Thursday, 16 April 2009

• Currently The Book of Lost Tales 1(The History of Middle-Earth, Vol. 1) By J.R.R. Tolkien see related

  What Have You Done to Your Child?!

  I was three surrounded by parents’ peach-hued bedroom walls, starring at a glass penny jar on the headboard of my parent’s bed.  My father was preparing for Germany.
  
  He slipped on Navy fatigues, revealing a large burn mark from his motorcycle accident on his right hip.  “You’re just like Bradley,” he said, leaving the room.
  
  This wasn’t the first time he said it; though it is my first distinct memory of the phrase coupled with a setting. 
  
  But let me tell you about Bradley.  In the early days, my half-brother rarely kept a job longer than a week.  Something happened, stirring anger.  He’d curse his boss, even attacked a couple of them, landing him in jail.  He also spent time for child support, several children with different women.  Then there were the suicide attempts.
  
  So why did he say this?  I don’t know.  I don’t really worry about it, though he decided the moment he saw me in the delivery room that I would be.
  
  These slanders were common and increased when he was honorably discharged.  I was five then.
  
  At six, “you’re not even saved” and “your mom saved you” were added to the verbal repertoire.
  
  The revolution in my life began at eight; I began to question.  When I questioned, I reasoned, and I soon discovered what he expected; I was supposed to think and act exactly as he did, a carbon copy.   Of him?  He made sixty-five grand a year, spent lavishly on himself and much more than he didn’t have.  We didn’t even know where much of it went.  Meanwhile, I was wearing his hand-me-downs that didn’t fit.  He treated my mom like trash as well.  My innocent reasonings were defeating his.  Soon the arguments erupted, leading me at the age of nine to challenge in return.  “Do you want me to spank you?”  I don’t have to tell you where that went; it was somewhere I didn’t want to be.
  
  Insults were added then too.  “You don’t have any common sense.”  “You’re stupid!”  “You’re worthless!”  Nice day:  “You don’t have the brain God gave a rock.”  The rest:  “ . . . box of rocks.”  (How creative.)  “I’m the god of this house.  If I tell you to kiss my feet and worship me, you better kiss my feet and worship me.”  “When I die, you can piss on my grave.”
  
  Kind words almost never happened.  Until one day when I went to work with him; he paraded me.  One lady, Glenda--“the good witch,” she called herself--stopped me, said he told her all about me, he was so proud; it made me happy.  You see, I tried--till nine--to please.  It never happened, and I eventually gave up, but it wasn’t till years later that I understood the significance of this little event.
  
  When I was eleven I devised my own manifesto, vowing I’d never be like him, that I’d treat my wife and children with love and respect, and be the best father and husband any man could be.
  
  Then there were the few well-intentioned and kind but silly people who told me that, when I grew older, I’d realize he was right.  It was just a cop-out of course, even if they didn‘t know it; in the end I was proven correct.  But what was I supposed to think then?  That I was stupid, that I was supposed to worship him?
  
  Meanwhile, I was tiring of arguments.  I did everything I could to avoid them with him, resulting in false diplomacy.  First there was “what do you think about this?” At first I fell for it before soon learning it was another way he was starting arguments.  I refused answer, he threatened to beat me.  I gave in, he gave his opinion.  I wouldn’t argue, he threatened to beat me.  When I, as always, demolished his arguments, he threatened to beat me, or he‘d point his finger at me in rage.  “SHUT.  UP.”
  
  I’d stay in my room every spare hour, hiding in books.  At twelve I was grounded from them, my next to last escape--and my great love--taken, leaving only my own imagination.  If I were caught, they’d have all been burned and I knew it.  He forgot good promises much more often than he remembered, but never forgot punishment.  I didn’t read novels for four years.  Every day he’d say, “You’ve been reading your books, haven’t you?” when I hadn’t touched them.  He must’ve known it was true because he wouldn’t ask again till the next day.
  
  I could tell you everything; there are worse stories to tell from my life, and it would fill a sizable book.
  
  But I eventually caught him with another woman.  He told my mother that since they married, he hadn’t been with anyone else besides this once.  It’s a lie of course.  It had been going on for months.  And he’d been sleeping with the maid when he had his motorcycle accident.  I can’t believe they’re the only ones, either.  He was always confident with women.  Glenda was just one example.
  
  I didn’t consciously notice this when I was young, but I think my subconscious mind knew.  When I denounced all of him, I didn’t know I was denouncing confidence.  In fact nearly every single male I’ve ever known confident with females was a womanizer or jerk, those few others counted on a single hand.  It’s easy to automatically assume all confident guys are players and jerks.
  
  But there wasn’t so much a lack of confidence toward him.  One argument ended with him breaking a mirror I shoved in his face.  “Look in the mirror!  That’s the one causing the problems in this house!  Look at it!”
  
  I fought a lack of confidence.  And while at time it does creep up on me occasionally, I know I’ll always beat it and it will soon be gone entirely.  But none of you have any idea what that means, how far I’ve come, so I’ll tell one last little story and conclude.
  
  A few short years ago this girl used to come in where I worked.  It means nothing to me now.  I know now that she wasn’t my soul mate.  She was definitely eye candy, and apparently that’s what she thought of me, because she was always looking back far too often, but as far as it matters, that’s all she was.  One day an associate tried helping me out.  “I don’t know anything about movies, but he does,” he told her. 
  
  And she said “hi,” and my name.  She said my name!  “Hi,” I replied, gulped, turned around and quickly walked in the opposite direction.  Pathetic, I know.  I think of it now and it just seems funny to me really, sad that I was so bashful, but funny and I’m relieved that I’ve improved so much so quickly.
  
  I’m a different person now.  A friend of mine that I hadn’t seen for a couple years even noticed the difference, noticed how much more confident I am than I used to be.
  
  The moral of this post is, you never know how you’ll scar your child with mistreatment.  I know there are others who’ve had it much worse, children that grew up physically or even sexually abused on a regular basis, but just think twice about the words you’ll use before you raise your voice.  They might not turn out like me.  And never fear to apologize; none of us are perfect.  You children will understand and appreciate it. 
  
  It wasn’t exactly uncommon for me to seriously ponder thoughts of suicide.  The only thing keeping me from it was God’s reminders of what he chose me for, my imagination, the novels I’d write.  I’ve no question I’ll win because I almost have; there’s no guarantee that others’ll be as fortunate.
  
  Don’t want you to think of me as lucky.  I came to understand and that‘s all that‘s necessary for anyone else.  I became aware; it may not be easy, but there’s always hope.  We just have to decide to be aware, decide to release these former events, because they aren’t us.  Awareness is the key to overcoming.  If you know anyone that is discouraged, encourage them.  If anyone can beat persecution they can, because it’s been done before.
  

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