You're probably wondering what about my family. I grew up as an only child only to find out forty years later I have a half-sister that my father never told me about. My father and I have a strained relationship. I've always said to myself, "That man has too much pride for me," So, we don't speak. It appears he has no sympathy for my becoming deaf. My mother and I email each other from time to time. My relationship with my mother is much better than with my father. My half-sister found me through Facebook. How cool is that. Smiles.
Back when I was a child, my father use to take out his days frustrations on me. I could always sense his mood even before he came home. He was in the business of running a semi successful restaurant lounge called the Whole Person Restaurant. My father would often beat on me for no reason or he'd find any reason to to be mean or angry with me. He was the type of father who only did things for me in order to put himself in the lime-light for his then girl-friend(s) at the time. Every one on the outside of our relationship saw only the good portions of how well my father treated me. I was the only one who knew the truth. He made it such that if I said anything, people would look at me as through I were crazy. He once gave me a bedroom with all four walls painted with Charley Brown characters. "How lovely", my fathers friends thought. My room had a white canapé bed with ruffles on the canapé. I was probably the only kid on the block that had a huge television in their room not to mention every toy I could possible want. Sure, my fathers friends said I was spoiled. All my childhood friends were envious of me. But if I were really spoiled, then how come behind closed doors all I would see is my fathers anger. I didn't understand. Not to mention he always had a glass of something in his hand and it sure wasn't water.
In looking back, I hated my father. He is a man with too much pride even till this very day. When I could hear he was the type of parent that I found myself always reaching out to. It seemed no matter what the topic of conversation was, he'd always manage to turn the conversation into himself. As if he were so important. My father was the type of man who would blame me for getting hurt as children do from time to time. He would even hit me for hurting myself. I could not turn to him for anything and I hid everything from him especially my thoughts and feelings. You could say my father squashed my young spirit.
Writing in this journal I am able to reflect more specifically on my childhood. I've held my feelings toward my father in for so long that it's causing me to have intense dreams about lashing out at my father for beating me all those times for little things like loosing an earing while at play. Another reason my dad would be angry with me is because he had so many girlfriends that I would get confused and start accidentally using their wrong names. I didn't have a mother to turn to and it seems now she (my mother) was afraid to come around. Sometimes my mother would make a plan to visit me only to not show at the last minute. Then my father would say in an angry voice, "You know your mom." I always wondered what he meant by that and I often wondered why he and not my mother was raising me.
One day I simply asked my mom, "Was dad nice to you?" And her answer was always, "Well...." and she'd never finish the sentence and change the subject. Then I'd ask a second question, "Mom why can't I live with you because dad is mean to me?' My mom would just turn and look at me and say, "Because your daddy can support you better than I can" and she'd leave it at that. I'd often cry when the visit with my mom would come to an end. I tried desperately to tell her that my dad was mean to me. Mom listened, but never responded.
My mom and I are much more close these days (now that I'm older and independent of my father). I've asked that same question most recently of, "Was my father nice to you?" Finally she answered, "That man was very mean to me." Then I'd ask my mother, "Did dad ever hit you?" And she'd reply, "Yes. and once was enough." Finally, a break through had come. Now I knew for certain that my father hit on my mom also. It's no wonder she didn't come around as often as she should have. And when I described my childhood to my mom, she didn't act surprised in the least bit. She also didn't have much to say either. I realize now I was my dad's pawn in order to get my mom to come around.
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