Mind Worms

So, I get mind worms.  You know, like ear worms.  You have a song stuck in your head that plays over and over again.  My mind worms do that, but play home movies in my head.  Sometimes they’re comedies, remembrances of the great times, others are dramas, that really make you melancholy until the hero or heroine swoops in and fixes everything.  Others are horror movies.
Today would have been my dad’s 79th birthday.  He’s been dead 29 years.  And you would think that after 29 years, I’d be able to let go.  Nope, mind worms start eating away at the threads of stability and happiness, and then I just sit and mope.  And there’s no heroine coming to save me today.  My mom was that heroine.  She’s been dead 7 1/2 years.  She was my guiding light, the porpoise or dolphin that would safely guide me through the breakers.  My dad was the breakers.  She loved him.  Gods how she loved him, and I’m glad he gave her that kind of happiness.  But for me, as much as I try, and am more successful now than when I was younger, to just remember the good times, the bad always flood in.

He wasn’t a very nice or loving person, at least towards me.  He was verbally and mentally abusive.  He was also borderline physically abusive.  He never hit me with closed fists or anything, but he was a master at inflicting physical pain.  The best times I had as a child were when he was nowhere around.  I lived for summer vacations because I’d get 4 or 5 weeks away from him when mom and I went back to Chicago to visit her family.
I was saying to Layne tonight, that maybe it’s guilt.  Maybe I feel guilty because I really hated him towards the end of his life, and we weren’t on the best of terms.  I was 15, and when he died, there was shock, but there was also relief. I’d never have to hear him yell, or be mind fucked by him again.  I wouldn’t be smacked or had a belt taken to me.
Now, before anyone dares call me a snowflake for whining about being “spanked” or having issues because “daddy didn’t love me enough” I’m going to make it clear.  If I came home with less than a B in math, I’d get the belt and be grounded.  If I swore, the belt would come off.  If I made the wrong ethnicity of friend, I’d be punished.  And that was the minor stuff.  So needless to say, yeah, I was relieved when he died.  And each time, mom was my saving grace.  I remember the fights they would have over how he treated me.  She stood up for me.  I never thanked her enough for that.

My paternal grandfather stood up for me too.  More after I was over the age of 12, but he’d stand up, and my dad would instantly back down.  He was afraid of his father, just like I was of mine, and probably for the same reasons.  I like to think that if my dad had lived past the age of 49, he would have mellowed and eventually we would have made up.  Maybe it’s a delusion.

He shouldn’t matter, he shouldn’t be able to still make me feel the way he did in life.  I wish him peace, and if he makes a journey to this world again, I hope he does better.

I’m out.  Rant done.  Ciao



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