Like all parents, my father George was imperfect. He was consumed with anger – pessimism, cynicism, and rage permeated our house. His arrival from work always warned of an impending storm. He was only nice or cheerful during his nightly drinking; a predictable pattern that preceded his maudlin reminiscing that aroused his anger.
My parents fought almost constantly, and George used the silent treatment as punishment – sometimes for weeks. I remember Mom lying in bed, arm bandaged with bruises on her face, beside a broken orange lamp that George used to attack her when I was eight or nine years old. The screaming was especially bad; I believed she was telling the truth when she said George broke her arm and the lamp in the process. The semi-repaired lamp sits in my basement today. I thought the repair was pretty clever, but never told him.
George’s “help” with homework, swathed in cigarette smoke and whiskey, consisted of yelling at how stupid modern math and I were and mocking me for crying. Several times in the 8th grade I was excused from gym class after showing the coach the welts made by the belt he forced me to select. Often I’d lie in bed terrified, pretending to sleep, as he yanked my mother’s arm to show me the kind of woman she was. These things are burned into my memory.
George and I had a terrible relationship, and he never faced up to the truth of the reasons. He bore no responsibility; that our rift was all my fault. He believed that I was another man’s child, and that my mother trapped him into marriage. It may be easy to see why he was angry; but not easy to understand how he blamed my mother’s promiscuity on me. He saw me as a copy of his hated spouse.
To his merit as an adequate provider and “concerned” parent, George insisted on a full meal every night, complete with set table and all food groups. The constant chain smoking would stop during the actual eating, but these positive designations were forfeited by his constant presence of the ashtray, swilling of whiskey, and lectures on the evils of minorities, liberals, and the Kennedy family (in more colorful terms than stated here). His Jekyll and Hyde behavior made nightly dinners a living hell, like a Nazi version of Norman Rockwell. Between beatings and criticisms of those who didn’t think like him, my trust in George was betrayed before I understood his problems, never to be restored.
During these times, conversation was limited to monosyllabic and stern words; any levity or friendliness was harshly silenced. When I was between 8 and 10 years old, Mom also drank and generally took George’s side against me. I rebelled by avoiding eating, believing they were trying to poison me. Family dinners – which should be comforting and family-strengthening – were perverted into a torture chamber atmosphere. George flew into rages – jumping up and pulling his belt – with a wrong look or incorrect tone. Crawling on the floor to escape his blows, we returned to our seats after he made his point as if nothing happened. If I showed any distress, it only got worse.
It was always my job to clear the table and wash the dishes, under George’s thumb of angry bossing and orders to do this first, that second, and use a dry towel, dammit!
I loved the ranch and its diversity of tasks. The sign shop allowed me to express my artistry. However, George made every moment a punishment. While the various chores inspired me, I couldn’t communicate the joy of my work to this terrifying individual.
My final years at home culminated in heartbreak from a failed first love, sexual abuse from an older male, and constant bullying at home and at school which I endured in silence. I made some friends in high school who lived in homes with music, laughter, and warmth. Adults – seeing my potential – were nice to me. They helped me to develop self-respect, enraging George as his narrative that I was a worthless piece of garbage was defied.
At about age 42, I started to feel like an adult – able to develop self-respect out of the wreckage of my youth, dominated by years of near-suicidal recklessness and lack of purpose.
Origins revisited. My parents had to get married because of me, and George has hated me since I invaded my mother’s womb. Also, remember that he thought I was another guy’s kid. In 2002, my mother forced a DNA test that proved paternity – which he grudgingly accepts.
I was finally able to leave home at 17, following a lifetime of drunken, rage-filled physical and emotional abuse from George. His slut shaming of Mom spilled over to me (I was about 45 when I worked that explanation out). Her screams from the beatings kept me awake at night in terror – I was her trauma therapist from about age 4 to 12, attempting to bring her comfort.
Fast forward to Christmas 2014 – George is now aged 93. I visited and wasn’t there 3 minutes when he attacked – hissing, saying how awful I look, what a slob I am, that I’m the exact opposite of his image of a son, and he is ashamed of me. Processing nightmares of him through therapy and dreamwork paid off – I drew a breath and stated that he terrorized me as a kid, beat up my mother, and broke her arm with a lamp that is still in my basement as a reminder of his abuse.
George’s insane reaction was akin to throwing jet fuel into a burning barn. He screamed that I was a liar and that Mom brainwashed me. I persisted, talking about all the times I was excused from gym for the bruises and welts he inflicted, how they came into my room – both drunk – fighting, leaving me paralyzed with fear as I feigned sleep. He denies everything, saying I’m being cruel to an old man. Ordering me out, he said “this will be our last conversation; I hate you and you hate me.”
One of my earliest memories of George – when I was 4 or 5 years old – is when we were walking towards a giant, high-voltage powerline tower. I asked if I touched it, would it shock me; he told me to try it and see. The confusion I felt at that moment has never gone away.
Ramifications of Trauma. All of this can be summed up this way. I feel threatened when someone stands over or behind me for an inordinate amount of time. I hesitate to express levity and friendliness for fear they’ll be met with silence, brooding, and eventual rage.
Even though paternity was proved in 2002, George remained convinced that I was another guy’s kid that my mother used to trap him into marriage. There was no peace in their relationship. When Mom tried to defend me, arguing turned into swearing, insults, yelling, and thumping noises through the walls.
Now that I’m approaching 70, I can see how my whole life has been adversely affected. I was barely there in school; my dreams and aspirations were pretty much destroyed by lack of concentration, nightmare-riddled sleep, recklessness, and suicidal thoughts throughout adolescence. I self-injured by picking at my ear until it bled – of course I was punished, but photographic evidence is a frequent reminder. I’ve had a great deal of difficulty connecting with people. An African proverb rightly – and unfortunately – states that “The axe forgets, but the tree remembers.”
My healing journey began by adopting Judaism, which George – an atheist – hated and does not consider a religion. I fell in love with its practice after seeing warm family dinners and parents blessing their children on Friday nights. I’m crying now again thinking about how that moves me. I also married a wonderful woman; George has never asked about or mentioned her. I am now immersed in Buddhism, which I began practicing as a young adult. There is no identified deity, but a belief that we are responsible for our own enlightenment and accessing our innate wisdom through awareness and retraining of mental habits. When George invades my dreams now, I can shut him down immediately and successfully.
George – a big Limbaugh and Trump fan, supporter of George Wallace, and admirer of David Duke (the KKK Grand Wizard) – and his toxicity lived until 2021. He actually left me money – gee, thanks Dad.
2024. I moved to Southeast Asia in 2017 and live peacefully and comfortably. Looking at the triggering effects of current event, I contemplate non-attachment, letting go of life itself, facing the great beyond, and absorbing the ultimate sorrow-joy. In the end we face ourselves, the stranger within, and realize that’s who we’ve been longing for all along.