PLEASE, DADDY!

This is going to be a tough essay to write. I have lived for almost 64 years, and I am just now getting around to putting down on "paper" what has become probably the most terrifying memory that I have, listening to my drunken father threatening to come upstairs and kill my 11-year-old self as I lay in my bed, presumably sleeping, but actually eavesdropping in abject horror on his drunken rantings.

I STILL, to this day, have in my bedside table drawer (the same table I had by my bed as a child) the cast-iron swag-lamp counterweight that I kept handy after the swag-lamp fell apart. I was determined to whack my Old Man in the head as hard as I could if he dared show his drunken mug in my bedroom. I truly believed he would make good on his threats, and I was as prepared as I could be. If I faked being asleep, perhaps I could take him by surprise and beat his fucking brains out before he was able to do something to me. I was as serious as a heart attack. I had resolved to beat his head as many times as I could with the counterweight. I knew I had to kill him first before he killed me.

I spent about 5 years coping with this, from about Age 11 to Age 16, in rural North Carolina. I entered boarding school right after my 16th birthday, so all I had to fear then were my schoolmates! My father's drunken threats were not happening every night, but it was random enough to keep me on my toes all the time.

My father was a pretty nice person if he was not drunk, but if he WAS drunk, then he was like Mr. Hyde to Dr. Jekyll. My mother was worthless; he would beat the shit out of her if she got in his way. I used to surreptitiously watch him do that. I should have killed him anyway, like the mad dog he was! She was a horrible enabler in any event, wishing to keep surface appearances smooth, but that was typical of the times.

As the oldest, with his name and same birth-date, I think I reminded him of himself, and as he was obviously into self-loathing, it manifested as a death wish on me. He was really fucked up. If I look back on it, I think his father probably ignored him unless he was being punished. I think his father was a royal prick. But, those are after-the-fact speculations. I was not given to that much in-depth analysis when I was a child.

My father was a raging "juice-freak," an alcoholic, and I am sorry for that burden he had to carry. He quit drinking about two years before dying right after his 60th birthday in 1977 (about 8 days after Elvis!), but he was an overweight, heavy smoker, and it got him. I am fat now, but I don't smoke, thankfully. I like my beer, but I don't get drunk anymore, though I have done so in the past. I don't want to walk in his shoes.

As for forgiveness, I readily accept the necessity of doing that to free myself from the grip of this terror that still rages in my memory, but I am not there yet. Some years thereafter he tried to assault me while drunk, and I beat his ass horribly. I beat him until he stayed away from me. I was about 22 years old at the time. He never threatened or fucked with me thereafter. Served him right.

I won't forgive him. Not yet. Maybe never. If you think I should well, fuck you, too!