Yesterday, I got sick. Stinging sinus pain was my first clue. By midnight, I felt like a truck was parked on my chest. I'm always remembering my childhood, and this physical illness got me thinking of how my dad would alter his whole demeanor when I was sick, taking on the role of loving caregiver. He would set me up on the couch, get me a pillow, find out what I wanted to watch on TV, and then make me a nice meal. It felt so uncomfortable. Guilt washed over me in those times, like it had been unfair of me to ever despise his presence in my life. Then, my religious training kicked in, prompting me to thank God for my father, condemn myself for ever feeling anything but gratitude for him. Tears poured down my cheeks. Looking back now, the whole thing makes me sick the other way.
It's not like I've had the worst kind of suffering in life. I've taken hot showers. Most humans have never had the experience. I only have to go without a toilet when I choose to, for fun. That idea would be absurd to most of the world. I've never gone hungry for very long. The only times I've gone without food for a whole day were self-imposed for so-called spiritual purposes. My suffering doesn't stack up as extreme outside of the first world.
I suppose the worst part of my childhood was the mind fuck. Dad professed a love for me that was more dramatic than anything I've ever been offered. I grew up miserable but just knowing for sure that he was the one person I could always trust to be there for me. Sure, he would humiliate me in front of his friends, but, if someone tried to hurt me, I knew he would step in. I sucked in my fat lips and made up excuses for black eyes. Of course I wished he would stop hitting me, but, for the most part, I believed him when he explained how it was my fault. It was bad enough that my own foolish behavior was getting me beaten. The worst part was listening to how it hurt him. I was forcing him to whip and beat me by my constant betrayal of his deep love for me, a love that was almost dead because I bought the wrong thing at the store.
I don't want to say he wasn't being genuine, but he was totally fucked up. Getting free of the guilt of not behaving well enough to compensate for his issues has required separating myself from him in my own mind. I had to give up bowing to my father before I could stand up as my own man and take care of myself. Looking back, I see that playing along with him never quite worked out.
Does all of this sound a little like Christianity to you? It does to me. They say we have a Father who loves us but just can't stand the fact that we're not all about Him. So, He has to kill us. He doesn't want to though, so He made a way for us. All we have to do is admit that we have failed Him, admit that we deserve death and Hell, agree to worship Him forever, and try to live our lives exactly like He wants. If we do those things, then He will love us and make everything better someday, you know, after we die.
My dad ran this same game on me. There was always the promise of a happy life, the life I wanted, just around the corner. I'm working hard to let go. God and my dad are still sitting on my chest like a dump truck, but I'm wiggling more. Someday, I'll feel free, long before I die. Or maybe I've just been trained to create the promise of a happy life, just around the corner, for myself. Maybe the suffering I place upon myself is the worst. Black eyes and fat lips never last. Lies are forever.
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