would pump me for information and ultimately prosecute him for his crimes. I heard him tell me how stupid I was to carry out such a writing assignment.
"Don't write about this house or the boat or anything to do with me! Write about yourself, you stupid fuck!"
he said stuff like that. It went on for hours.
There are all kinds of ways that my dad's abuse hamper and constrict me in my adult life. My relationships are tragic shit. My car and house are a mess. My possessions are scattered. My finances and career are completely ruined. My mind is sometimes a torture chamber from which escape seems impossible.
But I want to be a writer! It's so fucking hard! I'm behind on NaNoWriMo, but I got down 1,500 words today. Fuck you Dad!!!
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