my father

 This is going to be a long, emotional, and familiar journal entry I've typed/written some variation of since grade school. Why am I doing this? Partly to vent, perhaps seeking answers, and if it helps someone else in the process, all the better. 

My father, for lack of a better term, is a pussy. This was not at all apparent to me growing up, since he was frequently absent, and when around, a complete terror. One of my earliest memories is of him screaming in my face, a TODDLER, for some mistake I made in the bathroom. I was scared, confused, and traumatized to say the least. Some things might have happened before that, but I've no recollection, and I spent the first two years of my life living with my grandparents.

Many nights of slammed doors, children crying, and police visits. Worst of all, after he had done his "work", he'd go on hour long tirades about how it was so unfair how he was treated and viewed as some monster. It was like insult to injury, and I did NOT want to hear it. My own brothers reacted in different ways: one would act out, and often got the worst of punishments physically, while the other made himself scarce (for that, he was once called a "faggot" by my father). I would journal, draw pictures, and listen to music. 

Yes, he ruled by fear, and for many years, I held it against my mother for moving in with him in the first place. Later I would realize that she was somewhat of a moocher and only stayed because of the "benefits", as he was a workaholic and thrifty. You wouldn't be wrong for assuming he thought I were some mistake, judging by how he treated me, as well as my siblings. The looks of disgust, contempt, which were made all the more worse by my close relationship with my mother, were enough to make anyone feel defective.

He had a drinking problem, as well as anger issues and God knows what else, due to his strict mother and group of sisters who would bully him. Again, this didn't become apparent until later on, since he would hide himself with stories of "standing down" some stranger at the store, or coworker. He loved to brag about these sort of things, like getting the last word in, or shutting someone up with a quick comeback. Often they were women.

Blaming others, finding the worst in things, demanding recognition: these are just some of the things that repulsed me, while on the other side of the coin, his bullying made me hate him early on. He didn't just rage: he held onto grudges, and knew where to hurt someone. Once, after an emotional argument, I stayed in the car too upset to come out. He brought a neighborhood girl I had a crush on and her friends to see me. Another time, he recorded my brother throwing a tantrum and showed it off to his coworkers to get a laugh out of. He legitimately enjoyed seeing us in distress, making jokes, laughing, becoming "offended" when we'd bring it up. Sometimes he would make light and tell us stories of families where children were hospitalized by their parents, and how "lucky" we were to have him, instead.

Behind our mothers back, he would call her a "pig" and other fine names. I didn't understand: she never used this language against him. We were "slobs", "spoiled", "like our mother" (who he frequently said "brainwashed" us). So many times I've wanted to hit him in the face (he even once dared me, which I regret not taking to this day). At its worst, I even thought I'd end up in prison for some crime against him, so naturally I put no thought into my future. Such was the rage and helplessness I felt at home.

At the same time, my mother was overprotective, and didn't teach me the life lessons needed to become an independent adult. A little after twenty, I considered joining the Navy, but once at the recruitment office, I can't remember if I called her or she called me, an emotional, tear filled plea kept me from ever considering it again. At times I wonder what could have been, had I taken the leap, anyway. 

For some years, I had faith he could/would change, wasn't a bad person, and even made weak attempts to live up to his expectations and pacify him. If it were simply an anger issue, I thought, we could work around it. That changed one day when, during a stay at my grandparent's house, I found a souvenir he brought from Mexico. Not knowing it was his, and being naturally curious, I inspected it. Well, he found out and would not talk to me for WEEKS. It felt like an eternity, and I was left feeling confused, hurt, powerless. That's when it clicked for me that he was capable of consciously harming someone, and without the influence of alcohol or anger.

Its been years since he's gotten physical, raised his voice, or gotten too close, which is a shame, since times like right now I would love to cave his head in. No, instead, he'll give the silent treatment, gossip behind behind one's back, and pretend all is otherwise well. Right now, a half-sister of mine hasn't spoken to him in over a year, and while I have no information on what happened, can be sure he had some part in instigating it.

Sometimes I wonder why I didn't run away? Why do I keep myself in these situations? Its obviously not good for me. For God's sake, many people my age already have children, a career, place of their own. I'm doped up and in therapy, when its HIM who should have been "fixed" first, before starting a family. Thanks to him, I know what I don't want in life. A partner, I can deal with, but wouldn't want to pass on any of my trauma to another generation.