"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.
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