Dad,
It has been over 10 years since we last spoke. I am 40 now, and can only assume from my own experience the older you get, the more you reflect. If that is indeed the case, I imagine you have reflected quite a bit as well. Anthony told me when you get drunk enough, you lament how much you miss me. He said you told him "I would let your brother walk in here and beat my ass if he would at least talk to me." That is a tempting offer, believe me. But for one, I would not need you to let me. And two, I doubt I would be able to stop until I beat every ounce of life out of you.
One problem with communicating verbally is so many things get forgotten or fall through the cracks of the conversation. In addition, emotions and the natural tendency not to actually listen to what the other person is saying often renders the whole process pointless. Written or typed words are precise, specific and easily organized in a digestible manner. If I were a betting man, I would put a nice chunk down on the fact you have minimized everything you have done in the past. And as you are an old man now, you reflect nostalgically. Because of this, I am going to refresh your memory.
I certainly hope you realize the vast majority of my memories of you range from bad to awful. If you do not, you are even more delusional then I thought, but will be brought back to reality by the time you finish reading this. Once I am assured you have both feet planted firmly in reality, I will listen to what you have to say on one condition. You make complete restitution to my mother for back child support, to include interest. Using an online back child support calculator, I have settled on a conservative figure of $200,000. I hear you are a semi-truck driver now. I have seen the commercials advertising how lucrative of a career it is. Considering one of your ex-wives girlfriend allows you inexplicably to live in a house she owns rent free, I am sure you are in great shape financially. If you have something that important to say to me, I would advise you to, ahem, get truckin’.
When I visited in July, Cathy told me how much you have changed. Whatever I did not bet on you being delusional I will put on the fact you have not. Anthony told me you refuse to speak to him because you are mad he did not tell you I was coming home. Tisk tisk, that sure sounds like the same old you to me. For organizational sake, this will be broken down into five chapters. Each chapter covers an approximate age range in my life:
Chapter 1, 0-5 years old, covers my earliest memories of you before you left. Chapter 2, 6-11 years old, covers from your return from CA to your move to FL. Chapter 3, 12-16 years old, covers my summer visits in FL. Chapter 4, 17-30 years old, covers from your return from FL until the last time we spoke in April 2005. Chapter 5 will wrap things up nicely.
CHAPTER ONE
I do not remember much from the short time you and my mother were married. I remember having a steel hydraulic dump truck. I believe the only reason I remember the truck is the memory of you throwing it across the kitchen. I still remember the dent and 2" long scratch that heavy duty toy left in the refrigerator door. I also remember you throwing the ottoman across the living room. I am sure they both deserved it. My last memories of this time are of moms cousin Dana, the one you left us for. She made the best egg sandwiches. You must have thought so as well. Thank you for not breaking my mothers’ nose in front of Stacey or me. You did not have to worry about Anthony seeing it either, as my mother was pregnant with him at the time.
CHAPTER TWO
My first memories of you upon your return from California involve your second wife Debbie, and her sons Billy and Doug. Stacey Anthony and I would stay with you and your new family every other weekend. I remember how Stacey, Billy, Doug, Anthony and I had to squeeze into the backseat of that old Cadillac. You would pack a cooler full of beer for the road when we went anywhere. The backseat floorboard was so covered with beer cans they would fall out onto the ground when we opened the doors, and we had to shimmy our feet down through them to touch the floor.
You would crack your first beer as we pulled out of the driveway. I remember being amazed at how fast you drank them. Our job in back, in addition to not being heard, was to prep from the second beer on. I do not remember a training session per se, but do remember knowing to pull a beer out, dry/clean the top, open it and hand it up to you. You completed the same ritual for each one you finished. You would pull the empty can out of the coozy, give it one squeeze to somewhat crush the middle, and toss it over your right shoulder, straight at one of us. We would wait for it and try to swat it down. More often than not, what little beer was left in the can would splash out onto us. We would giggle quietly and wipe it off our faces or onto each other. It seemed normal at the time. I guess that is what happens to young kids when they do not know any better. As long as you were happy, or at least not enraged, we were happy.
Three particular memories from that time are etched in my mind. I am not sure if I have them chronologically or not. The first was a fall afternoon. Debbie yelled that lunch was ready. All five of us rushed the table. You were already seated at the head of the table. As Doug and Stacey approached, they eyed the same seat, directly to your right. He beat here there ever so slightly and slid into place. She let out a half-hearted whine, and in a split-second you backhanded him across his nose. You hit him so hard that both he and the chair flipped over backwards onto the floor. Blood gushed out of his nose before he even hit the ground. Debbie helped him up and tended to him in the bathroom. As shocking as the whole thing was, one thing stood out to me. It was the sight of your fully extended arm, immediately reaching down to grab your fork. It was one fluid motion. You did not bat an eye, just that little boys face. My best guess is he was seven or eight years old.
The second was a beautiful spring day. Billy, Doug, Anthony and I were outside. Doug and I were playing basketball one on one, with Anthony and Billy "coaching". Anthony kept calling time-outs which irritated me. In the midst of arguing I gave him a slap. I did not know you were watching us from inside. You immediately yelled for me to come in. My blood ran cold, for good reason. You took me into the boys’ bedroom and stood me in a corner. You left the room and returned moments later, with a 2 ft. length of green garden hose. Props to you on the foresight of your preparation. You already had the "handle" end wrapped with duct tape. It would have been a shame to lose your grip in the midst of a good beating. Your actions might have been marginally understandable, if they were the result of a hyper-protective parental policy regarding Anthony. His is your youngest child, has spina bifida and is a paraplegic, paralyzed from the waist down. Your actions in my third memory eliminates that possibility.
I remember this one as if it happened five minutes ago. I was in the boys’ bedroom already sensing your brooding mood. Anthony was out in the main part of the house and did something to infuriate you. I heard that oh so familiar string of curse words, in that rage filled gravely yell, and heard him take off across the floor heading my way. Now normally, the sound of him crawling across the floor was both common and unmistakable. The rhythmic pounding of his hands hitting the floor, combined with the sound of his paralyzed legs dragging behind was unique. The only time it sounded different was when he was mad and chasing me, which happened often. It would be the same sound, only in double time.
This particular version I had never heard before and never heard again. I could not see him but remember hearing him trying to go so fast. Evidently fear outweighs anger in the motivation department. He was trying to get away from you so fast I heard him fall forward and catch himself on his elbows, more than once. You had to have seen this as you walked up behind him. How could the sight of your paraplegic son, trying so hard to get away from your blind rage that he was literally falling on his face not break your heart? Not only did it not break your heart, it did not even make a dent. You know how I know? Because all of the sudden the sound stopped. It stopped because you walked up behind him and yanked him off the floor with both hands. Your left hand gripped the back of his shirt collar and your right his belt line. You tossed that little crippled boy across the bedroom onto a bed. You did not even bother to come into the bedroom. I saw your arms swing through the doorway as you launched him into the air like a bale of hay. Only by the grace of God did he land like he did. He hit the bottom third of the mattress and bounced once to the upper third, his head stopping inches from the wall. He was so scarred he froze the way he finally stopped, in his crawling position. He looked over at me with the most petrified look I have ever seen. My best guess is he was five or six years old.
At the end of our weekends with you we would return home to mom. I remember one specific time you took us home. You came in to say your good-byes and we walked out the front door to see you off. As we walked out, our cat Tigger jumped up onto the railing of the deck. He would do that often when someone came outside, and walk slowly down the rail, hoping for a pet or just a little scratch as they walked by. Instead, in a split second you violently yanked him up by his tail, swung him one complete revolution around, and winged him underhanded into the darkness. I could tell he covered quite a bit of distance from his screeching fading into the night. I screamed and ran inside crying.
CHAPTER THREE
After you moved to FL, Stacey, Anthony and I spent several summers with you. Around this time the Simpsons television show was getting popular. Bart Simpson was known for saying "don't have a cow man!" We all said it frequently, without repercussions. True to form, when I said it one night at dinner it hit you the wrong way. You yelled at me to hurry and finish my dinner, and get in your bedroom. A hush fell over the kitchen as everyone knew what was coming. I tried to choke down my food quickly, but was so petrified I had a hard time swallowing. When you felt I was not eating fast enough you became even more furious. You hatefully snarled the longer I took the worse it was going to be. I immediately stopped chewing and just started swallowing big chunks of food. The chunks hurt my chest as they slid down, feeling as if the bites were so big they were stretching my insides. To help them go down I gulped water. My hands were shaking so bad I hit my teeth with the glass a couple of times. When I finished I rushed into your bedroom and bent over. I was thankful for a second when my peripheral vision caught the brown of a belt versus the green of a garden hose. My thankfulness was short lived. You whipped me severely enough with that belt to make me almost miss the hose.
People trying to live vicariously through their children is a common occurrence. What happens a lot of times, is the less someone has accomplished in their life, the more they want the attention brought on by being the parent of a successful child. You are a classic example of that. Billy and Doug were both great little league baseball players and you took great pride in that. Going to their practices and games was right up your alley. You would recite their stats, analogize how hard they could throw the ball, and marvel at how far ahead of kids their age they were, especially Doug. Now I have heard all of your stories over the years, literally dozens of times. I never once heard you talk about playing baseball in school, only slow pitch softball in the barfly leagues. You athlete. In spite of this lack of experience, you felt so strongly about Billy not "keeping his head down" while batting in a game one summer day, you beat him with a whiffle ball bat that night. I remember his screams begging you to stop. They echoed from the garage into the house, where the rest of us listened in horror. You were relentless, screaming at him to "keep your head down" as you mercilessly beat him up and down the back of his bare legs.
CHAPTER FOUR
After several magical summers with you in FL, you moved back to IN. It is funny how your perception of things, people and life change as you get older. Things about you began to bother me, but I was still a kid. I do not know if I fully realized the gravity of everything you had done at that point. Eventually I turned 21, and would hang out with you, Uncle Louie and Uncle Jimmy at Ninas Bar. It was around this time my real disdain for you began. I could write a novel in an attempt to explain, but here is a microcosm instead.
We were all at the bar on a Saturday afternoon. All the regulars were there, and everyone was enjoying cheap beer, cheap pool and the small bars friendly atmosphere. A couple stopped in for a few minutes to 'sign the book'. You probably remember the couple. Don is the mans name, his wifes name escapes me. His wife was a little bigger than average and lacked what might be described as a Hollywood smile. Looks aside, the couple was very well liked. Regulars but not big drinkers, kind, friendly and always smiling. They signed the book, said their goodbyes and went on their way.
As soon as the door closed behind them, you turned to everyone shaking your head in disgust, and started spitting your venom. "Man! How'd you like to wake up next to THAT every morning? Oh man! Ugh! How does he even get his arms around that?" You had such an incredulously disgusted look on your face. Still shaking you head, with a deep slow sigh you wiped your hand over your mouth, subtly referencing her less than stellar smile in addition to overtly mocking her size. You received a couple of courtesy half grins for your mini-rant, but it was obvious no one in the entire bar was on board with you. Everyone liked them and what you said was just ridiculous. I could not have been more mortified, embarrassed or ashamed of you being my father at that moment. I could not have imagined anyone saying that about such a nice woman, let alone someone she no doubt considered friendly, and always said hello to by name. The total absurdity of your comment aside, let us look at this a little closer.
So there you stood, in all your glory, feeling completely comfortable making fun of someones appearance. Did I mention all your glory, physically? Cut off jean shorts exposing the better part of your chopstick legs, shirt from Reagans first term, 6'1"/137 pounds, (with two pockets full of change) at most six teeth in your entire head, which you are smart enough to never let see the light of day, and overall shaped like a question mark. Someone should have said “Hey Charlie smile! Let's see the dirty half-dozen you're rocking up there!" But of course no one did. You know why? Because you are one of a kind. Fortunately.
I do not remember exactly when it was, but at some point you had a quarter-hearted suicide attempt. I use the word "attempt" VERY loosely. You took some pills and drank some booze, stumbled over to your neighbors house for "one last cigarette" and "collapsed", after telling her what you had imbibed. Not exactly a home run swing there champ. At this same time Stacey had her house for sale. She had gotten married and it was vacant. When you got out of the hospital she said you could stay there for free for a while, to help you get back on your feet. Her house was listed on the real estate market and all she asked was that you kept the utilities paid. Her house needed to be ready to be shown to prospective at buyers at any time.
You moved into her nice little house and settled back into your routine. Several months later you moved out, and in with Susie, a nurse who took pity on you at the hospital. Shortly after, Staceys realtor arrived with a prospective buyer and noted that every single utility was shut-off. You had not paid ONE SINGLE utility bill and timed your get away perfectly, just before they were shut off. Some show of gratitude to you daughter for her loving generosity. Fast forward a couple of years. I had enlisted in the Air Force, and had six months before I left for basic training. The lease on my duplex was set to end several months before I was leaving town. You told me I should move in with you for the last couple of months before I left. You said it would be a chance for me to save some money. I did not realize until after I moved in the savings you were speaking of was that of splitting your rent.
I left for basic training in February of 2004. I had my car insurance set to be switched to a ‘storage’ policy the day after I left. The plan had been set for some time. You were going to drop me off at the recruiters’ office and take my car straight to Uncle Jimmys. It was to remain there, in storage, until I got out of training. But for some reason my car never made it to Uncle Jimmys. You drove it around under insured, as if it were your own, without my knowledge. Several weeks later it broke down. Your solution was to drop my keys into my mothers’ mailbox with a note telling her where my broken down car could be found. But at least you had a plan for her. You told her to get her AAA to cover towing it. Your problem solving skills are legendary.
So time goes on and at some point you get junk mail of mine, a credit card application. You proceed to apply for the credit card, as me, and add yourself to the account. You had the card for eight months before I found out. By the time I did, "I" had a credit card I was not aware of, with a $5,000 credit limit, and an almost $8,000 balance. I did not even know that was possible. It was, thanks to you not having not made a payment for months, after charging the card past its credit limit. Your response when I confronted you was to lie. Once you were pinned down, your exact words were "ah it's not really that big of a deal." That was finally it for me.
CHAPTER FIVE
So here we are 10 years later. I continue to be amazed at how much people put up with from you. After writing all this down, I see I was guilty of the same thing. I told Cathy the correct analogy for you was a turd bouncing and skidding through life. It leaves smears and stains on everything it touches. But for some reason it never gets flushed. Inexplicably people just spray it with potpourri, and it continues to bounce and skid down the road. That is you. Turd.
I do not beat women or children, or abuse animals, but am keenly aware of the negative influence of both your 'nature' in me, as well as the small amount of 'nurture' from you I was exposed to. I put a great amount of effort into attempting to never respond to any situation as I know you would. You are the little demon in me I fight. And then I think of Billy and Doug. I hate to even imagine what else you put those poor boys through, what I am aware of is horrific enough. As you know both are in prison, Billy for murder and Doug for drug manufacturing. I wonder where they would be now if they never met you. Do you ever wonder? Of course not.
Just a few for the road. You steal your salt/pepper shakers and silverware from restaurants. You stole Susies sons’ identity and put your home phone is his name. You sullied you own DEAD MOTHERS name by keeping the money your brothers gave you to pay things in her name after she passed. Ready for one of my favorites? You never served in the military but used a MADE UP military service number to join the VFW!!! I wonder what stories you tell there.
Now this part may surprise you. I am a Christian now, and part of my reason for writing this letter was to offer you forgiveness. So I forgive you father, for everything you have done to me. I forgive you and advise you to turn your life over to the Lord, and be saved through the blood Christ Jesus shed on the cross for us. Your eternal soul depends on it. As a Christian I implore you to do so, but as a man I sure hope you do not. I am still working out the kinks of my new found faith, or maybe it is just that pesky little demon.
You are a pregnant wife beater, paraplegic child abuser, animal abuser, identify thief, common thief, non-child support paying fraudulent military (non) veteran. It is hard to believe you are a real person and not the villain from a movie script the Lifetime channel rejected for being too depressing. And the worse thing of all is that you are my FUCKING FATHER.
Submitted October 04, 2015 at 06:47AM by jeffreydean74 http://ift.tt/1VxsUSa offmychest
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