I realize that I have a very reactionary personality, always on the defensive. Some might argue that this is a losing position to take, one that will eventually lead to my downfall. But I do not see it that way—I do not lose. My best writing often comes as a response to something external. The passion that fuels those moments seems to slip away when I am calm and clear-headed. It is not that my mind becomes distorted when I am fiercely focused on a cause; rather, in those moments, I have a single purpose: to address whatever has stirred me up. I am not held back by the need for perfection, only driven by the urgent need to release what is inside and move forward. When I write like that, people tend to connect deeply with my words, and I am less burdened by the flaws that I would normally obsess over.
I have about six or seven pieces on various topics sitting unfinished on my hard drive. They are in different states of disrepair, yet each one is deeply personal. In a way, these pieces help me function, allowing me to cope each day in my own quiet, anti-social way by getting my thoughts out. The truth is that most of them will probably never be read by anyone else. They have lingered too long, held hostage by the pressure I place on myself to make them perfect. They never quite meet the high standards I have set, and so in my mind, they are not worthy of being shared with another living, literate soul. I share this because I want to say that although I may not express myself in the way some expect, I am still expressing myself in the only way I can. With every tap of the keys, I move a little closer to my own salvation and mental stability. Whether my words reach the public eye or remain private, the act itself is what matters.
That long string of sentences above is meant to lead into what follows. Today, while indulging my habit of being a curious, voyeuristic blog reader, I came across a post that sparked a flood of thoughts, which then poured out in words. The post was about the author’s abusive father, and it made me reflect on my own father, something I find myself doing more often these days. I called a friend a few nights ago to talk about it, but she was caught up in her own busy world and could not offer the support I needed. Below, I have included a link to the original post by this woman, and beneath that, what I wrote in response. Halfway through writing, what was supposed to be a brief comment of sympathy transformed into a four-paragraph vent that revealed far more about me and my struggles than it did about her story. So, I figured I might as well share it here with the few of you who actually read this and care to know a little more about me.
HER BLOG POST
http://dimendaruff.blogspot.com/2007/09/my-journeyits-time.html
MY RESPONSE:
I don’t want to come across as negative, but sometimes you have to face the way the cookie crumbles. Plain and simple—FUCK FORGIVENESS! I do not believe in it. They did what they did and it is their weight to carry. I believe in acknowledging the pain and moving forward, with or without the person, depending on the gravity of what they put you through by your own standards of suffering, not anyone else’s. When I was a kid, I went to a psychologist who, like others since, tried to minimize my pain by comparing it to some arbitrary scale. They did not know me. I have no idea what your father did to you, but with my heart, I do not believe you would call him “The Devil” if he had not earned that name every damn day. Sure, he might be getting help with his addiction, but you should never have to be a part of his redemption just so he can feel better about himself. There is an old scientific idea I live by—every action triggers a reaction of equal or greater force. So for every hurt you caused me, my reaction is never forgiving you.
I cannot say I had a horrible father. By most people’s standards, he was a good dad. But by mine, he failed at what mattered most. He did not step up as a father or as a husband to my mother. Because of that, I made up my mind never to speak to him again. When I was in eighth grade, he died, and I chose not to attend his funeral. I thought it would be hypocritical to show up and mourn a man I had already cast off, especially in front of those who genuinely grieved him. Everyone said it was the worst choice I could make and that I would regret it for the rest of my life. He did what he did. I made my decision and stood by it. To be honest, after all these years, I am curious about that funeral not with regret, but with the voyeur in me wanting to know how people reacted. Who loved him? Who showed up and who stayed away? How would my siblings act in the presence of the man who abandoned them while surrounded by family who expected them to treat him like a king? How many would be crying, screaming, or trying to jump into the hole dug for his casket? If you could not tell, my family is wildly dramatic when it comes to death. The first time I attended a white person’s funeral, it freaked me out how quiet and subdued everyone was.
As I have gotten older, I have noticed myself adopting many of my father’s mannerisms and quirks. This started a couple of years after he passed and only became clear when other family members pointed it out to me—his laugh, the way I cross my legs knee over knee even though it should not be possible with the thickness of my thighs, how I hold a glass. And yes, some of the bad habits as well. This has made me paranoid about the kind of man I am or will become. Is it nature or nurture? That question always lingers in the back of my mind. Who knows what our relationship might have been if he had lived longer? Would my curiosity have driven me to seek him out to study our similarities? Would my disgust for his behavior have shifted into pride as I became more like him in a society that glorifies the traits I once saw as flaws? Would his openness about his bank account have made him more appealing as a father figure to my ambitious and expensive tastes? All I have to go on is what was. From that, I can say I made a choice and I live with it every damn day.
P.S. My brother and sister secretly still hate me for not attending the funeral, even though they had far worse experiences with him than I ever did. I don’t really get it. We do not talk about it, so it just sits there, taking up space in a room we are never in together.
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