Facing the dead.
Yesterday at 6.30 I received the phone call that my father had died. What followed for me was a complicated blend of emotions that I couldn't process right away. So, as there was a bar-b-que and party at our complex that night, I proceeded to imbibe to the point where I ended up face-down passed-out on my living room carpet.
Today was a slow day. Drinking lots of fluids, moving slowly and taking a long nap were all part of my recovery from my excess. But, I also had to face some things that I had put off for far longer then just one night.
One of my jobs was to call the various relatives and family "friends" and give them the news. This was one of the more difficult things I have had to in recent memory. I sat there as people went on and on about what a wonderful man my father was. I listened to them saying that he "was a man of God," and a "wonderful man who always helped others." Inside I was tearing apart with the urge to yell "NO! HE WASN'T" at these people, but I refrained and let them talk and say whatever they felt that they needed to say to assuage the vengeful spirits of the undead. And really -- it wouldn't have done any good anyways to let them know how I felt about this man.
I have spent so long hating him, it is hard to think outside of that box. But, I have noticed that I feel a deep sense of relief, a sense of freedom from fear now that he is gone. Without that fear there I can start seeing things rationally. He was a deep-flawed man: he was arrogant, abusive, selfish, irrational, un-loving, unfettered by any emotion at all... but... I don't know how much of that I hold against him any more. I didn't live his life... I don't know what made him into the monster I knew, feared and loathed most of my life. But I do know that he made me... even though his DNA is not in my make-up it was his influence, even if it was negative, that formed me into who I am today. Who influenced him? What made him into what he was?
I don't have any good memories of him. He was usually away on church business... and when he came home he would dole out punishment and take out his aggressions on us. He had a few hobbies, wood-working, gardening, and killing things... quite often my pet cats as I was made to watch. He beat all of us savagely for minor infractions or even the hint of rebelliousness or stepping out of his narrow view of acceptability. We led austere, harsh lives led by an austere, harsh man who saw brutality as a form of honesty.
What made him into this? Was it his parents? Did he have a rough childhood? Was it World War II and his experiences as a battle-field medic? Was he abused at some point? Did something break inside of him somehow along the line? I don't know... I never will know.
But I've come to peace with him at last. I don't fear him anymore. I can live without the dread of seeing his cold blue eyes and that starving vampire grin of his. I don't need to fear his machinations or his cruel, cutting words wrapped in his religious dogma. I don't need to feel his rejection or his condemnation. I can finally grow up and stop being the angry, hurt, cowering thirteen year old that I always became when I confronted him. It's time to put that all behind me.
My mother... was a completely different person. Her death devestated me, I felt a real sense of loss and still to this day feel her absense as a lack of light in my world. At her funeral I read a Keat's poem and mourned along with a lot of people her passing. My father died pretty much alone, only my brother's sense of duty providing him with someone at his bedside. There will be no funeral, no reading of poems and no mourning... at least not by me. He died as tyrants often do, the horrible result of their actions.
And oddly, I do feel a loss. I feel something missing. It is something that I have not acknowledged for so long... I feel that I no longer hate him. That deep, aching hatred has been what defined me, what I built myself around, the festering sore at the center of who I was. But it is oddly gone, leaving me feeling somewhat hollow inside. I don't hate him anymore. I pity him. I pity him his life and his death. I pity him knowing that he never felt love, true friendship or anything outside of his sense of duty. He never had the sort of people I have had in my life, the good and the bad. He never let anyone inside, even his wife and kids, and that had to be a very lonely, painful existance. Some of the things he did were evil and barbaric... but maybe... maybe he, like the rest of us didn't have the answers, but merely led his life feeling his way along like all of us do. Maybe he made some mistakes, maybe he was unable to be compassionate, or empathetic, maybe he tried his best... and failed.
I know I have made mistakes... LOTS of them. I have tried to learn from them and become a better person, but I still fuck up on a regular basis. I didn't raise children... I really can't even relate to what demands that would bring, but I can almost guarantee that I would have made some mistakes with them that would have scarred them... it seems that every parent has. And this fear is what has kept me from having kids. So really, I can't criticise his parenting. And when I look at it... really break it down like this... it is hard to criticize anything he did or who he was. Did I love him? No. Did I even like him? No. Did I fear and hate him? Yes. Do I still fear and hate him? No, and that changes everything.
The question now is, what do I do with this vacuum in my centre? There is a space there... a void waiting to be filled. I can define myself however I want now. I can say or do whatever I want now. Fear of him is no longer an excuse or reason. What I choose to fill that void is my own choice and only I accept responsibility for it. Nothing anymore will be done as a reaction to his actions. Nothing I do can be blamed on his influence. But I hope I have learned from his life... learned that I do not want to live alone in that way, learned that power is not something to exert over others -- love and compassion are much more effective and positive.
But really, even if I do try to live a more positive life as I fill that void... it is still a reaction to him isn't it? As much as I feel freedom from him, it is entirely possible that his ghost will always haunt me and possibly, oddly and ironically, guide me to being a better person.
Today was a slow day. Drinking lots of fluids, moving slowly and taking a long nap were all part of my recovery from my excess. But, I also had to face some things that I had put off for far longer then just one night.
One of my jobs was to call the various relatives and family "friends" and give them the news. This was one of the more difficult things I have had to in recent memory. I sat there as people went on and on about what a wonderful man my father was. I listened to them saying that he "was a man of God," and a "wonderful man who always helped others." Inside I was tearing apart with the urge to yell "NO! HE WASN'T" at these people, but I refrained and let them talk and say whatever they felt that they needed to say to assuage the vengeful spirits of the undead. And really -- it wouldn't have done any good anyways to let them know how I felt about this man.
I have spent so long hating him, it is hard to think outside of that box. But, I have noticed that I feel a deep sense of relief, a sense of freedom from fear now that he is gone. Without that fear there I can start seeing things rationally. He was a deep-flawed man: he was arrogant, abusive, selfish, irrational, un-loving, unfettered by any emotion at all... but... I don't know how much of that I hold against him any more. I didn't live his life... I don't know what made him into the monster I knew, feared and loathed most of my life. But I do know that he made me... even though his DNA is not in my make-up it was his influence, even if it was negative, that formed me into who I am today. Who influenced him? What made him into what he was?
I don't have any good memories of him. He was usually away on church business... and when he came home he would dole out punishment and take out his aggressions on us. He had a few hobbies, wood-working, gardening, and killing things... quite often my pet cats as I was made to watch. He beat all of us savagely for minor infractions or even the hint of rebelliousness or stepping out of his narrow view of acceptability. We led austere, harsh lives led by an austere, harsh man who saw brutality as a form of honesty.
What made him into this? Was it his parents? Did he have a rough childhood? Was it World War II and his experiences as a battle-field medic? Was he abused at some point? Did something break inside of him somehow along the line? I don't know... I never will know.
But I've come to peace with him at last. I don't fear him anymore. I can live without the dread of seeing his cold blue eyes and that starving vampire grin of his. I don't need to fear his machinations or his cruel, cutting words wrapped in his religious dogma. I don't need to feel his rejection or his condemnation. I can finally grow up and stop being the angry, hurt, cowering thirteen year old that I always became when I confronted him. It's time to put that all behind me.
My mother... was a completely different person. Her death devestated me, I felt a real sense of loss and still to this day feel her absense as a lack of light in my world. At her funeral I read a Keat's poem and mourned along with a lot of people her passing. My father died pretty much alone, only my brother's sense of duty providing him with someone at his bedside. There will be no funeral, no reading of poems and no mourning... at least not by me. He died as tyrants often do, the horrible result of their actions.
And oddly, I do feel a loss. I feel something missing. It is something that I have not acknowledged for so long... I feel that I no longer hate him. That deep, aching hatred has been what defined me, what I built myself around, the festering sore at the center of who I was. But it is oddly gone, leaving me feeling somewhat hollow inside. I don't hate him anymore. I pity him. I pity him his life and his death. I pity him knowing that he never felt love, true friendship or anything outside of his sense of duty. He never had the sort of people I have had in my life, the good and the bad. He never let anyone inside, even his wife and kids, and that had to be a very lonely, painful existance. Some of the things he did were evil and barbaric... but maybe... maybe he, like the rest of us didn't have the answers, but merely led his life feeling his way along like all of us do. Maybe he made some mistakes, maybe he was unable to be compassionate, or empathetic, maybe he tried his best... and failed.
I know I have made mistakes... LOTS of them. I have tried to learn from them and become a better person, but I still fuck up on a regular basis. I didn't raise children... I really can't even relate to what demands that would bring, but I can almost guarantee that I would have made some mistakes with them that would have scarred them... it seems that every parent has. And this fear is what has kept me from having kids. So really, I can't criticise his parenting. And when I look at it... really break it down like this... it is hard to criticize anything he did or who he was. Did I love him? No. Did I even like him? No. Did I fear and hate him? Yes. Do I still fear and hate him? No, and that changes everything.
The question now is, what do I do with this vacuum in my centre? There is a space there... a void waiting to be filled. I can define myself however I want now. I can say or do whatever I want now. Fear of him is no longer an excuse or reason. What I choose to fill that void is my own choice and only I accept responsibility for it. Nothing anymore will be done as a reaction to his actions. Nothing I do can be blamed on his influence. But I hope I have learned from his life... learned that I do not want to live alone in that way, learned that power is not something to exert over others -- love and compassion are much more effective and positive.
But really, even if I do try to live a more positive life as I fill that void... it is still a reaction to him isn't it? As much as I feel freedom from him, it is entirely possible that his ghost will always haunt me and possibly, oddly and ironically, guide me to being a better person.