Daddy

Since I seem to be dealing with my demons I guess I should tell you about my dad. I suppose he loved me ones, long ago.  I vaguely remember playful teasing. But what I recall more was walking on eggshells, never making the grade, and constant confidence shattering criticism.

I recall with clarity the sustained level of anxiety that led my brothers and I, and later my mother, to developing a communications code to alert each other of his foul moods and temper.

Upon arriving home one would innocently enquire from a sibling what the weather was. The answer, "mild", "bewolk" or "donnerweer" would give you an idea of whether it was safe to surface or run for cover.

Along side the weather system we used non verbal comms as well.  Puffing your cheeks and pointing your eyes in the direction of "Bolla Wange" was a warning to tread lightly and fly under the radar.

As we got older I think things got easier.  Probably because we were able to get out of the house - escape the ever critical eye.

Getting married gave me an escape but came with a considerable amount of guilt - guilt for those I left behind. For my brothers, but more so for my poor mother.

Now I need to clarify that the abuse he dished out wasn't physical. Not towards my mom anyway. He wouldn't dare. My brother's were beaten  with the fist, kicked in the stomach and ribs and I'd been slapped over the years. But I think one could almost dismiss all that as harsh discipline (Ok maybe not the way he once beat, punched and kicked my skinny teenage brother for an offence I can't even recall).
The emotional abuse had deep and far reaching damage.

My youngest brother I often felt suffered the worst.  Thank goodness for the "water of a duck's back" defence he developed. This little brother turned to drugs at a very young age and didn't finish university. But after a few false starts has managed to find himself a decent, secure job, has a wonderful intelligent wife, owns property and lives a fairly clean life.  He's a bit unconventional, but none of us are surprised by that. He lives outside of town in a small farming community. He has cats and dogs and owls instead of children and passionately pursues Kung Fu of all things. Seriously.

T Middle child syndrome personified is my other brother, five years younger than me. Think this one swallowed up all his anger and issues. I’m sort of waiting for that one to take a shotgun into a crowded mall and blow it all to shit. But hey, I might be wrong.

This brother tried hard from an early on to break free by gaining his independence. Learnt to drive, got his own car, got a part time job – multiple jobs at times and worked himself to the bone.

I think my dad drilled into him the need to be super hard working, diligent, martyr. I remember he once worked in a store that opened around 5am or something ridiculous like that. He had to leave home in the middle of the night practically to open and slave away, then rush to campus for class and then weekends suffer a gruelling catering job, from Friday afternoon to Sunday night.

And then on top of working hard this dude trains hard too. I think my father successfully convinced the two of us that we may never admit physical weakness. To acknowledge injury or fatigue made us pathetic. So this brother was an awesome sportsman (though neither of my parents ever went to watch him, ever). Brilliant cricketer, rugby player, cyclist, go-kart racer, you name it, this kid had the shinning medal to prove how hardcore he was.

But then being good at sport wasn’t enough for him. He had to know everything about it as well. Guess what he became – Biokinetisist, qualified fitness instructor and accredited sports coach in multiple disciplines. (Yes I’m super proud of both my brothers).

One Saturday afternoon I went with him to a rugby match, to watch him play. We were both in our 20’s then. Halfway through the game he got tackled pretty badly. We strongly suspected that his arm had been broken. It was clear he was in terrible pain. Yet he went right back to finish the game. (Gotta tell  you about the night  I broke my ankle). And after the game he refused to let me drive him home – the injured asshole drove himself.

Anyways, middle child finished he’s studies and got a job in the defense force. It seemed so fitting: Mr. Anal, hardcore, Man’s Man ended up in the army.

Now married with three kids, neat home and tended lawn, driving his huge family vehicle, I have to wonder are my two brother successful brothers so successful because of my father’s drilling or despite it. Growing up, what was all the fuss about? The way he treated us one would thing we were the sort destined to end up on the streets and me a crack whore. We were told so often that we would never amount to anything.

And then Mom.

How did he manage to reduce a strong, beautiful, intelligent woman to the loss, haggard huisvrou she is now? Overweight and ailing, self-conscious of her own bulk and so out of touch with the world. She’s spent her life bent around his moods all these years, bearing the brunt of his bitterness to protect us.

I know she prefers when he’s not around. Jeez we all do. Terrible thing to say I know. But things are so much more peaceful then.  I hate how dependent she is on him – he is her financial provider and she is the subservient stay-at-home wife. She is stuck. She’s been stuck for so long. When she became sick, we were young and she was dependent on him. And now she is still sick and it’s just too late for her to leave.

And I think she feels sorry for him. I think she married him because she felt sorry for this abandoned, damaged young man, little did she know that you can never love them better – they will always be broken and end up breaking you too.

I do love my dad. I really do. He’s spent his life and all his energy working to provide for us. I could never repay him for that. And I hate myself for the way I hate him too. I hate how he still torments all if us. And still the guilt eats me because my brothers and I have escaped. But my mother is still stuck. I see her wasting away. I see her coming apart. I see him wearing her down.

Tonight she is sick again. And what does he do? Berates her and lectures her. Blames her practically. He’s upset because she went a doctor, for an injection for pain and then had an unforeseen allergic reaction the medication. The pain was originally in scar tissue from an old operation she had. The injection triggered a recently diagnosed condition – a disorder that could kill her if not managed. While he lay there barely conscious he scolds her.

I guess I have lots more to write … lots more bitter memories … but will stop there for now.

YOU

I'm the monster you moulded.
My fresh flesh compressed 
by your filthy fingers. 

I'm the chaos you created. 

A child you defiled to 
calm your sick cravings. 

I'm the wreckage you left behind

And denied when I tried 
to cry for help.

I'm the product of your perversity,

Now judged harshly for 
performing only what you taught me.
 

I'm the wrecked remains,

a hollow human where any good
never stood a chance.

You're the secret I kept 

as I cringed and wept 
and prayed for peace in the dark. 

You're the reason 

I'm going insane with shame and pain
and fear and hate. 

And you’re the reason vile vengeance

flows through my veins
keeping me from living a normal life.

Undeserving

Who ever said "cry, it will make you feel better" was talking kak. How is a face splitting headache and a blocked nose feeling better? And on top of that, what did crying do to solve the problem? Buggerall!

The anger still boils inside me. Frustration still threatening to make me explode. And the disbelief and disgust. Disbelief that I once thought that this man was worthy. That he had a good heart, kindness, vision. Disgust at what he turned out to be. And disgust at myself for falling for it and dragging these two innocent souls in with me. 

He doesn't deserve them, these beautiful, wonderful angels. Every day with them is an adventure. Every conversation an education. These little hearts have taught me so much about loving and forgiveness. On my knees, I see the world they way they see it. 

And while I down here, on my knees, dear God, I pray, please protect them. Always.  Please make them forget any insecurity he tried to hammer into them.  Let them know that they're absolutely perfect, and that at least one parent loves them, unconditionally. 

Evil has a name

I've put you in the past. 
Stay, I pray. 
You haunt my happiness, 
Leaving me literally  
Hopeless.
Faithless.

I'm tired of hating you 
and fearing the world.
What is it going to take to burn your bitterness from my soul? 
You could never return the innocence you stole. 

And I'm angry. Aching and angry at the power you hold. 
But this story will be told. 
I refuse to keep carrying this burden of shame. 
Evil has a name. 
Is it ... 

Waking up in paradise

I imagine that this is what paradise sounds like as I listen to the birds chirp in dialects. With my heavy eyelids closed I picture the view outside. The banana palms in the forefront and the lush, green hills in the background, rolling away beneath the clear blue sky.
The noisy monkeys swinging from balcony to balcony bring my thoughts back to my room.
It's Monday, 1st June. It's officially Winter and I'm lying in bed covered by only a crisp, white linen sheet.
Yes, this is paradise but I think I'll snooze some more. Paradise will still be there later and getting to sleep in on a Monday morning, well that's just heavenly.

You live in my fantasy

You live in my fantasy.  Like the  miniature couple in a snow globe, our world is perfect. Our passion is protected. Sometimes things get a little shook up, but within minutes the dust settles and calm is restored. Wouldn't it be wonderful to live in such a perfect bubble?

Every night I eagerly crawl into bed, looking forward to escaping to my dreams. There you're always waiting for me.  There you always smile at me with love and patience.

My days I spend thinking of you. In all my mundane tasks I wonder what it would be like to share them with you. Chats while doing chores, sharing meals, sharing a bed ...

You live in my fantasies. I wonder if I live in yours too?