“I Guess you want to go show off your bike to your friends.”
Not exactly, dickhead. But I smiled and rode off. But instead of the playground, I went to the deserted elementary school I had just left a few days ago.
There, I sat down and cried like never before. Real body-shaking, dripping tears, like someone was cutting off my toes with a dull hacksaw.
There, I constructed feelings and behaviors that would be with me for more than a decade. I started with facts.
- I did not have a father, I had a jailer. 2) I was not loved by him, just hated 3) He would go to any length to destroy my soul 4) Mom could not help me, only buy me stuff 5) I could not stop his screaming, I could only lessen it and/or make it not hurt
So, first of all. I became a clam. Tell him nothing, ever; except when necessary. I started building my wall. Mind and heart must be concealed (mom could know some things as necessary). My days of crying were over–never again would he see my tears. Everything he stood for and everything he wanted me to be was to be rejected. Revenge against him or the bike was out. Time would present me with opportunities.
He was no longer a ‘father’. Henceforth, he was ‘the old man,’ a money earner who loved only his chair and television. Never again would I buy a fathers day or birthday card that included a word ‘love’.
No one must ever know what happened. My male friends (except Steve) could not be trusted and anything they knew could be shared and find its way back to my old man.
In a few years, I would be able to drive and need to buy or borrow a car. Then I would go to college. Time to worry about this started NOW.
He had to be given only lollypops and roses so I could get my drivers license and car. And more important, eliminate any reason to send me to military school against my will (I was reminded of this several times a year; even while in the college of my choice). I would be the best actor that ever drew breath.
I think I sensed even then, I would abuse alcohol and smoke weed. My motto became ‘you can never be too careful’.
I became very serious and intense. The moment school started again, I lived a role of outgoing happiness, not the way I felt. As time passed, I compartmentalized.
What I hadn’t figured out in my pre-teen wisdom was hate is a hard thing to push down. Eventually, it became compartmentalized and squeezed dry, but it took years. I also had not counted on rock and roll stepping into the void left by writing off my home life. Thankfully, exploring music yielded far more pleasures than the field of my childhood.
I knew I had some kind of sixth sense already–I could sense moods, feelings, and auras without trying. I could get his mood in a second. I could sense compassion or resentment quickly–It was almost like the fabled ‘women’s intuition. This gave me confidence–I had a slight advantage and had to work on honing this skill.
What’s really sobering about viewing this day 50+ years later was the realization that my living, dying, and surviving was up to me and only me. I had to be strong and develop a hard shell and a tough , tenacious mind that could think fast and shift as quick as mercury.
I stood tall, wiped my eyes, and rode the worst gift I ever got home to my bedroom and my new life. The child is gone.
Years later, I found the perfect song to read over the old man’s ashes.