My father never hit me growing up. If you want to know about my childhood before the age of eight, it was pretty normal. I had a loving mother, a charming father, two older siblings and one younger than me. I wasn't a great student, I didn't have the confidence to be a great student; but I was always respectful and quiet and demure, as if by constantly pleasing everyone around me, I could avoid conflict. At the end of the day, this basically made me the pet of my teachers, and the almost invisible child at home. To get attention at home, at that age, I would perform. It's one of those things that has stuck with me, sort of moulded with who I am as a person. But I would tell elaborate and fanciful stories, I would draw and write my own books, I would sing as loud as my little body would allow me, dance and pretend I was a comedian.
I wasn't the smart one, I wasn't the athletic one (though lord knows I tried hard to be), I wasn't the oldest (not really), and I didn't enjoy video games. I liked to read and play with my dolls; sing along to my cassettes and play dress up. Your typical princess want-to-be. I never thought there was anything wrong with me, until one of my parents pointed out that I wasn't the smart one, or the athletic one, or anything else they wanted me to be. I had tried really hard to always please those around me.
As a child, you're supposed to run and play and be carefree, but I don't remember ever being that way. I remember walking on egg shells, constantly staying out of peoples ways, or entertaining them to the best of my ability. I never wanted anyone to tire of me, I never wanted anyone to be offended by my presence. I spent my time cultivating this exterior of goodly indifference, to the point where it penetrated every inch of who I was at home, at school, with my few friends, at sporting events, you name it. I wanted to be good, I was good. But I wasn't good enough.
My dad was sick my entire life, I just never realized it. Every so often he'd raise his voice, to what we called his "work voice." He swore he wasn't yelling, but at eight, the difference is little. And they both had the same reaction: instant fear. He was depressed, bi-polar, and I've come to the conclusion that he's probably also somewhat schnizophrenic. It wasn't until I was eight or so, that I realized there was anything wrong with him. It wasn't until he was diagnosed with RA that I had any idea. The degenerative muscle disease compounded by his declining mental state change the dynamic in my household. Not over night, not drastically, but there was a collective understanding that things were different.
It was the constant sadness, the negativity, the constant pain that seemed to radiate from him. Now I know that it was more than the physical hurt, it was everything. I remember running out of rooms so my mom could give him shots of pain medication for his RA that never seemed to work. I hated the idea that my dad was sick. I couldn't understand at that age what was going on really, just that it wasn't good.
We had been fairly close up until that point. I wasn't what he wanted; he wanted a smarter little girl, he wanted me to be more like my brother, I can remember that distinctly. Those types of things stick with you, even when you're not old enough to understand why they hurt so badly. But we were close. Where my little brother disliked sports, I ate them up to please my dad; where Jonathan wanted no one but my mom, I always vied for my dad's attention.
After that though, things changed. While I still wanted to please everyone around me, I gravitated towards my own genuine interests and left behind sports, letting my dad know that he came second, though mostly third to my friends and my mom.
When I started developing my own personality, and rebelling against everything I had been up until that point, that's when the fighting started. I constantly wanted to push his buttons. I remember the fights and how I would cry in my room, until I pulled up enough courage to write him an apology letter. I was perpetually in the wrong. Nothing I did or said was right by his standards. He didn't want a dumb daugther, but up until that point it had only been an annoyance; I had still been obediant, good, quiet, entertaining.
When I was eleven, I had to be put in therapy because loud noises would send me into hysterics. There's a connection there-- my father yelling and my body literally crumpling in on itself everytime it happened. I missed classes because one of my teachers had this ridiculously booming loud voice. Eventually I warmed up to him and he became my favorite teacher, but sometimes I would miss his class because I couldn't help but tear up at the sound of it.
About two years later, I was sexually assualted which sort of prefaced this.... slew of bad behavior. I was depressed, and my depression battled my father's for domiance every turn. I wanted the attention, I needed to know that I was still okay, and alive and loved. I fought constantly with my mother. Everything at home had to be about me. I hated him because he was a man, because of what had happened to me, and how I couldn't tell anyone.
That stage of my life is the most prominent, the most heavy, the one I have the hardest time remembering, but have no problem feeling it. I think it was that time, the ages between 11 and 16, that killed our relationship. By the time I could see outside of myself again, I saw my broken-hearted mother, my stoic little brother, and my sick father.
I could see him for what he really was at that point. Ragged, haggard, cruel-- and always hoping that his little girl would go back to wanting to constantly please everyone. I wish I could do the justice of his face in front of mine, red with rage and spittle flying out of his mouth because I had done something he didn't approve of. Those images don't go away.
And it seemed to only get worse.
It did only get worse.
This is pretty painful for me to write, for me to share, and I think it's probably the most personal thing I've ever shared on here. But I was constantly afraid. I stopped coming out of my room when he was home; the moment the clock even got close to nine, I was in my room, doors locked, and ready to stay in there the rest of the night. There would be weekends, or days, that I would stay holed up like that because I was never sure what I would be coming out to. There were nights I cried myself to sleep, sort of wishing I could just die, so I wouldn't have to deal with him anymore. And when I would finally emerge again, from whatever hell I had been internalizing because of him or our interactions or his words, I would find a happy man who would hug me and pretend like whatever had happened, never took place.
Like I said, my father has never hit me. But for every harsh word, for everytime he has called me worthless, stupid, a bitch, a fucker;has brought me down with his words or actions, he might as well have. My dad has never hit me, but he has forced me to the ground to look for his phone charger, berating me the entire time; letting me know just how worthless and stupid I am, that I can't function because I'm retarded. That he's never met someone as stupid or as incompetant as me. And not to stand up until I've found the damn thing, because I'm a goddamned fucker.
My father has never hit me, but he has threatened to breakdown my 'god damned door' if I stop everything I was doing to talk to him. He's slammed himself against my door, banged on it, stood outside of my room yelling and insulting me until I have no choice but to come out.
I've listened to him call my mother a whore, a bitch; I've heard him accuse her of trying to kill him, of turning me and my little brother against him... he's threatened to throw us out into the street because it's his "god damned house, and we'd be out, begging on the street, before he was".
I've watched him chase my mother out of the house on Halloween, yelling at her and scaring the neighborhood kids. I've seen him almost physically attack my aunt. He's broken my heart more than anyone will ever know, more than any other man ever could.
Every day, I try to tell myself that he doesn't mean these things-- that it's his sickness stacked upon sickness, but even then, I can't find it in myself to forgive him for everything he's taken away from me, for everything I feel like he's broken irrevocably in my being.
Since he's been out of the house, I keep contact to a minimum. I love my father, for the simple fact that he is my father; but I don't like the man my father is. All of his friends think he's this real stand-up guy and when they shower praise on him, I want to scream and tell them every horrible thing he's subjected myself, my brother, and my mother to. The divorce is driving me crazy.... he's trying to get out of doing right by my mother. And for all of the years of emotional abuse he put her through, she's asking too little. But he doesn't think of anyone but himself, going as far as cutting Jon and I off, unless we beg for his help.
I love my father, but I don't think I'll ever forgive him. Ever. It sounds petty, it sounds horrible, but there are things so inhumane, so vile, that to do them to another person is beyond comphrehension; to do those things to your family, to say those things, to hurt them so deeply, when you have been tasked to protect them? There is no redemption for that.
I'm just tired. I'm tired of being so beaten down by him, even when he's not here, even when we barely speak. He is still this opressive force to be in awe of.
My father isn't a good person. And I know that he's sick. And that someday after I've lived more life, I'll be able to see past all the bad... but for right now, I can't be the bigger person.
I can't.
I will testify in court if I have to, if it helps my mother.
At this moment in my life, I'm done being the victim of my father's rage and intolerance and cruelty. And if it encourages my mother to be stronger for and in herself, all the better.
It's funny that way, you can get used
To the tears and the pain
What a child will believe
You never loved me
[Chorus:]
You can't hurt me now
I got away from you, I never thought I would
You can't make me cry, you once had the power
I never felt so good about myself
Seems like yesterday
I lay down next to your boots and I prayed
For your anger to end
Oh Father I have sinned
[chorus]
Oh Father you never wanted to live that way
You never wanted to hurt me
Why am I running away
[repeat]
Maybe someday
When I look back I'll be able to say
You didn't mean to be cruel
Somebody hurt you too
[chorus]
