I can only imagine what it must have been like growing up without a mom, especially when there were seven kids for your dad to raise. Knowing as little as I do about my dad's side of the family makes it impossible for me to even hazard a guess. Grandpa raised Dad as a Jehovah's Witness, a shocking revelation considering that we celebrated every holiday under the sun. It did explain, however, why it was so easy for him to completely lose interest in those same holidays as we kids got older.
He loved animals and little kids only. I eventually realized that those are the only two life forms that will follow in blind obedience, never questioning morals, motives, facts, or other such nuisances. When I refused to stand idly by, when I refused to allow him to terrorize us unchallenged any longer, I was dead to him. Oh well...better to be dead to him than dead by him.
He used to ride his tricycle up and down the sidewalks, going from house to house, stealing the milk money out of the bottles. One day he was still pedaling when he realized he wasn't going anywhere. Grandpa had caught his son in the act and lifted him off of his tricycle by the collar of his shirt. He took him back to every single house he had stolen the money from and made him give it back. Then he took my dad home and threw him against a few walls.
There were other things I would learn over time. Dad hated religious people in general. They were all hypocrites in his eyes. One of his brothers and his wife were very religious, and very judgmental. They clucked their tongues and shook their heads, commenting on how sinful other people were while he puffed on his cigar. The obvious irony of the situation is what disgusted my dad...they were so eager to point fingers at everybody else, completely ignoring the fact that they were just as sinful themselves.
A man in my dad's neighborhood had some puppies he wanted to get rid of. He was going to kill them unless someone took them off his hands. Dad ran all the way home and wasted precious time begging his brother to let him have a puppy. His brother finally gave in. Dad ran all the way back and got there just in time to see the man kill it with an axe. The puppy jerked and twitched. Dad collapsed to the ground and just laid there, crying. It was a long time before he was able to get up again.
He dropped out of school after eighth grade and was given two choices by Grandpa; get a job or go into the service. Dad eventually wound up going into the Army. He served in the Korean War and drove an amphibious vehicle called a 'duck'. While in the service, Dad and some of the other guys got really drunk one night. They drove Dad out into the middle of nowhere and left him for dead. He almost did die that night.
Although there were very few pieces to the puzzle, it was enough to understand how certain things can cause the mind to unravel over time. Despite the fact that it did explain things, it was still no excuse for them. I wasn't about to feel pity for him; but I empathized with him. It didn't sound like he got to be much of a child himself.
It's easy to see why a child can be so torn. How could I still love somebody that hurt me so viciously and so much? Dad went out of his way to abandon me and push me away from him. I so desperately needed him to love me, be proud of me and accept me as his daughter. I needed to feel safe around him, to trust him. I needed to run to him and see the joy on his face as he swooped me up into his arms...
As soon as I heard his car pull into the driveway, I flooded with dread...especially if I was alone. Fear crawled it's icy fingers along my spine. I'd run full out for my bedroom, slam the door shut and frantically lock it as securely as I could. Then I'd curl up in a ball on my bed and keep as still and quiet as if someone had just broken into the house. It totally sucked.
I'm still trying to figure out what in the hell my purpose is supposed to be in life...why in the hell I was forced to endure such horrific things. It would be different if any of my dreams or goals had come true; love, marriage, children, a decent life. I have nothing but my nightmares to keep me company and bitter loneliness to cry myself to sleep with every night. I am fast becoming obsolete. I never dreamed my loveless childhood would become a loveless life. People have told me my whole life that things will get better...the Bastards lied.
Showing posts with label "Domestic Violence" Abuse Fathers Daughters Dads. Show all posts
Showing posts with label "Domestic Violence" Abuse Fathers Daughters Dads. Show all posts
Friday, January 7, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Predator Over Prey...
I love animals. We always had pets in our house; always. Both my brother and I were taught to have respect for animals; to take care of them, look after them and help them in any way that we could. I had a particular fondness for horses, as most little girls do. I don't remember my exact age at the time of this incident, but I was at least twelve. My dad bought some trailer stickers for my closet doors. Big, bright, colorful stickers of horse heads. One was a Palomino, the other, a black horse with a white blaze on it's face. He very carefully centered each one in the middle of a door. They were very pretty, and I loved them. I made it a point to thank him for them.
I was in a hardware store when I came across a rack filled with trailer stickers. There were two that stood out right away: a beautiful red fox and a raccoon that had a bright blue background. I bought them both and took them home. I very carefully applied them to my closet doors so that they were flat and straight, just as my dad had done. When I was finished, I had the fox above one horse head and the raccoon above the other, and it looked very nice. Quite some time passed. My dad had been in and out of my room several times and had seen the new stickers. He even complimented me on a job well done in regards to their spacing and application. He never gave me any indication that he had a problem with what I'd done, and I never dreamed he would have one.
I was busy cleaning my room one day. I had taken all of my knickknacks, lamps, and assorted things off of my dressers to dust and piled everything onto my bed. I had a full-sized, four poster bed. The canopy had been removed; the metal rods kept popping out of the plastic caps that were used to secure them. I was so busy with what I was doing I didn't even notice my dad come into the room. I turned to put something on my bed and there he was, standing with his arms crossed, staring at the decals on my closet doors in silence. The longer he stood there, the more uneasy I became. A small prickle of foreboding began to grow at his demeanor. I went back to what I was doing.
"You shouldn't have done that" he said quietly. I kept working. "You should never put predator over prey." I was hoping he would just drop the subject and go away, but it was not to be. "Did you hear what I said?" he snapped. "You should never put predator over prey." Dumbfounded, I stared at the decals in bewilderment. Never in my young life had I heard of a fox or a raccoon taking down a horse for food. Dad wasn't making any sense to me at all, and it was clear that he was getting angrier by the minute. He was looking at me, waiting for a response. I backed away from him until I was on the other side of my bed and pressed my back against the wall. His eyes grew shades deadlier. I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. Tears stung my eyes. "I don't understand..." I began. He lunged for me. Reaching all the way across the bed, he grabbed me by my long hair.
I was not a skinny girl. I screamed in agony as he dragged me by my hair across all of the stuff I had piled on my bed. I could feel my skin ripping on sharp edges, my hair ripping out of my scalp...I fell off of the bed, slamming to the floor at his feet. He savagely beat me, pounding me with his fists and kicking me, all the while screaming and rambling about predator over prey. "No Daddy!" I cried. "Stop! Please! You're hurting me!" I begged while attempting to protect my face and head from the blows. My brother and my mom fought to pull him off of me. Enraged, he wrenched himself free and came after me again. I recoiled in horror, throwing my hands up in defense.
He was grabbed and wrestled out of my bedroom and down the hallway. It took several minutes for my mom and brother to get him out into the kitchen. He was screaming and yelling, trashing the house, breaking things. I don't remember if he got in the car and left or what. I was still on the floor, curled up in a ball numb with shock, the rush of adrenaline still alleviating my pain. "Daddy" I whispered..."why Daddy"...I gingerly pushed myself onto all fours and attempted to stand, but I was trembling so violently that I had no control of my limbs. After several minutes, I finally managed to get to my feet.
I wanted to lay down on my bed, but it was covered with all of my stuff. I staggered around the room, putting everything back exactly where it belonged until I was finished. I peered into the hallway, making sure the coast was clear before tiptoeing to the bathroom. I did the same before returning to my room. I crawled onto my bed and curled up in misery. The adrenaline had begun to wear off and I was in tremendous pain. My mom came into the room, closed the door, and sat down on the bed next to me.
She wanted to know what I had done to make Dad so angry. "Nothing!" I whined. I proceeded to tell her exactly what had happened. She listened to me in silence, then left. Being a battered woman herself, I knew she wouldn't do anything about it. She never did. It was something she felt we had to endure together as a family. In those days, a man had every right to do with his family as he pleased...even if it meant beating them within an inch of their lives over nothing.
It broke my heart that my own daddy could put his hands on me in such violent and demeaning ways. I will never understand why he hurt me the way he did, but one thing is for certain; I will remember it in sordid detail for the rest of my life. My memory has been relentless and unmercifully detailed. My nightmares begin with veiled threats that explode with brutal clarity into full-blown horrors that I live through again and again. I always believed that love would set me free, but love has been as elusive as peace. I am broken, I am in agony, and I am alone...
I was in a hardware store when I came across a rack filled with trailer stickers. There were two that stood out right away: a beautiful red fox and a raccoon that had a bright blue background. I bought them both and took them home. I very carefully applied them to my closet doors so that they were flat and straight, just as my dad had done. When I was finished, I had the fox above one horse head and the raccoon above the other, and it looked very nice. Quite some time passed. My dad had been in and out of my room several times and had seen the new stickers. He even complimented me on a job well done in regards to their spacing and application. He never gave me any indication that he had a problem with what I'd done, and I never dreamed he would have one.
I was busy cleaning my room one day. I had taken all of my knickknacks, lamps, and assorted things off of my dressers to dust and piled everything onto my bed. I had a full-sized, four poster bed. The canopy had been removed; the metal rods kept popping out of the plastic caps that were used to secure them. I was so busy with what I was doing I didn't even notice my dad come into the room. I turned to put something on my bed and there he was, standing with his arms crossed, staring at the decals on my closet doors in silence. The longer he stood there, the more uneasy I became. A small prickle of foreboding began to grow at his demeanor. I went back to what I was doing.
"You shouldn't have done that" he said quietly. I kept working. "You should never put predator over prey." I was hoping he would just drop the subject and go away, but it was not to be. "Did you hear what I said?" he snapped. "You should never put predator over prey." Dumbfounded, I stared at the decals in bewilderment. Never in my young life had I heard of a fox or a raccoon taking down a horse for food. Dad wasn't making any sense to me at all, and it was clear that he was getting angrier by the minute. He was looking at me, waiting for a response. I backed away from him until I was on the other side of my bed and pressed my back against the wall. His eyes grew shades deadlier. I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. Tears stung my eyes. "I don't understand..." I began. He lunged for me. Reaching all the way across the bed, he grabbed me by my long hair.
I was not a skinny girl. I screamed in agony as he dragged me by my hair across all of the stuff I had piled on my bed. I could feel my skin ripping on sharp edges, my hair ripping out of my scalp...I fell off of the bed, slamming to the floor at his feet. He savagely beat me, pounding me with his fists and kicking me, all the while screaming and rambling about predator over prey. "No Daddy!" I cried. "Stop! Please! You're hurting me!" I begged while attempting to protect my face and head from the blows. My brother and my mom fought to pull him off of me. Enraged, he wrenched himself free and came after me again. I recoiled in horror, throwing my hands up in defense.
He was grabbed and wrestled out of my bedroom and down the hallway. It took several minutes for my mom and brother to get him out into the kitchen. He was screaming and yelling, trashing the house, breaking things. I don't remember if he got in the car and left or what. I was still on the floor, curled up in a ball numb with shock, the rush of adrenaline still alleviating my pain. "Daddy" I whispered..."why Daddy"...I gingerly pushed myself onto all fours and attempted to stand, but I was trembling so violently that I had no control of my limbs. After several minutes, I finally managed to get to my feet.
I wanted to lay down on my bed, but it was covered with all of my stuff. I staggered around the room, putting everything back exactly where it belonged until I was finished. I peered into the hallway, making sure the coast was clear before tiptoeing to the bathroom. I did the same before returning to my room. I crawled onto my bed and curled up in misery. The adrenaline had begun to wear off and I was in tremendous pain. My mom came into the room, closed the door, and sat down on the bed next to me.
She wanted to know what I had done to make Dad so angry. "Nothing!" I whined. I proceeded to tell her exactly what had happened. She listened to me in silence, then left. Being a battered woman herself, I knew she wouldn't do anything about it. She never did. It was something she felt we had to endure together as a family. In those days, a man had every right to do with his family as he pleased...even if it meant beating them within an inch of their lives over nothing.
It broke my heart that my own daddy could put his hands on me in such violent and demeaning ways. I will never understand why he hurt me the way he did, but one thing is for certain; I will remember it in sordid detail for the rest of my life. My memory has been relentless and unmercifully detailed. My nightmares begin with veiled threats that explode with brutal clarity into full-blown horrors that I live through again and again. I always believed that love would set me free, but love has been as elusive as peace. I am broken, I am in agony, and I am alone...
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