Wild Turkeys
I might as well write about my father as long as I’m on a roll of reliving my childhood and triggering myself with unhappy memories. I wish I could write about something positive and uplifting, but I might might have to wade through a lifetime of negativity before I can reach those parts of me. I think once I work my way backwards through an awkward life I might do a better job at being able to move forward.
I remember my father as an alcoholic who passed out on the couch in front of the TV and did little more than make people misrable. I don’t even understand myself why the man filled me with such angst and hatred. He didn’t yell or beat us, but being in his presence made us all feel unworthy and devalued. He was narcissistic and controlling, and he used his authority as a father to manipulate us and not love us. The toxicity he created made me fear leaving my room to even go to the restroom or visit the fridge. My mother used to sit outside in her car and drive in circles just waiting for him to fall asleep so she could come home. He was angry and bitter, and we were constantly being punished for every perceived slight. We weren’t deserving of love and support or privacy; we needed to be taught a lesson.
To add to the disorders running through my family tree, he also had an obsessive compulsive hoarding disorder. He visited garage sales frequently and collected garbage like it was treasure. Junk filled every room of the house and the school kids used to refer to us as Sanford and Son. There were heaps of boxes from floor to ceiling full of old jars and pots and pans and discarded shoes. Entire rooms and garages were dedicated to junk, and it lined the hallways and tables from the floor to the ceiling. My mother used to smuggle out boxes to the trash in revenge, but my father was so obsessed with it all he’d notice if it had been touched. It spilled out into his truck and the yard. We were embarrassed, and the neighbors complained. I would not dare invite people over to my house. My father loved his porn and his horde more than his family, and I often feel that we were just a nuisance keeping him from his true interests: Junk, porn, and prostitutes.
He eventually died from heart complications at a very young age, but we all know he drank himself to death. He managed to do it on my birthday of all days, and if I thought about it I wouldn’t doubt he did it on purpose; but I don’t think about it. Another bizarre reaction from me, but I didn’t cry. His passing was a giant weight lifted off my shoulders and a big relief. Afterwards I was haunted by dreams that he was still alive and bothering me, and I’d awake full of anxiety and very thankful that it was just a dream and I didn’t have to deal with it anymore. I wonder if that makes me cold and heartless?
Filed Under Abuse, Childhood, Psychology | 8 Comments
A day in the life
My brother had issues all his own. I witnessed many an angry outburst. He was kicked out numerous times after the age of sixteen, but he’d eventually be allowed back in to stay. My brother dabbled with marijuana, alcohol, and eventually started smoking crack. If my family left the house there was a good chance one of my fathers guns or VCR’s would find its way into a pawn shop.
Despite my brothers bad behavior, which he is solely responsible for, I couldn’t help but notice my parents behavior went beyond normal discipline. My mother would go off on one of her rages and nag and my brother would yell back until he eventually lost all control. The yelling and screaming between my mother and brother would often erupt in violence. My brother would come storming out of his room and start flinging his body against the wall or fall down on the floor. He’d start punching holes in the wall, breaking pictures and vases, and would hurl anything that wasn’t tied down across the room. He’d leave after the cops were called, only to return in the middle of the night to steal something for a drug binge or worse. There was a time he gathered up a friend and came back to hurl bricks and rocks through all the windows. He’d often spend some time in jail until my parents would drop the charges.
The defining moment was the morning my brother and mother fought over the cat. It resulted in my brother threatening my mother and eventually trying to choke my father. My father got a loaded pistol and told my brother he needed to leave, but that ended with my brother taking a bullet in the gut. My mother grabbed me by the arm and dragged me down the street while my father called an ambulance. My brother survived without much damage, but I’m not so sure I did.
Despite the serious dysfunction in my childhood home, I’m starting to notice something odd about my own behavior while witnessing it all. It was just another day in the family, and I didn’t seemed phased by it. My goal that morning was to get my clothes washed and dried before I had to go to school. I wasn’t struck with fear. I wasn’t in a panic. I didn’t cry. I was just going about my life, carrying loads of laundry from my room and weaving in and out past a bunch of angry people while ducking flying phones and lamps. I just thought I was tough kid, but somebody mentioned to me that its a very strange reaction that I ought to examine the events closer. I had gained an interesting story to tell, and most of all I had an excuse not to go to school that day.
Some relatives told me to be strong for my father because he needed me to be and needed my support. I don’t remember anyone being all that concerned about me. My school counselor called me into his office to mention it, but we didn’t talk much about it. I told him I was used to it, and didn’t really care all that much. I didn’t. Everybody seemed to think I had no bad feelings about it and sent me on my way, but I think it was the lack of emotions I expressed that may have been a significant indicator that something about me wasn’t right. I was woudned, and my disorders were hard at work protecting me from the chaos and trying to let me lead a stress free happy life. They served me well, or so I thought. I didn’t realize how disconnected and withdrawn I had always been. I didn’t know how alone I was through it all. I didn’t know there was anything different about me at all.
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My mother’s rage
The following posts contains memories of verbal and emotional abuse. If you are triggered by reading about abuse, you might not want to continue on.
The roots of my disorders most likely come from my childhood, which might explain why I rarely think about it. My earliest memories seem to revolve around an intense need to be alone because it was the only time I felt safe. It was a time to dream and play, and I’d gather up my stuffed animals and enact strange scenarios for a child. There’d be a forest fire and I’d sacrifice my life to save them all. After all, people have to love and recognize you after you’re dead. Thats the lesson my childhood taught me.
My time alone would be interrupted often. It might be a distant sound of a neighbor’s car pulling into the driveway, or a slamming car door, or the sound of keys jingling and unlocking the front door. Make believe was over and it was time to deal with fear. I’d jolt from my room to the front window blinds and peek out to assess the situation. If I was lucky it was a neighbor or my brother or father coming home. I could continue to dream. My day was spent playing and checking the blinds after every sound, of which there were many. But eventually, every single day, I’d look out that window and see what I dreaded most. I’d see my mothers car parked outside.
I’d hide in the bathroom and lock the door, or I’d run to my room and pretend I was asleep. I’d do anything to delay the inevitable rage of my mother, but day after day I learned that eventually I would piss my mother off. I might have told a lie, or I might have made a mess with my toys. I’d even get in trouble for things she did herself. As an adult looking back, I think I can see that it didn’t matter what I did. There was no escape.
My mother would yell at me for hours on end every day. I remember her face would turn bright red and contort in anger and spit would fly out of her mouth as she leaned in and screamed in my face. She’d slam the cabinets and she’d slam the doors. She flung my toys around the room and at me. Eventually she’d calm down and go to her room. She might get on the phone, or she might go to sleep. Often though, she would come storming out five minutes later and do it all over again. I don’t even remember what it was she yelled about, or why. I just remember it made me wonder why nobody loved or cared about me. I remember going to bed every night in tears.
It usually ended when another family member came home, though she sometimes stopped on her own. She’d call me into her room and maybe apologize for yelling so much. She’d hug me and tell me she loved me, and explain to me why something I did caused her to act the way she did. Even as a child I recognized the fallacy in her logic. She was going to get angry and yell at me even if I followed the instructions that she laid out.
I imagine that like everybody else I thought it was a normal way of life. I didn’t know I was abused, but looking back on it with adult eyes I can now see the verbal and emotional abuse. My mother was out of control and there was something very disturbing about her behavior. Growing up to bigger and louder than her was the only thing to put an end to it. They say a temper runs through my family line, but I don’t buy it. As far as abuse goes, it ends with me.
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Isolation
My heart dreams of being far from society. I dream about being far away from stress, worries, responsibilities, bills, landlords, and neighbors. I’d trade my last dime, my computer, and even my Playstation 3 to be far away from this rat race that everyone else participates in. There is little I’d miss about society, and thats an extreme understatement. I suppose this attests to a narcissistic nature about me, but I’d have no reservations about leaving life or family behind. Its always been my desire to escape it all. I don’t see starving to death in a freezing cabin out the woods any less desirable to the world I live in now.
Subconsciously, I think it goes even deeper. It’s most likely my emotions that I seek to escape. I resent the world around me for constantly putting me in a position where I have to face those feelings, when what I desire is to feel nothing at all. Emotions feel like death, which is why my mind has mastered the art of rarely feeling anything at all. If I’m a schizoid, then that is the sole purpose of my disorder. Most of all its myself that I wish to escape, but as the saying goes; Wherever you go, there you are.
So is healing possible? How do you overcome something when your entire character has been designed to prevent it? Everything required to get better is everything I seek strongly to avoid. All I have is the insight to recognize the damage and a desire to not be outsmarted by my own mind. Other than that, I’m basically fighting a battle to gain something I don’t really want at all. What I want is to just fade away. What I don’t want it to open up and let people in. I don’t even know what is that keeps me going, but I’m glad its there nonetheless.
So am I on the path of healing, or trapped in a swamp of self pity? I can never tell the difference.
Filed Under Depression, Schizoid | 5 Comments