Tags
"dramatic", accident, alcohol, brain damage, cancer, child abuse, death, family, father, fatherhood, feelings, grandfather, Hayley, healing, pain, truth, voice
I use this blog to express myself- usually in some sort of creative attempt- some more successfully than others. However, I don’t typically directly put my stuff out there. This blog is not meant to be a diary or a confessional.
However, this time, I have something I need to say, and I need to say it directly. No BS. No flarf poem. No hiding behind a wannabe pseudoliterary conceit. Just me and the truth.
In Wisconsin in 1940 a 17-year-old kid went for a ride on his motorcycle. He might have had an incredible future in front of him. He might have won the Congressional Medal of Honor for his heroism saving his buddies storming the beach at Normandy. He might have become President of the United States. He might have beaten Detroit pitching for the Chicago Cubs in the 1945 World Series. He might have cured cancer.
He might have been a gentle, kind, loving father and grandfather.
Fate had other plans. That kid crashed his motorcycle. He survived, but without wearing a helmet he suffered a severe frontal head injury. The damage to his left frontal lobe (the part of the brain responsible for higher order cognitive functions including judgment and impulse control), coupled with the alcohol he would soon add to the mix, made for an explosive, violent, unpredictable, uncontrollable combination.
To his son, growing up was a living hell. The kid was physically and emotionally tortured in unimaginable ways. He found little solace and no peace. He found as he got older the only way he could defend himself was to attack- with sarcasm, with insults, with his fists and legs. Feelings were dangerous to that little boy, so he attempted to purge himself of them. Feelings were “dramatic” and were among the worst sins anyone could have. The innocent boy withered under the torture and became a brooding, dark, angry, violent dysthymic narcissist. He could not love and could not accept love. A birthday or Father’s Day prompted a disapproving groan. A crying child deserved horrors I won’t describe here out of concern for those who might be triggered by it.
The little boy who was tortured so badly, who only wanted love and acceptance, became what he hated most.
The kid on the motorcycle was the grandfather I never met (except when I was thrown off his lap as a newborn, as he demanded a beer and to be left alone to watch the Cubs). The little boy was my father.
Several days ago my father was moved to hospice. His 3 pack-a-day habit finally caught up to him, as everyone including himself knew it would.
Several years ago, after he was released from prison, we tried to make a go of re-establishing a relationship, but it was not to be. He never had (or took) the opportunity to do the work to heal from the pain he’d carried all his life. He’d never had (or taken) the opportunity that I had, doing the work to heal from the damage he’d done to me. I had done the hard emotional work I needed to, so I was prepared to give it a try if he’d been capable to meet me halfway. Sadly, he wasn’t. The last time I spoke to him face to face he committed several deal-breakers, the worst being a joke about beating my daughter.
I dealt with the intense anger at his behavior and made peace with never having a father- not what one looks to in a father, anyway. We didn’t speak again for a year, and when he popped back up I simply told him that while I was sorry about it, he simply wasn’t capable of doing what he needed to do to be a father or a grandfather. “Well, if that’s what you choose,” he blithely replied, and that was it.
I do not hope or dream of a deathbed reconciliation. I know there would be no peace to be had showing up at hospice. It would only be the “drama” he hated so much. His death is more peaceful for him (as well as me) as I keep my distance. I am convinced his death will bring him peace that he has never found in life- and for that I am grateful.
I have great compassion and empathy for that little boy he was who had to live with the hell of his father’s brain damage. I mourn that little boy. I mourn the man my grandfather could have been if he didn’t crack up his motorcycle. I mourn the 73 years of intergenerational hell that happened because he did.
In a strange way I can feel the little boy my father once was inside me, inside my DNA, and in that way we are connected (and will continue to be so after his death). I mourn that little boy, the little Anakin Skywalker who would be turned into Darth Vader, but who I cannot turn back.
Rest in peace, Dad.
Radical Totality 
Mark ~ thank you for sharing this with us… i’ve a theory that most in your profession go into it to help solve a few questions… it sounds like you have found many of your answers. Peace to all of you ~ a
Thank you, Angela. I made my peace some time ago, and really now am grateful that my father will find peace soon.
My theory is that most of us in this profession learn to use helping others as a way of avoiding our own issues- a strategy that is ultimately doomed to failure since avoiding the problem solves nothing. Google “Karpman Drama Triangle.” Some of us wise up- but sadly, many these days don’t, since we’ve dropped the old tradition of doing our own emotional work in training.
As I never knew my grandfather, I never knew about his head injury until the last couple of years. It was only then that any of this made any sense to me.
You know, Angela, one thing I really admire about you is the way you write-you express so well what you are thinking and feeling. I want to be able to do this, but frankly, of the three creative disciplines I’ve been exploring (music, art, and writing) writing is clearly the weakest and most difficult for me- and that’s a direct result of my upbringing with my father. You learned if you were going to tell the truth, you damn well better tell it slant or else! Better yet, keep your damn mouth shut.
I’m still working on this. It is so much easier to put weird noises together than to actually say the words.
As always, thanks for the inspiration.
You are always so kind with your comments regarding my writing – thank you. I have been a reader and writer since I was quite young. I think it helped quiet the mind…and escape. I lost the passion to write novels for I didn’t want to worry about what was truth vs fiction – however, poetry plays that game but in a different way. I oft believe that Emily Dickson wrote cryptic not so much to be a minimalist as to be a diarist of her life in poetry form – but you would almost need her ‘key’ to know her true meaning. (I”m certain ModPo does not agree). My point – poetry is sometimes hidden in context, and sometimes just ‘tell it like it is’ because there is no hiding.
As long as you express your voice – it matters no what form. ~ a
I happen to agree with you about Emily Dickinson. I think unless somebody’s working in a Brill Building kind of model, I think most creative work is at it’s root a form of self-expression, which is a form of self-diary. Even John Cage, who tried to take the humanity out of his work, was still saying something about himself and the human condition by doing so.
I do this blog, and the work contained in it, as a means of finding that voice which was taken away from me as a child. It took til I was almost 40 to realize it’d been taken away, and when I did, dammit, I wanted it back!!
It’s a very strange thing being a beginner at 42, but it sure beats silence.
Obviously I don’t “like” this. Brave you.
Now the painting has back story. (Obviously catching up on you out-of order.)
Aha… no need to “do tell.” Thank you 🙂
Even though I’d made my peace some time ago, it was still a powerful thing to just tell it straight, right out in the open. No hiding behind weird noises or flarf poems. It was surprisingly hard to do. A little kid inside me hadn’t yet unlearned that we’re not supposed to tell what happens at home…
You’re exactly right about the back-story- “dramatic” was my father’s label for any feelings, and it wasn’t pretty what happened if you were “dramatic.” Creativity was right out of the question.
In fact, the whole point of this blog is an effort to find my voice that he tried to take away. He didn’t kill it completely.