Dad (By The Intimate Terrorist)

Dad was ill tempered and I didn’t like him. We had nothing in common, and his temper kept me in fear of him most of the time. I remember how the fear of his discipline would grip me, and his discipline was not really a corrective action, it was anger bursting into action. It wasn’t all the time, but knowing it was there created foreboding. Take report card day for example. I cared little about school and often came home with poor grades. He would sit there in his chair in the bedroom and not move. I sat in another chair on the other side of the room and looked at the floor. He held the report card in his hand and his mind would dwell on something, the disappointment, what to do, how he had enough, who knows. He would ask why. My response led to another why, and I could tell that he was getting angrier. Then he would get quiet again and stay that way for a long time. I couldn’t leave until he indicated that our discussion, for lack of a better word, was over. So I sat there and waited. Like the sword of Damocles, it hung over me, the silence, the threat that he would blow up, would sweat me out in ways that the Geshtapo would admire.

I never back talked dad but once. My friends couldn’t understand why, they were free to speak their minds to their parents. I would tell them they didn’t understand, but they would laugh at me. That one time I said something I ended up on the floor with his hands around my neck. That was the day I wanted to try again, but this time I would back it up with my Smith and Wesson. I would force him to explain his anger, if he could. What would that male rage, ego, or whatever it is, do when faced with the counterpoint of the gun? The Wife could never understand that desire, and some would forgive their family of nearly anything. Call me hypersensitive, but that hands around the throat thing cuts a lot of ties.

I hated him and that hatred of what he was became a hatred of all men like him. Not having fired back at any of them became a bitterness that clenched the mind and turned to a simmering state of anger. I had become my Dad, and if I compared my reasons with his, would there be any difference?

Things have changed, but I’ll let my better half talk about that.