"If you love those who love you, what reward will you get?" -Jesus
"I only hit women and 12-year-old boys!" my father declared with a proud grin, passively acknowledging one of his flaws. He had many, as do we all. I guess we don't all kill people. Well, we all go about our selfish, daily lives while people are killed everyday. What do we actually do to save anyone? What effort do we actually make to change things? Seriously, how many of us can even face who we are long enough to admit that our lives are completely about us? Some people hurt others with fists and weapons, some people hurt others with a snap judgment and casual disregard.
So, like Dad and all of you, I also have flaws. I've spent a lifetime beating myself up for mine, everything from watching helplessly while he killed his girlfriend to not making everyone I meet happy with just the right word or smile. I was beaten, and I learned to pick up where Dad left off, emotionally, physically, sexually, you name it. Maybe this self-abusive pattern is the biggest flaw I have. What's underneath it? I always like to ask that question. I've learned, writing and talking about the traumas of my youth, that everything is not always as it seems. I've learned that there is often more to every story, just under the surface, waiting to be discovered. At this point, I don't know if that's true or just another flaw. Maybe I haven't learned as much as I think. Another flaw!! Ha ha! Back then, I didn't know the difference in my father's words and absolute truth. Likewise, outside of the home, I interpreted all interpersonal difficulties as a sign of my own failure as a human being. So, for most of my adult life, I've wasted my mental energy worrying about how other people felt about how I was doing, living in this culture, appearing to assimilate, while my own merciless stone wheels of shame and pain slowly ground my soul to powder.
In the last few days, I've gotten some criticism for my blog and even my use of my legal name. In sitting down to write, tonight, my first inclination was to answer those who judge without knowledge. My emotions are charged over a couple of probably "well-intended" folks who really don't understand who I am or what I'm trying to do, but, still, the urge to respond to them is overwhelming. Something about having my character attacked triggers my PTSD from years of character assassination, alone with my dad. No matter how he approached me, I had to answer. As an adult, I don't have to answer anyone. Sometimes, in the heat of traumatic regression, I forget that.
However, sometimes, I like to react, even if it does come from a place of triggered traumatic memory. Maybe it feels good to let some anger out. Maybe that's why my dad did it. Maybe that's why some people choose to criticize my choice to share the "evil" of my childhood. Maybe that's why I'm answering the peanut gallery now. Here goes:
Should I just move on with my life? What life? I don't know what it's like to be alive without childhood terror playing in the background of every activity, infecting every relationship. Until my dad died, six years ago, I didn't even know I had been traumatized. I got on with "living my life" when I moved out of his house, thinking the past was behind me. Today, I realize that putting the past behind me is a long-term process which requires understanding which parts of it are still with me. One can't let a thing go without first accepting that it is still there. Denying what I cling to with my own hands is the most childish of denials. So, to those who think I am drudging up the past unnecessarily, I say thank you for your comments. What else can I say? Mental toddlers lying about the object they hold behind their backs rarely listen to reason anyway.
I don't hit anyone with my fists, but I'll go for the throat conversationally. Sure, I might be demonstrating my own casual disregard and acting out my traumatic training, but I never draw first blood. My dad, my critics, and me could all have made the world a better place by listening to Jesus.
©Ernest Samuel Christie III
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