By Bob Chrisman
Father & Son, circa 1958, St. Joseph, Missouri,
photo © 2009, Bob Chrisman. All rights reserved.
On May 3, 1952 I arrived to take part in the family drama. My parents celebrated their twelfth wedding anniversary the week after I was born. Dad had turned 38 in February. My sister would turn ten in September, followed by Mom’s 37th birthday the end of November.
As a child I adored my father, but around the age of five I didn’t want him to touch me. I would scream if he came close. He loved to come home from work and rub his unshaven face against my cheeks until they turned red. I hated that. I hated him.
My father exploded at odd times. Seemingly benign topics of conversation would cause him to yell and pound the table. Although never physically violent, his fits scared me and made conversation with him unpredictably frightening.
Not a particularly outgoing man, he withdrew more from social interactions. At family gatherings he would collect all the reading material in the house, find a comfortable chair, and read and sleep the afternoon away.
My sister left for college when I was nine. My father grew even more distant. His only ally had left the house.
The first craziness that I remember occurred one Sunday afternoon. My sister had come home. My grandmother had come to town from the farm. Our car pulled up in front of the house and I went to the door.
My mother was yelling. My father, half in and half out of the car, shouted at someone. I looked to see who they were screaming at and realized they were arguing. I had never seen them argue like that. “Sis, come here. You gotta see this.”
From behind me I heard, “What the hell?” She nudged me. “Shut the door. We don’t want them to know we saw.” I closed the door.
Five minutes later, Mom walked into the house and threw her purse on the bed. When she noticed us staring at her, she sighed, “Len will join us later. He has something to do right now.”
Twenty minutes passed before he returned home and sat down at the table. No one said a word about what had happened between them.
Years later my mother said, “Your father got scared when you started to first grade. He knew someone wanted to kidnap you kids. They planned to snatch you at the Frosty Treat.” The Frosty Treat was a popular, after-school, ice cream shop. Without any explanation our parents had forbidden us from joining our friends there. I didn’t think much about it. By the time I started school, I had grown used to these commands. The new order was, “Come home directly from school.” I obeyed.
My mother told me that Dad has accused her of moving the pillows on their bed to make him crazy. “We only had two pillows. I never understood what I had done.” Although these episodes continued through my childhood, she never talked about them.
When I asked about the argument on that Sunday afternoon, my mother swore me to silence. “Your dad said an angel descended into the church and stood next to him during the service. It communicated telepathically and told him to watch himself. The man next to him had been sent to see if he played with himself during church. I told him he was crazy. That’s when he yelled at me.”
“Mom, that’s nuts. Did you think of going for help?”
“To whom? God? I prayed for your dad night and day.”
“How about a psychiatrist or psychologist?”
“We took care of our own problems.”
My Father, circa 1968, St. Joseph, Missouri, photo © 2009, Bob Chrisman. All rights reserved.
Physical problems plagued Dad during the late 1960’s. The grain dust at work irritated his one good lung and caused severe asthma attacks. I can close my eyes and hear the gasping sound as he struggled to breathe. I can see him sitting at the kitchen table, his mouth wide open and his neck muscles strained, as he inhaled.
My mother walked twelve blocks in the dark to the pharmacy to buy the “breathing medicine.” She never asked me, her teenage son, to go. As soon as she left, I crawled under my bed and hid. I didn’t want to hear any calls for help. I’d fail him. I always did.
He underwent hernia surgery in December 1968 and a re-do in January 1969. He stayed off work until March. Two weeks after he returned to work he suffered his stroke.
Chaos erupted. My mother stopped being a mother and became a devoted wife. I resented his stroke because it hadn’t killed him and because it took my mother away.
Somewhere in the years that followed, he gave up. Not that I blame him. His life beat him down. The stroke and residuals destroyed what little will he had left.
It ended any chance I had to talk with him about what happened between us, to ask him questions, to make my accusations, to hear his side of the story. Even if he hadn’t lost his mind, I couldn’t have talked to him, so great was my hatred. On May 2, 1984, he died of old age. A birthday “present” I can never forget.
I’ve always felt incomplete as a man because he didn’t teach me the secrets that fathers pass to their sons. Even now, after decades of searching for that knowledge, which I doubt exists, I still feel inadequate.
Recently a psychic said, “Your father asks you to forgive him for what he did to you.”
Without hesitation I replied, “I have forgiven him. He needs to forgive himself.”
I joined forces with my mother. I disliked the failure I thought he was. I sometimes treated him with no dignity because I thought he deserved my contempt. Perhaps most importantly, I hated him because he didn’t love me enough. But then, I never gave him a chance. Like my father, I must forgive myself for all the things I did and didn’t do in my relationship with him. Only then can I truly bear witness for my father.
About Bob: Bob Chrisman is a Kansas City, Missouri writer who frequently writes memoir about his mother, her three sisters, and their influence on his life. My Life With Dad is Part III in his exploration of a trilogy series about his father. Part I, My Father’s Witness, was published on red Ravine in August, followed in September by Part II, Bearing Witness.
Bob’s other red Ravine posts include Aunt Annie’s Scalloped Oysters, Growing Older, Goat Ranch, Stephenie Bit Me, Too, and The Law Of Threes. He has also published two pieces about the life and death of his mother — Hands and In Memoriam.
redravine.wordpress.com 
I thought about this post last night as I tried to go to sleep. I wondered if I should explain the forgiveness part more. Now’s my chance. I can’t truly see my father until I forgive myself for what I did and did not do during our relationship. That lack of forgiveness keeps me from seeing the “truth” of what occurred between us.
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Bob — what would that forgiveness look like? What did or what did you not do during your relationship with him?
Here I was ready to comment on your searing post, but read your comment. My gut tells me that you are being too hard on yourself.
Your father scared me. I’m sitting here with my stomach all knotted up.
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One more thing — that first photo of you with your dad says so much. Look at the expression on your dad’s face. How would you describe it?
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Flannista, just probing questions and ones that I left unanswered for the reason that they are too personal to me to expose myself and my father any further.
I must forgive myself for wanting a father who fit my idea of what a father should be, for wanting his love, for not forgiving him for not being those things or giving those things to me, for not forgiving myself for my faults.
Trust me, Flannista, I am not being too hard on anyone in this post, but you will need to trust me on this one.
Don’t have much to say about the expression on his face. That’s the way he smiled. What I notice in photos of the two of us (sometimes with other family members) is how he never touched me. He always stood with his hands behind his back as in the posted photo. My mother and my sister always had their hands on my shoulder(s) as though keeping me under control, safe.
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I noticed that, too, Bob, that your father was not touching you in that photo.
Okay, will trust you.
Now to comment on your writing. Your style here seems much more clipped and straightforward than in your earlier pieces about your father. Those earlier pieces seemed more lyrical. This crisp style heightened the increasing dread as I went from sentence to sentence. Not certain why this part got to me so much. When I finished reading it the second time, I felt something awful lurking behind a closed door. That’s good writing.
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Don’t open that door.
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Bob, I sat on the edge of my chair reading this. I agree with Flannista that the clipped style added to the tension in the piece.
In his own way, Bob, I think that your dad did pass secrets from father to son. They just weren’t the ones other boys were being told with words.
Your dad’s vision (in church no less) speaks of a deep shame around sexuality, though I am no expert. All of I sudden, I wondered about his intimacy (or lack of it) with your mother.
You wrote:
“I’ve always felt incomplete as a man because he didn’t teach me the secrets that fathers pass to their sons. Even now, after decades of searching for that knowledge, which I doubt exists, I still feel inadequate.”
I wonder Bob, if your feeling “inadequate” is some of what your dad taught you, without meaning to, from his own conflicted feelings. Your dad couldn’t teach you something that he may not have known himself.
This kind of writing takes guts, Bob. Keep going.
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Thanks, breathepeace, for the comments. I think my father passed on his conflicted feelings about life to me as did my mother. Thankfully I found therapy to deal with most of them.
Don’t know that I can keep going. I sent the first two pieces to Natalie and received a postcard which said something like, “You’ve struck a gusher here” meaning that this topic is full of potential.
Last week at a writing retreat with friends, I said something about a book idea and my friends screamed, “Yes, see I told you he would come to that conclusion.” We all laughed about it.
The process has been painful at times, confusing, physically and mentally exhausting. The “truth” is so elusive.
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Bob,
Again, you do us all a great service by writing about your dad. Because you’ve done so much of your own work and healing around that relationship, I can enter this piece without feeling like I’m being eaten alive by your pain. There’s a strong element of forgiveness or resolution or acceptance that so much memoir lacks. So it’s very deep writing, but as your reader, I feel comforted by it…not beat over the head.
Yes, this is your gusher. I concur with Natalie. At the Sinclair Lewis Writing Conference this weekend, Wang Ping said we have to write about the unspeakable in our lives.
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Teri — thank you for this: “we have to write about the unspeakable in our lives.”
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Thanks, Teri for the quote from Wang Ping. I wrote a piece in which I wrote the unspeakable. I wanted to present it for critique at the weekly writing group. The facilitator told me that she felt it would cause me great pain to have it read to my peers. She didn’t refuse to read it, but she asked me to consider what kinds of reactions I might receive. She didn’t want me to be hurt.
I had the other facilitator read it and she agreed that it might be considered pornographic by some. Well, it was and is, but that is the unspeakable of what happened.
Maybe the writing of it was enough or should be enough for me. Any opinions?
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I had an epiphany this weekend at the SL Writer’s Conference. I can write about the unspeakable in my life. I can write page after page leaving out no details. It can be the deep, raw, ugly, and sad. But when it’s all done, I don’t have to try to publish it or reveal it to anyone else. For me, it may be enough to say the truth between me and me.
For today, it is enough for me to show up for myself. To not dumb things down for other people who were involved. It’s a great relief to think about it that way.
I think there are people in our writing lives who can hear just about anything without being alarmed or shaming. Perhaps they are the ones we read things to…if we need to be heard.
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Bob — I strongly believe in the strength and healing that can come from a trusted “cloud of witnesses.”
I shared the unspeakable with my therapist — the only person alive who knows the details of very disturbing episodes in my childhood. It was healing, yes. I have written the details in a journal; even mapped out where the unspeakable occurred in the basement of my childhood home. It was healing, yes. But there is power in putting it “out there” into a “holding presence.” Transformation can happen in the privacy of the page you are looking at. But it feels one-dimensional, like a scrawl becoming a drawing of a bird. The scrawl is transformed, yes, but viewed by others, I suspect the bird can transform even more and fly.
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I also agree with Teri . . . “if we need to be heard.”
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Teri, I agree that the writing of the unspeakable gets it outside of myself. I can then quit holding it inside me which requires huge amounts of energy, particularly for things that hold a great deal of shame. I can also decide whether or not to publish them. The power of control over my life returns to me.
Flannista, I also agree that a trusted “cloud of witnesses” can help the healing become real. When you have friends who can hold the space for you while you share your stories, the healing becomes more complete. It is finding that group that sometimes poses problems for most of us.
For people without those kinds of groups, publishing the stories may be all they have, but it seems scary and dangerous to me. red Ravine is a risk, except yb and QM have been very supportive of me and what I wanted (and didn’t want) to share. They could be part of my trusted cloud of witnesses like you and Teri can/could be.
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Bob, I think that you may find a perspective for your book that will open the door for you to say whatever you want. Remember the book “Candy Freak?” The book was about candy, but Steve Almond’s whole life was in there, too.
You are a great food writer and cook. If you wrote a book about comfort food it would hold all your good recipes and your pain. There is a reason it’s called “comfort” food.
Maybe you don’t ever want to write a book, but one day if you stumble across the right angle, it may crack everything wide open in a whole new way.
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Not to go on and on with Wang Ping insights, but kindly allow just one more.
She said when we write about the unspeakable, it is essential to wrap it in other things, like humor. If not, people will run and not read. Too much reality. I like breathepeace’s idea of the cookbook to tell your story. Talk about an inviting way in! Shall we come down to KC for a cook-off? We/you cook, we listen to you read chapters, you get valuable feedback if you want it. It’s sounding like a win-win to me, Bob.
I remember Natalie saying she realized (in retrospect) that The Great Failure was too direct. People couldn’t take it in, so dismissed the book.
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Emily Dickinson said, “The truth must dazzle gradually.”
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Well-said, Flannista and Emily.
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Whoa, I’m a good food writer and a cook? When did that happen? Okay, I can write about food and I can cook, but I wouldn’t ever think of writing a book about my life connected to cooking. I love to eat. Why mingle the two: one sweet and the other one a little bitter.
I wrap some of the stuff in humor because people can’t stand the truth, just like Jack Nicholson said to Tom Cruise. Most people don’t want to hear pure truth.
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There are so many good comments in this thread of conversation. It really wakes me up. Especially after a day workng a job that’s very physical. To read this writing and these comments — it strikes me in new ways that writing can take us to a whole other level of awareness. A different perspective of the day to day routines, past and present.
Some take aways for me from the comments:
Your dad couldn’t teach you something that he may not have known himself.
to write about the unspeakable, it is essential to wrap it in other things
“The truth must dazzle gradually.”
it may be enough to say the truth between me and me
I can quit holding it inside me which requires huge amounts of energy, particularly for things that hold a great deal of shame. I can also decide whether or not to publish them. The power of control over my life returns to me.
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Wow, Bob. Great piece. Not surprising. I want to hear more about your father, your mother, your family. I didn’t know your father “saw things.” That must have been completely terrifying.
And great quote Teri – the unspeakable. Great insight.
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Bob, you touched on something in the comments, too, about writing in a supportive environment. About writing community and how important it is to find other writers who will bear witness to our writing, to our practices, by holding the space. By deep listening. By silent listening. By not chattering while we read. Simply listening.
The other point you bring up about not revealing everything in the writing — I think it’s a valid one. In writing practice, we get to do that. But not everything we write belongs on the published page. Now that I think about it, the editing process is a form of restraint, of having boundaries with our writing. Once we get the raw stuff out in practice, how do we make it palatable for others so they don’t run away. But instead are willing to listen.
I appreciate you sharing your pieces about your father on red Ravine. Do you have any regrets about digging all of this up in your writing? Maybe a strange question. But I was just curious.
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Bob, checking in from Portland, Oregon.
I had a chance to read the piece slowly, as well as the comments. I wanted to go first to a question you raised in the comments:
Maybe the writing of it [the unspeakable] was enough or should be enough for me. Any opinions?
My opinion is that this depends largely on whether you want to publish a memoir, and if so how “the unspeakable” fits into your story. How important is it to the the shaping of you and how central is “the unspeakable” to the the specific slice of your life that you are sharing.
We’ve all discovered that writing IS therapeutic and that we can shift something within ourselves if we write about it often enough. And if that is your goal for writing about your father, then that is enough.
However, if something inside you burns to tell the story to others–perhaps so that they can benefit from the telling and/or so that you can let it go more fully–then it might not be enough for you to write for your eyes only.
My caution is, if you choose to share your story, to publish it and write a book or an essay or anything else, only seek input in the early stages from those who will hold it for the precious newborn that it is. Don’t ever risk testing it out on anyone else. Yes, eventually, once the story is published, everyone who wants to will be able to read it. But if you share early drafts with the wrong people, they will squash you. Unintentionally, but still. Which is why I think that your writing group facilitators gave you such good advice, even if it was for the wrong reasons.
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I have mentioned in at least one other comment on another post that I recently finished the memoir Without a Map by Meredith Hall. This is a scathing story about how Hall was cut off, sent adrift at the age of 16 for having gotten pregnant. As I read the story and being the mother of two girls, I could not believe that her parents did this to her. That they so diminished her, isolated her, left her to fend for herself. She didn’t write the story until she was in her 40s. It was her first book, and I have to think that it gave her closure on that chapter in her life. And while in the end the reader (this reader, anyway) could find sympathy for those parents, the book also shed a light on their enormous faults.
It must have taken so much courage for Hall to write this book. Her father was alive when she wrote it, and in an interview in the back of the book, she is asked about the revealing nature of the story. Hall said, and I’m paraphrasing, that she never realized how big the book would become, and that yes, she feels protective of her father for how the book portrayed him. Her mother had died by the time the book was published.
But she had to tell the story, and she did so directly and emotionally, without humor or softening of any kind as far as I can tell.
I don’t think that there is a hierarchy of sin and which sins are worse than others. Abuse is abuse. Yes, some acts are more taboo, but abuse of the child damages, and all damage requires resolution.
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One more comment because I’m going to be offline through tomorrow evening: that your father died within a day of your birthday, that struck me. That your parents were pretty old for the day to be parents, that struck me. Your father’s face in the second photo, even moreso than the fact that he wasn’t touching you in the first photo, that struck me. The clipped style that’s mentioned also struck me, but it struck me more as a rapid-fire telling of the story, as if the story was so hard to tell that it was best to move through it quickly. And it is effective.
Thanks, Bob, for trusting in us and role-modeling for all of us the courageous steps you take each time you peel back another layer. I can see the unfolding of the whole truth, layer by layer, chapter by chapter, until it is all done.
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QM, regrets? No, I have no regrets about writing these pieces. Some interesting things have happened as a result of the process. I learned a lot, saw patterns in my own life that I had never seen. The difficulty was in starting the pieces.
yb, I will read Hall’s book. There is humor in most everything although it may be very dark humor.
Here are interesting facts about deaths in my family. My paternal grandmother died on April 29 and was buried on May 2. My father died on May 2 and was buried on May 5. My mother died on February 28, the anniversary of my father’s birth.
Jokingly I said to my mother, “Don’t die at the end of April or the first part of May. Okay?” She laughed. “I’ll do my best, but something tells me I won’t have much control over it. Looks to me like she may have had more control than she thought.
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yb, what you said about Hall’s parents struck me as what I want people to do when they read about my parents. I want the readers to have sympathy for these fragile people who raised me as best they could. They failed sometimes, but succeeded other times.
I have come to this point in my life because of them. Many of the qualities that I value were instilled in me by my parents. At some point I took control of my life and went to therapy to deal with some of the issues.
The stories about them are not to pass judgment on their behaviors, but to tell the story, to give life to the sketch of the bird (as Flannista so beautifully wrote).
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Bob, thank you again for the opportunity to read your work. I agree with the other comments – your work is very impressive, the clipped style definitely inspired a feeling of something impending, “uh-oh, where’s the other shoe?”…. You are to be applauded for having reached a point of forgiveness, and recognition of your parent’s shortcomings. I think it’s something many kids work thru – we go from young children, equating our parents to God, to teens/young adults sure we know all the answers and they are fools, to mature adults realizing that our parents are human and subject to all the flaws, foibles, angels and devils of humanity. I still rock back & forth between recognizing my parents did the best they could with what they had and knew, and still being angry/sad about things that happened. I hope to eventually get to a place of peace about it all.
You’ve painted a very moving portrait of your dad – although I’m sure the picture isn’t complete, I do get a sense of understanding why he was as he was. Your writing is very compassionate and well-balanced. Deep bow for that accomplishment!
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Thanks, Terri. In my own experience the peace comes and goes at times although the periods get longer. Your comment, “I do get a sense of understanding why he was as he was,” means a lot to me. I was hoping for that. He was a good person in many ways. Someday I hope that people who look back on my life will balance all the sides of me and understand me better.
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Bob,
Thanks for letting me know yesterday about the piece. I finally had an opportunity to sit in the big chair this morning, one of the pups beside me, and slowly take in your words, your story and know you a little more, know how you became Bob. I am grateful for your willingness to go deeper into your own life and writing and to share your story so we grow together as friends and writers. We talk about truth and memory at times and wonder what is really true; it seems to me that what reveals itself after a time in writing is truth, even though it may wobble like a loose wheel on a wagon, and then there is more, always more to discover; why humans are afraid of raw truth, I do not understand. It is so much more satisfying to me than the lie. You got in there deeper this time, really let go and wrote a beautiful tribute to your family and to your life; there was no ugliness just really good writing. I find it comforting to read your story on this rainy morning, to listen deeply as I think of the image of you hiding under your bed and the fear there in your heart as you hid, and I wonder about the very moment that existed which set your father in motion, at what point do each of us turn our backs on the truth, our lives, and become an empty, hollow self rather than a human being willing to risk it all in order to be at peace with ourselves and the world. As for forgiveness, that one is difficult; thanks for bringing it into the story. Anyway, I join with others in celebration of your freedom from bondage ~ and cheer you on, hoping you will write more about your life in the way you have in these stories about you and your father/family and share them with us/your readers and friends. Much love, Ryeblue
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Bob – I read your piece yesterday and finally today I had time to read the whole comments thread. Wow. What a lot of wise, warm and eloquent responses. So many of them moved me. Like -The truth must dazzle gradually. And – to write about the unspeakable, it is essential to wrap it in other things.
I think those two comments say a lot about what it takes to write good memoir, good in terms of healing and good in terms of literature. Wrapped in solid craftsmanship and skillful storytelling almost anything can be born, both by the reader and the writer.
Congratulations again on a very moving piece. People have commented on the clipped style of your writing this time and yes, it makes a big impact. Powerful. Touching.
In this piece as well as the other two, I see your parents as you say you want them seen, as two flawed people, victims of their own history, who did the best they could. I also see the enormous pain they caused for you. That makes my heart hurt.
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I hope you will write that book.
Publish it? Who knows? Don’t think about that part when you write it.
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ryeblue, thanks for stopping by. Humans may be afraid of the raw truth because we see so little of it in our society. We are protected against most everything and begin to believe that the lie is the truth.
jude, the pain doesn’t feel so enormous after all these years, but that’s after lots of work. I think most adults carry some kind of enormous pain with them (or at least I don’t know the ones who don’t).
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Like people have said in the previous comments, the pain in this piece doesn’t bonk people on the head; it’s woven into the writing in a way that isn’t overwrought or brutal. The years of work you’ve done are obvious in the effectiveness of your writing.
And yeah. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone over the age of 10 who doesn’t carry around a load of pain, some big, some smaller.
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Bob,
On the lighter side, you’ve been holding out on me. Let’s get together and cook!
About your story and the critique group. Have you considered asking a few people you respect from within the large group to do a short critique session? Sometimes hearing the work read aloud by someone else is very powerful…just a suggestion. You are well respected and I believe if you ask for what you want, those you select will be there to hear your work and hold space for you.
You’re right, most people don’t want to know the truth, however, writers are different from the rest of the population. AND there are readers out there who yearn for the deep emotional mining you’re writing about. Your writing gives others a path to walk and share with you and also a way to shine a light into their deepest secrets. To deal with their own pain and heal.
Keep writing. I love your voice.
LJ
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Linda, I can cook, but I don’t enjoy it.
I have not read the short story to a critique group because I wasn’t sure I wanted to have it read or read it to a larger group. I guess I still hold some shame about what happened.
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A perspective from Jeannette Walls, author of the memoir, The Glass Castle and of a new book, Half Broke Horses:
“Secrets are like vampires. A wise friend of mine once said this. They suck the life out of you, but they can only survive in the darkness. Once they’re exposed to the light, there’s a moment of horror, of recognition, but then poof — they lose their power over you.” –Oprah Magazine, November 2009, p. 50
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Flannista, great quote. I agree that secrets are like vampires that suck the life out of me. To extend the metaphor a little, we become familiar with the feeling and with the darkness and don’t want to expose them or ourselves to the light. When we do, they lose their power over us. When we don’t, they continue to hold us in thrall to them. Here’s to the light.
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Bob, I am blown away by the depth of the comments you’ve received on this post. I’ve gone back and read the ones that came in since I last visited the post.
What a universal theme. We may not all be parents, but we’ve all been parented. Even those who lost their parents were somehow brought into the world and brought along.
It feels daunting as a parent to consider that I might through my selfishness or immaturity at times do some damage. I know, it’s a sort of irrational fear. I’m a good parent, my heart tells me. But we’re all human.
Now that I’m back home I did want to share this quote from an interview at the back of Hall’s book, Without a Map:
Q: Do you have any advice for people who are writing memoir?
Meredith: Well, I don’t feel like an expert memoir writer. Maybe I could say a few things: Once you have decided to write your life, you must be ready to tell the truth, or don’t bother with the writing. And what you think is the truth right now may not be the truth that needs telling. Also, fasten your seatbelt. This is a difficult ride. And, do it. We absolutely must tell our stories to each other in order to know how to live well. People are waiting to hear your stories.
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Now I know I must read that book. Thanks for the quote.
yb, if it’s any consolation, from what little I know, you and Jim tell the girls you love them and you show them that you do. You support them in their learning about the world, don’t place fears on them, work with them to grow up. While not a 100% guarantee of success, it certainly sets the stage for some wonderful young women, healthy, happy, and ready to face the world.
Please read the post from Cheryl on “Hands.” I asked her to read this post just for the comments. I hope she did.
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Sorry to be late in responding. Just pulled in to Redravine and found the light on!! I’ve been holding my breath as I’ve read your narrative triptych, your relationship with your father- and the wise, supportive and helpful comments from readers.
I feel like I’m sitting in the zendo, head bowed, tears drizzling as I hear your story unfold. My heart goes out to the 5 year old scared you and the subsequent dismantling of your dad’s mind as you grew up. This piece touches on the wounds inflicted upon you. Thank you for writing outloud in such a clear way that I can hear your mother retelling you about you father’s anger at the pillows.
Why is it the child always absorbs the guilt and blames himself/herself? I have a feeling you are moving toward writing the unspeakable. I also know its less unspeakable that it used to be. That’s what writing does. It loosens the lid. And heals.
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A psychologist friend once told me, “Children are completely narcissistic. They think the universe exists for them alone. Thus everything that happens in their world is somehow their fault.” Hopefully we grow out of that narcissism.
Thanks for stopping by, Laura. Deep bow to you.
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Your writing always touches me deeply. I never really know how to express the feelings you stir, and when I try, I feel that I come across as pious or that my words are somehow inappropriate. If either is the case, I apologize.
After reading this piece, I went back and looked at the pictures of your mom in the piece you wrote about her. The crop of your mom, and then the one of your dad are from the family picture taken at HPP, right? Is it my imagination, or are your mom and dad basically wearing the same sort of smile!?
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Randy, sometimes words are inadequate in expressing how I feel. The fact that the pieces stirred feelings in your heart is enough. I know you well enough to know when you are being pious or inappropriate. I don’t think you gone there in your comments. No apologies necessary.
Yes, the pictures are from the family picture taken at HPP. They do have the same smile…a “smile for the photographer” one.
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Roberto,
I realize now that I was not meant to read any of these pieces until this moment. How strange that the “energy” to do so came just when I was most able to become attuned to the stories.
I feel like a huge puzzle has instantly materialized in front of me, each piece snapping simultaneously into place.
I am in awe of your strength. I am in awe of your ability to give and to befriend and to support.
I understand this these stories are truly the tiniest trickle of psychological and emotional memory. In the last piece in particular the dammed up flood waiting to be released is tangible, palpable, terrifying but with great potential for cleansing.
As you know, I love everything you write. I love the WAY you write. These stories are different. It is unusual for me to “feel” you holding so much back. Holding nearly “everything” back.
Your pain squeezes out between the letters that make up the words. The child in you appears still bruised. The man in you has come to some peace. You are an exceptional human being.
I feel such great sorrow for the horrible wrongs that molded and sculpted the lives and psyches of your parents, and more so because they were quite young, and quite defenseless. Acknowledging how they were both equally damaged and neglected in a time during which children were akin to chattel doesn’t remove the horror of our present day perspective.
I feel incompetent to adequately tell you just how moved I am by your courage to share this journey. To be willing, as they say, “to take the first step”.
I am sending you warmth and love and friendship and courage. All vital parts of the friendship you have given me. I love who you are. I love having you in my life.
When you feel you can pull back the curtains, open the window, and let the next story seep into your consciousness. It sounds like it is time.
It is a rare human who can be immersed in such pain, and yet still empathize with the pain of his abuser.
Tracy
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tlc, thanks for the support.
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