Thursday, May 11, 2006

A Situation So Much Worse Than Mine

I was reading a blog earlier this evening, and about two paragraphs down, I began to realize that this woman's life is much worse than mine. I might moan and groan about how much I hate my father, and how I'm never going back, just because of all the little trivialities and wrongs that have been done to me. I swear that I don't care what he thinks and I don't care what happens; bring it on. I remember one time, in eighth grade, he got angry with me on the car ride back to Mom's. He couldn't control his anger (somewhat ironic because two years before this occurance, he was strongly convinced that I needed anger management classes). He pulled the car over on the side of the road and started yelling at me that I wasn't paying him the respect he deserved. I don't know what respect he assumed that was because, according to my belief system, respect is earned and he had done nothing to earn the respect he claimed I owed. I remember telling him my belief (not the second part) and then he unbuckled his seat-belt and came storming over to my side of the car. If I had been smarter, I would have locked the door. He wrenched open my door and threw the history book that I was using to do my homework into the back and chucked the soda I had been drinking out into the empty field behind him, threatening to whip me with a belt. When he was back in the car, just sitting there yelling at me, I started thinking that the nearest town wasn't that far away and I could just walk there and call my mom to come pick me up. I told him this and unbuckled my seat belt, reaching for the door handle. He grabbed the metal part of the belt, keeping me in my place as he accelerated, still yelling at me, and driving on the side of the road. He scared me so much that day, and although I've talked about it numerous times with a few different people, I still can't get over it.
When I learned that he had threatened my sister (well, step-sister) with an aluminum baseball bat, telling her that if she and her friends weren't quiet, he would make it as red as her cherry-colored sweatshirt, I freaked out and talked to B.A, his wife and she claimed that it was an analogy that he shouldn't have drawn. I remember yelling at her, telling her that she was stupid and recounting the story that only my mother knew about at the time. She called my father in and made me retell it, mainly focusing on what he said to M.R. I don't think she ever really believed me about what happened in the car that day. I don't think anyone but my mother ever will.
Then there are the days that we get together and have a great time. I hate these days the most because they give me the illusion that my dad isn't a bad guy. He's the man that I always had fun with as a little girl, the one who got me a cat before I developed an allergy. The one who picked me up after-school every other Friday, just to spend the weekend with me. The one who took me to awesome places where we had pictures taken of the two of us, me looking happier than ever. The one that I went on bike rides with who never claimed to not have enough money or time to come see me. If I knew that dad now, I would want to make an effort. But I don't, and hence the funeral of that character.


NeverEnough said...

It's hard for people to understand that even abusive people have good in them. I can't for the life of me understand my mother, who loved her dad til the day he died, even though he raped her and her two sisters when they were little. I always thought this was insane, until Mitch died and everyone told me I should hate him. Separating those feelings is so difficult, but you seem to understand that.Anway, sorry for my rambling. Great post.