part 31

One of the things that has really consistently motivated me to learn how to live life and to quit doing things that are harmful to myself and others is the realization that my dad can’t hurt me anymore, so why should I continue the job for him?

It was never really difficult for me to connect my self-destructive tendencies to my relationship with my dad. Over time, I have learned more and more about the specifics of the effects of his abuse, and about the abuse itself, and about what kind of person my dad is, and about what kind of person I am.

But I always knew he was behind it all. I always knew he was the source of my self-hatred. I always knew he laid the foundation for the pain in my life. I did not realize, though, that hating myself and harming myself and harming those I love were ways for me to allow him to keep that pain in my life.

Self-loathing has been a fantastic way to rationalize doing really fucked up shit to my own body and mind. It has been one of the most difficult things to overcome, and it takes constant and steady work to maintain my edge over it.

The reasons behind my history of hating myself have been easy to figure out, too. Why wouldn’t I hate myself? I was taught that I was bad, and crazy, and only useful in life as a tool to assist in the methods of satisfying the very sick desires of very sick people.

I can’t change what happened to me. I can’t make my dad be someone who would never do anything to hurt me. But I can change what all of that means for me.

Initially approaching the recollections of horror was incredibly overwhelming. I could not see beyond my past. I could not see how I was supposed to be a productive member of society and a good mom and a good person and anything other than a disaster. How could I be anything other than a disaster? What else could I be with all of the knowledge of what had happened seeping into my conscious mind at disturbingly consistent and persistent intervals?

What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? How does anyone survive shit like this? The only other people I know of that have endured such things have been accused and convicted of atrocious crimes. My history is cut from the same cloth as the histories of serial killers, of child rapists, of sadistic maniacs, of pure and simple evil.

What do I build on that kind of past?

It’s an extremely daunting question, to say the least. But my life and my mind have been equipped with certain things that make it possible to not follow in my dad’s footsteps. I have been surrounded by people who love me and want good things for me, and once I was able to see that and accept that, I knew that my dad was not going to win.

I began to view my inability to take care of myself or to nurture myself as a residual effect of what my dad did to me. Not only was I never afforded the opportunities to learn how to nurture myself or take care of myself, I was specifically forced into situations that taught me the extreme opposite.

I am scared that people will think that I am trying to make excuses for the bad things I have done. The mocking tone of “oh, it’s her parents’ fault” taunts me. The disdain that comes with the idea that a bad childhood can atone for all bad deeds follows me around in a black, creeping cloud.

A few months ago I went to a funeral for someone I had met when we were little kids. We did not ever become close, but I knew who she was and she knew who I was and we had that connection of knowing each other when we were little kids. We lived in the same area and went to the same schools and had a lot of the same friends.

She drowned after passing out in her bathtub. I was deeply affected. I had not seen or spoken to this girl in over fifteen years. Even when I did see and speak to her on a regular basis, which was years ago, I would not have described our relationship as one of friendship. For some reason there was a distinct wall between us that I had installed during that period of time between when I first met her as a little kid and when we were in the same circles as teenagers.

I don’t know what that was about, and I don’t see how it is even relevant now. She is dead. Her life continued on where at some point mine deviated from that path of certain doom. Somehow I am still here, and I am surrounded by love and support, and I can look in the mirror and like what I see behind my own eyes.

But she is not.

At her funeral, her father stood and described what it was like when he first learned something terrible had befallen his daughter. Then he explained that she did drugs, she had done them for years, and this is what happens when you do drugs for years.

He was very angry with her. Disdain dripped out of every word he shoved from his mouth as he spoke of his beautiful, dead daughter. It was his tribute to her.

I almost threw up. I walked out. The entire service was strange and uncomfortable for me, but I tried to focus on the fact that it was not about me – it was about this life that was full of pain and had now ended.

But after her dad said that stuff, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I walked out. I felt walking out was a good alternative to hanging around until after the funeral and seeing her mom for the first time in probably 25 years and telling her how sorry I was that she lost her daughter when I really believed that her daughter was probably now much better off.

I also felt walking out was a good alternative to finding her dad and telling him that his daughter was not born with the desire to hurt herself or other people. She was at one time innocent and had hope for the future, and that it would have been really nice to hear from at least one person – at her FUNERAL - about that innocence and hope.

It could have so easily been me.

But it wasn’t. It isn’t. I hope it never will be.

When I finally made that connection between my dad harming me and me harming myself, I felt a distinct surge of indignation toward him. I knew that what he did to me was wrong. I was hearing other people agree that it was wrong, and that he was horrendous, and that I deserve to be loved and to love.

And I was beginning to believe that myself, too. And because of that, and because of my anger and pain at what my dad had taken from me, I decided that continuing to live a life of self-destruction was only helping him keep his sickness and abuse and evil alive in my soul.

And I don’t have to do that. I don’t want to do that. I don’t have to allow my past to dictate what I do now, or what I do in the future. I didn’t have a choice about what my dad did to me then, but I definitely have a choice about how I am going to live every day now.

He took so, so much from me, and I became determined to cease continuing what he started. My best revenge would entail being a healthy, loving, successful, happy, fulfilled human being. I can easily imagine that he would expect me to fizzle out and die, fat and drunk and unlovable and unable to love.

But I am not going to do that. My dad will not be able to stand up at my funeral and tell everyone there that I got what I deserved. That is of course considering he would even make any effort to be at my funeral, and then considering that he could get past the large number of people who would like to hurt him because of what he did to me. And then, even if I was dead and unable to defend myself, I truly believe there would be more than one person there willing to take him out and beat the shit out of him before allowing him to speak of me that way at my funeral.

And that would not be the case if I had not told anyone what happened to me. It would not be the case if I had not worked so hard to learn to love myself and let other people love me. It would not be the case if I had continued down my road of self-destruction and died after passing out in my bathtub.

My writing today has been difficult, and I feel like it is a bit disjointed. To be perfectly honest, I have been having a really rough week coming to terms with some of the things I have experienced in the past. Thinking of my life in the way I have just described in this post is how I will make it to next week.

Of course, that ability to love and to be loved also helps tremendously.