Want Me To Give You Something To Cry About?

As a kid, trying to appease my step dad was like constantly pushing against a door with tornado on the other side. It always blew back open.

Then as a teenager, my emotions and self-will started to spill beyond the intimidation of him I felt.

When I was 15, I was with a group of friends who were caught with alcohol. I had never touched alcohol. I was terrified of it—in fact, sobriety had been a sacred vow to myself.

Don’t give me that bullshit. No one is going to be around beer an not drink.

On top of having my vow be called a lie, my punishment was harsher than any of my drinking friends. I lost my temper like I never had before and the next day he said:

I’m turning all control of you over to you’re mother. You’re out of control.

Bullies want easy targets and indeed, the older I got, the the more he backed off. And the more he backed off, the more shut the door felt—like turning the second, then third lock. And with each lock-turn I relaxed more.

I was so focused to not disturbing the fragile peace, I didn’t recognize the next two years as a decrescendo of his volatile behavior.

By the time he moved out, we had a very civil relationship. When ge got remarried two years later, I went to his wedding. I even went to his new house for dinners.

At 22, after a time of that shut door feeling safely shut, memories from all the years of abuse started to visit me: Blaming me for our dog being run over, holding my head under water, the constant yelling. One by one, these memories shocked me.

I stopped thinking of him as someone I simply smoothed out a bumpy past with. I stopped going to his house for dinner. I stopped talking to him.

I un-forgave him.

In art school I started working with images of dead civil war soldiers and of burly men who scared me.

In critiques, it didn’t resonate with others when I explained that these were to do with my complicated relationship with masculinity. But when I related my feelings about masculinity with stories about my step dad, I was told:

That is what this work is about, your step dad. Focus on that.

With a typewriter, I typed out a list of events and things he said.

• I was his scapegoat.
• I was a mosquito.
• I took it.
• I was the excess baggage that came with wife.
• Memory of his voice makes me scared.
• If I looked too comfortable on the couch he’d make me clean the yard.
• I had to weed his garden for summer vacation.
• He made me run laps in the hay field because I was fat.
• He took credit.
• His new TV was off limits.
• His new VCR was off limits.
• The stereo was off limits.
• He ran over a kitten in a driveway and pretended not to notice, even after it’s crying six year old owner did.
• I lived under his roof.
• I owed him.
• My friends didn’t stay the night.
• When he ate barbeque, the sauce would drizzle down his forearm.
• When brushed his teeth, the toothpaste would drizzle down his forearm.
• When I became better than him at bad mitten, he made a rule that I had to serve it directly to him.
• When I told him to fuck off he chased me into the back yard, pushed me onto the hood of the car, punched my face, and said “you’re going to learn some respect”.
• He choked my mom once.
• His potato chips were off limits.
• His lunch meat was off limits.
• He almost caused a car accident, then ignored the driver trying to confront him.
• I threw up after a bowl of oatmeal. He made me eat another bowl.
• When he got mad while driving, he he would turn up the music loud and drive fast.
• Once, when I was winning an argument, he interjected: “If you want to get physical, we’ll get physical.”

By the end of college, I had just begun to recognize the feelings that I had to stuff to survive living it.

The year I graduated college, at my sister’s high school graduation party, I saw him for the first time in several years.

When he greeted me, I felt obliged to be polite and so I returned his hug.

Who he didn’t realize was also at this party was his son from a previous marriage, whom he hadn’t seen in 19 years. My sister’s half sibling. My step brother until he and his sister heartbreakingly, suddenly, stopped visiting when I was five. The neutered explanation was that it was over a child support dispute.

Then someone at the party spilled the beans to my step dad.

From his comments over the years I could tell it was deeply painful for him to have lost his children. I thought his reaction would have been to burst into tears of love and run with open arms and an aching heart. Or tears from devastating shame, for his actions that were the real cause of his absence, and a thousand of “I’m sorry”s on his lips.

But instead, he said, with cold contempt:

Who invited him?

He was still exactly the person I grew up with, he had no capacity to take responsibility for himself. Despite that, he tried to make an apology to me.

Weeks prior, he asked my mom what year I was born. The fact that he didn’t know made me think of a gift he gave me as a kid.

This is a set of US coins sealed in this case. Never open it because it will be a collector’s item one day. It’s from your birth year.

Despite only being able to look at them, I liked studying their shiny newness and the details on the coins. Including the year. Which was not the year I was born. I was baffled how, as an adult, let alone my father figure, didn’t know what year I was born. I knew his birth date and I was just a kid.

Ahead of the party, his question made me wonder if he planned to give me a gift for my own college graduation. Then I wondered if my growing distance the past couple of years had prompted an amends from him, which I knew was part of 12 Step programs.

At the end of the party, he pulled me aside. He had a wrapped gift, about the size of a sealed set of US coins.

I have something for you.

If this was a amend, I knew, like my polite hug, I would have felt obligated to just say “that’s ok”, pouring water on my fragile uncovering of the hurt and anger that I was just starting to find access to.

Even if I could see the depth and shape of all the hurt, my self esteem was still an ant hill and my words to say how I really felt would not have come to me. And despite all the hurt I received from him, I was afraid to hurt his feelings. So I said:

Give that to me another time.

He said “okay”, walked away, and that was the last conversation I’ve had with him.

I hoped he would take my meaning as:

I support what you’re trying to do for your own recovery and maybe even to help me heal. But I’m not in a place to receive it, though I’m open to it down the road.

But he didn’t. Years later he complained to my mom:

That stuff is in the past and I’ve changed. I tried to make amends with him but he wouldn’t accept it. The ball is in his court.

Really?

With all of the effort he put into terrorizing and bullying me, that’s all the effort he could muster for an apology?

And if he’s telling himself that since 12 Step says not to make amends if it will harm the other person and therefore he’s respecting my boundaries by waiting for me to tell him that “another time” could be now, I say: how convenient that when he’s finally thinking of what’s good for me is when it means he doesn’t have to take responsibility for himself.

My step dad is an alcoholic. I’ve heard stories of his wild drinking years. The vile things he’s done to other people, the drunk driving and totaled cars, my mom coming home to find him drunk with his friends and I had been crying in my crib for hours.

I lived those years but don’t remember them. What I remember is the desperate rollercoaster of him trying to get sober.

Six weeks dry, then suddenly the dam would break and he’d come home drunk, yelling and raging. In the aftermath came apologies, AA meetings, my willing forgiveness, and my hope would renew.

Maybe this time.

I loved AA. To me, it was—and is—the most noble of pursuits. To take responsibility for whatever baggage someone has inherited, be honest with themself, and have the courage to change behaviors so they don’t hurts others.

I went to some Alateen meetings, eager to do my part. After our meetings we’d sometimes stay while he chatted with people. He talked the talk of serenity and humility and tolerance. He was so calm and reasonable. When he laughed he seemed like a normal person. He’d look at me with kind eyes and on the drive home repeat concepts from the meetings. I saw glimpses the father I hoped for.

Maybe this time.

But over the weeks I’d sense irritation building. His old tone of voice, bizarre accusations, and unpredictable arguments crept back.

The dam would break again. And with each break, the flood was more destructive. When it was clear just AA wasn’t enough, he agreed to try rehab. He went for a weekend. Another time, for a week.

After each one, I thought:

Surely, this time.

One night, not even while drinking, he lathered himself into a rage that resulted in a fist fight with my uncle, who bested him (I wish I had seen that). It ended with my step dad crying on the floor, facing with how powerless he was over his problems. By dawn my mom and uncle were checking him into rehab. For a month.

After two weeks we could visit. We saw his bedroom. In the common room he introduced us and showed us around. There was a pop machine and TV and friendly people. He was talking the talk and this time he seemed to really be changing. He had a new Serenity Prayer bracelet. I took this, along with his prolonged stay, as a new commitment.

This was the most relaxed month I ever had in my own home. It felt like the greatest gift until I found out we were picking him up on my twelfth birthday.

My previous birthday was at an arcade. Total joy. This one was anxiety and disappointment. On the way to pick him up we stopped at the gas station. As a birthday treat I was allowed a Mountain Dew plus TWO cans of shredded beef jerky—the kind made to replicate cans of chewing tobacco. I felt sophisticated. It was nice. But still, I hated ending my month of bliss by picking him up on my fucking birthday.

He hugged us and said how much he loved us. He seemed renewed. Mild and warm and jovial. We had a cake for him and he loved it. He cried a little. In the car ride home he remarked about it.

That was a great cake, what a nice surprise. Thank you.

It was more than we usually got, this thankfulness. I felt obliged to return it.

Well, you gave us plenty of time to prepare.

He laughed. Then he laughed some more—a deep belly laugh.

That is funny, Nate. That is really funny.

It felt odd, him laughing so hard. It wasn’t that great of a joke. I took it as typical adult-underestimating of how sophisticated and observant kids actually are. And also, lack of knowing me—knowing I had wit. But, like this whole night, like his whole recovery path, I think he liked the joke because it was all about him. All on my Goddamned birthday.

Things truly seemed different after this. He was going to meetings. Many a week. He got involved with helping out. AA people started coming over socially. He seemed very serious about recovery this time.

But then he started directing his recovery slogans at us—when he thought were doing things wrong.

He was sober. And he now was paying attention. To our every move. Every week there were new rules.

Boy, I’ve had enough of you disrespecting our things. You just turn the channel dial as fast as you want, don’t you? You’re going to wear it out. Look, you turn it like this. One—channel—at—a—time.

Later, with the money we were saving from not buying beer and got we got a new TV. And I was not allowed to touch it.

Because kids don’t take care of things.

The VCR was off limits. And his stereo.

My grades went bad. Instead of helping me with homework he established a new rule, one he heard about in rehab.

I am putting you on academic probation. For the rest of the semester, every day you will come home from school and you will do homework. If you finish in under an hour you will read from encyclopedias for the remainder of the hour. If you have no homework, which you shouldn’t, you will read form encyclopedias.

At that age, instead of a daily show, I sometimes just washed my hair. From my knees I bent over the side of the tub to get under the faucet. One morning I left the shampoo bottle.

Boy, did you let the shampoo spill out in the bathtub?!

What?

Answer me.

I don’t know. I guess. I didn’t mean to.

You guess so? When are you going to take some responsibility? You’re not the only one who uses shampoo and you’re not the one paying for it. I’m sick of you just taking. You’re grounded and you are going to pay to replace that shampoo.

Not that I had money. Or an income. I was twelve. And did the cost of our cheap shampoo deserved this? I stayed quiet, not wanting to engage with the new tangled maze of slogans he now used to dissipate my attempts to defend myself.

During this period I still constantly worried about him drinking. Always on the anxious look out for signs. At a party, I saw him at the keg. My heart dropped. I mustered the courage to gently confronted him.

Daaad? What are you doing?

He didn’t look up at me, just continued pouring.

I’m getting this for your mother.

He brought it over to her, which I guess, proved his power over his drinking.

But eventually he wouldn’t allow her any habits that he had given up. He insisted she go to Alanon and work her own program.

One day he pulled me aside.

Now that I’m sober I see things clearly. Your mother is still engaging in old, sick way of doing things. Alcoholism is a family disease and your mother needs help. And I’m going to need your help when we have an intervention.

He listed the family members he would call on and how it all would happen.

He believed if something was a problem for him, it was a problem for everyone else. If he was going to work on it, so was everyone else. To his satisfaction.

The intervention fizzled and so did the warmth from when he first came home.

For the remaining years I lived with him, though I feared he’d drink again, I think he only did one or two more times.

“Maybe this time” turned into a “long period of time”, not of serenity, but of tension. Of sharp water lapping the top of the damn and the sounds of it cracking, always threatening a break. The pieces of debris constantly coming down were what I dealt with daily.

Maybe this is what it’s like inside him. Constant turmoil with how he feels about the world and himself. And now that alcohol wasn’t his distraction and reprieve from it, tormenting us took its place.

I never would have guessed that things would be worse after he got sober.

I slept on the couch every other week. My sister and I traded off so one could always have our bedroom. I liked sleeping on the couch. I still do. Having 90 degree softness feels like a hug.

There was commotion when my step dad got up at 5:30 for work, but I didn’t mind it.

With my back turned and my eyes shut in partial sleep, I never knew exactly what his routine was. I heard the opening and closing of the fridge. I heard him walking back and forth between the kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. I don’t remember if he ate breakfast but I loved the smell of coffee.

He played his music, which I also liked. I have a thimble size trophy case of nice memories of him. One is from one of those mornings. He was sitting in the chair next to the couch. Elton John’s Rocket Man was playing. He talked about the song and why he liked it.

I liked it when he liked things. And I liked the things he liked. They made him happy and kept his attention away from me.

In this song he liked science fiction imagery and the veiled reference to pot.

Listen to this part:

And I’m gonna get high as a kite by then.

He likes to get high, like I like to get high.

He rarely talked conversationally with me. Not like he did with his friends. Or even with the friend of mine he had things in common with. They’d stand around talking about cars—their engine sizes and model years. I always wondered how my friend even knew about these things. My step dad’s interactions with me normally fell somewhere between: transactional, lecture, interrogation, or rage.

I knew pot was illegal. And though he had always done drugs openly in front of me, him talking to me directly about it felt like intimacy.

Some mornings were not nice, however. He would wake me up to lecture me. Or he’d stomped around the house accusing my mom of hiding his keys. Or complain that he didn’t like the lunch she packed him. But still, I liked the couch.

Then, the summer I was 13, my grandpa set up his spare truck-bed camper in our yard so I could have my own bedroom. From my grandparents this kind of generosity and care about my happiness was normal. I don’t know where I’d be without them.

I was elated with the autonomy and distance from him that this gave me.

It was like having my own house. I set up my stereo and rotated through the four tapes I owned and radio stations that reached me. I let it play all night while I slept—also comforting. I snuck in snacks that I ate whenever I wanted. I went to sleep when I wanted. I heard cicadas and saw fireflies out the window, with friendly summer breezes coming through the screen. And he never came out there.

But like always, I had to pay a price for something good.

When, in early October, it got cold at night, I brought my pillow and blanket back inside to resume my couch rotation.

What are you doing, boy?

I’m sleeping on the couch.

You have a bedroom. That camper.

But it’s cold.

You have a sleeping bag.

Fuck. Why did everything have to be such an ordeal? What didn’t he like about me coming in back in? As always, this his method of expressing himself. To make nasty, stressful, angry mess of it and rub my nose in it, just like when our cats peed in the house.

But it’s really cold!

Boy, this ain’t cold. When I go hunting up north, I sleep in a sleeping bag and it’s a hell of a lot colder than this.

He was getting angry. It was a losing battle so I swallowed my pride, tears, and the shaky feeling that I had a right to seep in my own house. I grabbed my sleeping bag and went back out to the camper.

When it was warm, the wood paneling was a comfort, reminding of summer camping with my grandparents. But now its uninviting cold metal was what I noticed.

I slid into my sleeping bag and made the best of it.

How long is he going to make me sleep out here? All winter?

For the next couple of weeks it was okay. The sleeping bag was warm enough.

But each October night got colder. I’d zip it up all the way, leaving just my eyes, nose, and mouth exposed. I watched my breath, lit up by the yard light coming through the window.

My face would get so cold I had to submerge into the sleeping bag, but eventually I had to come up for air.

In the morning, the chill would be deep in my bones. Luckily he was gone to work by then. I could take a long shower to warm up and not worry about him accusing me of wasting his hot water and money.

As arbitrary as his rules were set, he would unset them. At some point he let me back in.

I don’t know what triggered him when I asked to come back inside. Did he like it when I was gone? My therapist once asked me if I thought he liked me. I had to really think about it. Despite those thimble-trophy of nice moments, I honestly don’t think he did. He didn’t understand me. I liked drawing and making things. I was soft spoken and gentle. When we went fishing, I felt guilty watching the worms squirm for their lives when I put the hooks through them. And I had no idea about engine sizes and model years.

Maybe he resented the kindness and privilege my grandpa showed me. Or maybe he thought I was being soft and spoiled, worried I wouldn’t be able handle difficulties as an adult if I couldn’t handle this trivial discomfort.

What it taught me was to have a high tolerance for self deprivation.

Which is helpful when I can’t have things I don’t need but want.

But not helpful when there are things I need but don’t know how to get.

Things for my health and happiness. Like when I was constantly broke because I didn’t know how to ask to be paid what I was worth—resulting in me not seeing a doctor for 20 years. Or losing a tooth from not seeing a dentist for 10 years. Or not getting into therapy for all of this until I was 36.

After I came back inside, the angry party of me wanted to speak up. But in order to survive my life, I swallowed it. I went back to the couch and pretending to be asleep when he was around. And it was still comforting. Because this was the closest I could be to my step dad and feel safe.

I got a new bike for Christmas. There was no waiting until spring or even for the ice to melt—I took it out and road back and forth in front of our house all morning. Even with the slipping and sliding and wobbly control I had, I still got that feeling of freedom that came with a bike.

Even without snow cover, the gravel on our road made the bike hard to control. I had more than one nasty crash just from hitting the brakes too hard while going down a hill. I still have scars on my knee. If the road grader hadn’t come in a few weeks, a high frequency of ridges would form and riding over them was like laying on the dryer. I could feel the vibration for the next half hour.

That summer they paved our road. As soon as the paving trucks were out of site and the asphalt was cool enough to not melt my tires, I rode on it. Nothing had ever felt so smooth. With just a few petal cranks I could coast for a hundred feet. The 12-speed’s ticking freewheel confirmed my momentum and it felt like flying.

Freedom is what a bicycle meant to me. I could leave my house. No yelling, no tension, no watching my every move–  just wind in my face and the pleasure of inertia.

When I was first allowed to ride my bike into town, I was not daunted at all. NOt by the 3.5 miles. Not the the narrow shoulder of the country highway with semis gushing by. Not navigating an unfamiliar world of traffic and adults without my own adult there as a safety net.

This freedom and autonomy felt normal and justified. I scoffed at relying on others. There was no predicting my step dad’s rage. And since I never saw anyone effectively stand up to him. At a young age I simply concluded no one else could do anything about it and it was up to me to protect myself.

Sure, when he wasn’t around people would agree that he was a maniac. And sometimes people tried to coax his behavior in person.

Jeff, if you keep yelling at him for not holding the gun right, he’s not going to want to go hunting with us when he’s older.

He needs to listen to me!

My mom might chirp when he was unloading on me or even scold him afterwards. But it was like talking to a raging animal. All of these attempts changed nothing. Sometimes she’d intervene with more momentum.

Nayt you’re not suppose to be doing that. I need you to…

What’s going on in here!

I’m handling it, Jeff.

I said what’s going on? What’s he doing?

I said I’m handling it!

Boy, what did you do?!

Jeff, go back in the bedroom. I’ll handle this.

Most of the time he brushed her aside and grilled me about whatever he decided was my offense, twisting each of my answers into deeper admissions of guilt.

Sometimes he would back off. But that was like seeing my neighbor’s house destroyed by a hurricane, knowing it would swing out over the ocean, gain momentum, and circle back to destroy my house.

As an adult I’ve learned of family members who stood up to him behind the scenes on my behalf, which makes me very grateful and amazes me. But back then I knew nothing of that, I concluded was I the only one I could rely on.

So the autonomy of riding my bike into town felt like being rewarded for the job I had been doing for years.

I saw friends in town and swam in their pools. We went to the store and indulged in treats. Pop. Candy. Gum. Hostess fruit pies. It was great.

One Saturday that summer I asked if I could go into town. When asking him for something, my stomach always twisted.

Dad, can I ride my bike into town?

What for?

Just to hang out with my friend.

Why do you need to do that?

I don’t need to, I just want to.

You think you get everything you want?

No, it’s just that it’s Saturday and I already fed and watered the dogs and I don’t have any homework.

Silence.

Fine. But you will be back by 3:00PM. Do you hear me, boy?

Yes. Thank you!

When he sad yes, I often felt guilty, like I was getting away with something. He would cite it as reason to deny my next request.

Didn’t you JUST do something last weekend, boy? All you do is take.

But that day it didn’t slow me down. It was 1:00PM. The ride into town was twenty five minutes, so I had just over an hour. That meant I didn’t have time to see friends or go to the store if I wanted my very favorite in-town activity.

The pizza parlor’s arcade room was the greatest place in the world. Nothing took me out of my tense emotional state like video games. They felt so advanced and sophisticated, like the older kids who hung out there. And it was all cloaked in the smell of pizza.

I pedaled fast. Semis gushed past me pulling me into their wake. In town I sped past my self-defined obstacle course of ditches and curbs to jump over.

I walked in and the beeping sounds and 8-bit melodies transported me. I dropped in quarter after quarter and the memory of my whole intense life evaporated. I played all my favorite games, some more than once. It felt good to be good at something so fun and exciting.

The hour went by fast. It was time to leave. But I was right there with all those good feelings just another quarter away. I couldn’t bare to willingly turn my back on them. Saying no to myself felt like I was piling on to all the bad feelings I consistently received from my step dad.

I dropped in another quarter. My anxiety went away and I was instantly deep in the game. When it finished it was 2:45. I had 15 minutes for a 25 minute ride.

Fuck.

As I kicked up my kickstand and pedaled away I couldn’t stop chiding myself.

Why did I do that? Why did I do that? He’s never going to let me ride my bike again. I’m going to get yelled for an hour.

There was no slack with him. Five seconds late brought the same fire and fury as five hours. Sometimes more. Effort and intention didn’t matter. Good or bad reasons didn’t matter.

Close only counts in horseshoes, boy.

I pedaled as hard as I could with no breaks for coasting. Through town, past the grocery store, past the cemetery, past the used car lot, past the apartment buildings. My legs burned.

I turned onto my road for the final mile and a half. Glancing at my watch I could see it would be close.

I rode up and down hills, past farm houses and hay fields. My legs were numb but the adrenaline from anticipating the yelling kept them going. I trudged up the final hill and I started rehearsing my futile defense.

I’m sorry, my watch was off.

I’m sorry, my bike had a flat.

I’m sorry, there was a car wreck.

I’m sorry, I saw a teacher in town and they wanted to talk to me.

For each excuse I could instantly heard all his rebuttals, reasonable and unreasonable. But underlying was the fact that I was indeed late. And I believed if I was wrong, no matter how small, another person had the right to any level of retaliation, no matter how big.

I was pushing my twelve year old body to its limit was to avoid this yelling. The fatigue of having been yelled at so many times in my life made mild yellings feel an arrows shot in my calf and big ones like boulders crushing me.

I turned off our smooth road into our gravel driveway. Between the momentum and my panic, the bike slid from under me. My knee took the weight of me, skidding for two feet before I stopped.

The yelling I was anticipating masked any pain I was feeling. I jumped up, ran across the yard, up the steps, and in the door. I stood in the entryway with sweat coming down my face and blood down my knee. I looked at the clock. I was five minutes late. I look at the couch under the clock. My step dad was asleep.

I couldn’t believe it. I crept past him to the bathroom, using every ounce of effort I had to keep my gasping deep breaths from waking him.

The pain set in. It was sharp and deep every time the washcloth touched to the wound as I tried to clean out the dust and pebbles and blood. It was also dull and burned from the friction of scraping across the gravel.

But that day I avoided his anger. Which was worse than a 40 ton semi passing two feet from me. Worse than any danger I could imagine happening to me, being 12 years old, out on my own. And worse than a bloody, burning knee.

I felt so lucky.

One of our two vacations was to an amusement park. In preparation, my mom and step dad gave seven-year-old-me this talk:

It’ll be very important that you stay close to us. There will be a lot of strangers there and some are very bad people. There are people called perverts and homosexuals who like to do bad things to little boys. On the news, there was a man waiting in a public bathroom for boys who were by them selves and he cut off their penises.

I imagined the amusement park’s bathroom. Behind the door, a crouching man, holding a knife, and a pile of little penises stacked behind him like a pile of  potato peelings. I stuck close to them and though all the bathroom stops were terrifying, no one cut off my penis.

When I was twelve and my sister five, we had rare day of getting along. I was sitting the table in our shared bedroom where she was putting makeup on me. Lipstick, eyeshadow, and rouge. She dressed me with necklaces and rings. It was sweet to see her imagination and have physical contact with her that wasn’t our usual antagonizing nudging and pushing.

The thud of the front door meant my step dad was home from work. The roulette wheel spun in my nervous system, anticipating his mood.

Whenever my sister and I fought, I tried to keep our tones hushed because he always assumed I was at fault and yelled at me for antagonizing his daughter. So I imagined that it would please him so see us playing nicely.

He stopped at our bedroom door. He stared. My mind raced for a way to explain what I could see disturbed him. But my sister, unaware of the tension, explained:

I’m dressing him up like a girl!

I realized there is no way he will think this is okay. I was consistently criticized for not living up to manly standards with physical labor or enjoying hunting, fishing, or cars.

I hated it when he was out in the yard working on his car. It was an angry, frustrated affair, with him yelling, swearing, and throwing tools. The wrench would slip and he’d hit his cold knuckles against the hard metal.

Goddamn-it-son-of-a-bitch-mother-fucker!

Or he’d be set off if he didn’t have a tool he needed. I’d be inside trying to get lost in TV to dull the tension of hearing him heat up.

Nathan! Get me a crescent wrench!

Not that I knew what that was. Not that he ever explained the names of tools. I was just expected me to know. I’d quickly jump up and look through the drawer of wrenches. They all looked the same to me. If I had clarity of mind I might be able to read their labels for clues. One of them might have said CRESCENT in big letters. But I couldn’t have read it because my mind was panicking, knowing he’s about to yell and ask what the fuck is taking so long?

This isn’t a crescent wrench, boy. Are you stupid!? Now go get it!

If I eventually brought out right tool, I struggled to guess whet to do next. Stand and wait for another task? Go inside and stay out of his way? Holding the flashlight for him was the same problem as the wrenches.

Goddamn it, I said shine it on the alternator! No, the alternator!

Years later he explained that I didn’t know how to fix my own car because when he was working on his own, I never came out and asked him to teach me.

With eyeshadow and lipstick on my face and these memories flashing though my mind, it was suddenly crystal clear that he would not approve of this and our getting along would score no points. I was surprised when he didn’t yell. Only a stern declaration:

I ain’t raising no fruitcake.

He continued down the hall to his bedroom. I felt ashamed. Not from how I was dressed or the innocent play, but because I failed to anticipate how this would give him yet another reason to see me as vile as whatever fruitcake meant to him. Vile like the pervert with the pile of penises. I added this to my own pile of ways to, at all times, to remember how to behave in order to control his impression of me.

Years later my mom ran across some school work shortly after our amusement park trip. Among the questions about interests and aspirations, it asked:

What do you want to be when you grow up?

I didn’t express fanciful desires to be an astronaut or firefighter or whatever captured the imagination of seven year olds. Or an artist, which was likely what I actually wanted. In wanting to just not be the shameful, vile person my stepdad saw me as, I wrote:

I do not want to be a homosexual.

I can still smell the gun cleaning oil from the Saturday afternoons my step dad cleaned his rifles. He cleared off the living room coffee table, spread out a towel and all disassembled rifle parts. He sat on the couch, legs spread wide in cutoff jean shorts and usually no shirt.
Cigarette smoke and his music filled the room.

He was fast, thorough, and efficient.

The brush plunger went in and out of the barrel. The rags applied the oil to all the dark metal pieces and wood handle.

It was strange to see something so violent be so unmanifested. And unnerving to see how effectively this walking-temper had command over it.

Once I found a gun hidden in a closet. But the rest were visible on gun racks in his bedroom and the living room.

Also visible in the a living room ceiling tile was a hole. It had burnt and scored edges. It was about a inch in diameter, big enough to snugly fit a shotgun shell. Which is what made the hole.

It didn’t seem strange. It was familiar like the curtains and other things in the room.

Apparently, I was in the room playing on the floor when it accidentally went off. But I don’t remember it.

Hearing gunshots was normal. I heard target practicing in the back yard, shooting a stray animal, or shooting into the air to shut up our barking dogs.

Our neighbors shot guns. The father was a thick, muscular, bearded man, who had literally worked on the railroads. He scared me. His two sons were both older and manlier than me.

I think my step dad looked up to him because while shooting, he would adopt their southern accent.

When they moved back to Alabama we took one of our two family vacations to visit. Down there, my step dad was in heaven. All us men fished from early morning until afternoon. We came back and cleaned the fish.  While the women fried the fish, we shot guns.

The barn was across the dirt road. It had a vague wooden fence that kept unseen farm animals who had worn all the surrounding barn yard to red dirt. We set up cans on stumps and dirt piles.
They took turns shooting their powerful and loud ride. It energized all of them and intimidated me.

The neighbor, my step dad, and the oldest son shot, then they handed it to me.

Your turn.

The rifle scared me but I knew it was my duty to do this.

I raised the heavy rifle to my shoulder.

Now it’s got a kick so hold it right to your shoulder.

It’s hard for a ten year old to hold steady a long, heavy gun. It wavered and the target veered back and forth nearing the gun’s sights.

Remember, don’t pull the trigger, squeeze it.

I knew better than to ask what the fuck the difference between pulling and squeezing was.

When the target was finally as close as it was going to get I pulled the trigger.
Click. Nothing happened.

Did you take the safety off?

Another paradox.

Goddamn it, what did I tell you? Keep the safety on, aim until the target is lined up, then turn the safety off and fire.

This made no sense to me. I could barely hold the gun steady with two hands, using one to take off the safety meant completely re-aiming.

That’s like hiking five miles into the woods and setting up a tent. Then disassembling it, packing it up, hiking out of the woods, hiking back into the woods, setting up then tent, taking off the safety, and only then sleeping in it.

I took the safety off and fired.

It kicked hard and my shoulder ached. It was so loud. The gunpowder smell, the Alabama heat, and their eyes were all on me.

I tried to hand it back.

That’s all you want to shoot, boy?

Yeah.

Why?

…I don’t know.

Why? Did it hurt your shoulder?

This kind of question was a trap. “Yes” might require me to shoot several more times until I learn to not let my shoulder be hurt.

So I gave my most neutral shrug because being apathetic was much better than being a pussy.

I’ll take his turn!

The other son gladly took the gun and hit the target on his second shot. My step dad looked at me with disdain.

If we were alone together he would have lecture or yelled. Or with rough hands put the gun back in my arms, jammed the butt into my shoulder, jerked my hands where they belonged with proper grip, push my head toward the sight. And if the barrel hit my cheek bone he’d never notice.

When we were alone he did not contain his temper.

Recently my uncle told me what happened that day we were alone together in the living room.

Jeff confessed to me that you were doing that pissed him off. He was yelling at you with the shotgun in his hand. He lost his temper and shot off the gun.

I guess he took off the safety and squeezed the trigger.

When I was fifteen my mom finally had enough and we moved out.

The trailer that my mom, sister, and I left was small and drafty. Its windows were propped open in the summer by sticks. I had lived there since I was three, so it was all I knew. We mover to the other side of town, to another trailer. Now I rode a new school bus, had a different bedroom, and a whole other spectrum of kids lived nearby.

One neighbor kid had made a small hockey rink on the shallow pond behind his house. He could really skate and handle a puck. I just had fun slipping around in my tennis shoes with my usual high-effort to make up for low-effectiveness.

With one less parent on duty I got more time home alone.

I tried to cook the lonely blueberry pie from the freezer. I bypassed the ridiculous oven directions and calculated a more reasonable cooking time in the microwave. After ten minutes, the pie filling got plenty hot, but the dough was not crisp and golden—it was still soft and goopy. Still, I ate what I could.

Even with late night snack mishaps, and even though my mom emphasized this was just a trial separation, it was still an answer to all my hopes.

He was gone.

But it was as nice for me as it was painful for my sister. He didn’t abuse her the way he did me. He was her real father and he showed her love.

Her loss came out sideways. She had meltdowns every morning as my mom tried to get her ready for school.

It was so stressful. It felt like the goopy dough. I avoided it when I could. I went outside early to wait for the bus. In the evenings I’d hang out with the new neighborhood kids, or ride my bike into town to go to the store or play video games.

I could see this was really hard on my mom. I overheard her on the phone wonder how she was going to pay rent and manage us kids with the stress of doing it all on her own.

At first he was resentful at my mom’s “disloyalty” and resentment. There would be harsh, sharp words between them as he dropped off my sister after a visitation. I stayed in my bedroom, thinking I wouldn’t have to, even through walls, hear the angry thuds of him and his voice much longer.

Winter months past and their cold harshness gave way to a muted, pacified landscape. So too did my step dad’s fight devolve into neutrality, then aching hurt. He went from demanding that we come back, to asking, to pleading.

On one spring visitation, he gathered my mom and sister to him on the couch and wrapped his arms around them, crying into their arms.

I miss you so much. I’m sorry. Please come back.

I stood leaning in the doorway with my arms crossed, surprised by the vulnerability I didn’t know existed in him. But I was not surprised, yet again, at his obliviousness of my existence or my membership in the family that he so badly wanted back.

Between my mom’s difficulty making it on her own and my step dad’s promises to change, she took him back—on the condition that he buy us a new trailer.

So, he installed a new double wide trailer in the back yard and we moved in.

I detested returning to him. Being away from the constant fear and belittling, I started to have a new resolve that I should not accept his bullshit.

I had my own private conditions:

1) I took a vow of silence towards him.

So, how was school?

Nothing. I said nothing. I stared straight ahead like a fucking warrior. Showing myself, and this monster, that I had agency on how I behaved with him and he didn’t have a say anymore.

I was beside myself with the courage I was mustering. I never dared defy him like this before. This resolve felt like armor.

And with him being in a place of groveling, he didn’t challenge it.

2) I stopped using his last name. For my mom’s sake, I used it for logistical convenience. For my step dad I used it to try to be loved. When I was seven I brought home a drawing from school. My mom said:

Why don’t you write your name on it and use his last name to make him feel good?

I did. And I don’t think he gave a shit.

3) I also changed the spelling of my first name.

This wasn’t a direct protest to him but I was drawn to the challenge that came with it. I was prepared for it to be a pain in the ass. Answering “why” and consistently reminding people. Now I can see I what I needed to prove to myself. If was willing to change anything about myself, no matter how fundamental or difficult, I could change myself and not be like my step dad.

After weeks of silence, my step dad sat me down and told me he was going to buy me the moped I had been desperately wanting for a year.

There was nothing unclear about why he was doing this. And, for the autonomy and distance it would bring me, I happily let him buy me back.

So, my mom got a new trailer and I got a moped.

We moved in, things were better, then things eventually drifted back exactly like they were before. After two years my mom had enough again.

And again, I stood in the doorway observing while my mom and step dad sat on the couch with my sister.

We have something to talk to you about.

What, are you guys getting divorced?!

She knew immediately. My heart broke for her. She wanted this less than anything in the world. This was her mom and dad. She must have harbored so much anxiety  anticipating it all this time.

Over the next weeks, as my step dad looked for a place to live, their fighting was napalm. It had never been so loud and cruel and it cut through to my bones.

My little sister would get in between them pleading.

STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!

They ignored her. And they shouldn’t have because this must have been split her soul in half.

And then it finally happened. When I was seventeen, he moved out and they got divorced.

He was gone.

I never would have guessed that this is not where the story ended.

Up until then, my life skills centered around surviving him. I had no idea I didn’t have life skills for handling regular life.

I never would have guessed how the effects of 5800 days of being treated like a piece of shit—a selfish, lazy, burden, whom no one wants to hear what he had to say—had rooted in my self image. That underneath it all, that had become exactly my self image.

I never would have guessed how long it would take to realize this or to find ways to recover.

I never would have guessed that I also had to separate from him.

A few days after Christmas we had an awful ice storm. Everything in the world was coated in a half inch of ice. Our car and trailer, our front steps and porch, the yard, and the surrounding fields.

I would have loved exploring this enchanting world during all the free time of my Christmas break, but also covered in ice were the roads and my step dad had to stay home from work.

My week of relaxation, watching TV, feeling safe, and being myself was now replaced with avoiding this brooding chunk of muscle, whose presence dominated whatever room I shared with him. And he was more irritable than usual because the ice also brought down power lines, knocking out our electricity and heat.

There was no turning a bad situation into a good one, like bonding with hot cocoa or all snuggling together under a blanket reading a book.

There was only turning it from bad to worse, the way he treated it like a test.

We will wear long johns and bundle up. You’re cold? Go shovel the driveway. You’re bored? Boy, don’t tell me you’re bored or I’ll find you something to do you won’t like.

I was cold to my bones and I felt like there was something wrong with me for disliking it so much and not being tough.

When I go deer hunting I sleep in a cabin out in the woods and it’s just like this. My only heat is a kerosene lantern and it’s fine.

To escape the stress I put on my snowmobile suit and went outside with my new BB gun. My step dad loved guns so this felt like a safe thing to do and also helped me live up to being a man.

After shooting icicles and pop cans, I heard birds chirping. It triggered something in me. I suddenly had all the patience in the world to walk at an almost undetectable speed towards the birds.

When that scared them off I crawled, army-style, towards the next cluster of chirps. I was so focused it didn’t feel cold. When I got close enough, I took a shot. There was a small puff of feathers and the bird dropped to the snow.

I felt alive and strong in my body. This tapped into something primordial.

But when I got to the bird and saw its little chest trying to breathe, I saw another living being. I cried and felt ashamed.

I walked back towards the house until I heard another chirp, which ignited that instinct again and completely replaced the empathy I just had.

It was unnerving having these feelings reverse so involuntarily.

I wondered if this is what my step dad experienced. To have remorse, then pledges of not being cruel, then suddenly his empathy was drowned out by something, usually something I did, and the tornado was back.

For the hundredth time in my childhood, my gut wrenched, worrying if I would turn out like him.

I assumed that when he was young, he was just like everybody else and had a normal temperament. Then at some point he just kind of forgot about other people and became unaware of how his behavior effected them. And as slow as a season changing, he evolved into this monster.

Was my vanishing empathy for this little bird evidence that I was already turning into him? And if I’m just as bad as him, do I have a right to not be abused? Do I deserve it?

After four days of being cold to my bones and frazzled from stress, the electricity came back.

The first thing we did was turn on the TV. Jaws was on. Sitting with my feet over the heating vent I thawed and relaxed a little. The TV was always a nice distraction — both to keep my step dad’s focus off me, and a break from worrying when I’d get yelled at next. And if I’m going to turn into him.

 

Money was made by my step dad and it was for my step dad.

He often boasted:

All I have to do is put a roof over your head, clothes on your back, and food on the table.

And he did the bare minimum, at that.

The roof sat on top of a rickety, drafty trailer that had sticks propping open its windows in the summer. For winter insulation, my annual chore was to install a moat of hay bails surrounding the trailer’s base to supplement the thin skirting.

More than one school year my grandparents were the ones who bought me school clothes.

He loved cooking, so there was always food, but certain foods were off limits to me. Like the fancy lunch meat and kettle chips.

I seldom had spending money. In ninth grade, on a school field trip to a big-city art museum, I was amazed at the expensive, delicious, luxurious lunches my classmates bought from the fancy cafeteria. They even bought dessert. I made due with what I could afford, which was french fries.

The field trip continued with shopping at the big-city’s famous department store. I watched a classmate spend $100 on a pair of jeans – in 1987. I was amazed.

There were a couple of periods where he pledged giving me a weekly allowance.

Hey dad, it’s Friday, could I have my allowance?

I don’t have it this week. I’ll catch you up next week.

At first the delay was actually exciting as I anticipated the growing windfall. But after two months of asking, reality set in and I gave up.

Once we went to a cookout at a co-worker of my step dad’s. They had a gorgeous house out in the country. The yard was expansive and beautiful. There was lots of shade and next to the house was a pool, the ultimate symbol of wealth to me.

Then something occurred to me.

Mom, if he has the same job as dad, why do they have so much nicer of a house than us?

I guess they’re better at saving money.

I always thought we were poor, but the truth was my step dad made good money. It’s just that it was for him. New guns, fishing equipment, pot, beer, fireworks, tools, gardening supplies, and projects for his car. And fancy lunch meat.

When he did give me money, it was begrudgingly.

Like when I was going out of state on spring break with my aunt and cousins to visit my biological father’s mother.

Here. I’m giving you $20 and I expect you to spend it wisely.

This was one of the first times I had abundance on a trip.

I bought great things. A green army rain poncho at a second hand store. I loved it’s ruggedness and that no one else I knew wore something like it.

I was in heaven in the skateboard shop. They had T-shirts I only saw ever in magazines, worn by my favorite skaters. The shirts themselves were like celebrities to me, and two of them went home with me.

Glowing from my trip, I showed my step dad my bounty.

Wow, you must have found good deals to buy all this on $20.

Well, Gramma and Grampa gave me $20 too.

What?!

Emotional 180.

…yeah.

Then why were you begging money from me?

Ignoring the mischaracterization of me begging, I said:

They gave it to me after you.

Then why didn’t you save it and return it to me when you got back?

What?

I’ll repeat myself. If you didn’t need the money why did you ask for it.

I did need the money. But like I said, they gave it to me after you.

Oh, you needed it? All you do is take, take, take. Who do you think you are?

What?

You got something wrong with your hearing, boy?

Do you see his technique? He distorts reality to change the meaning of my response in order to keep batting me around.

I wanted to say I thought he gave it to me because he wanted me to have it. To have fun on vacation. That I deserved it.

But the confidence and force in his accusation, in combination with the complete anti-logic of it made me conclude I must be missing something obvious and maybe I was indeed being selfish and inconsiderate.

Yes, he put a roof over my head. But only because the roof was for him.

 

You’re Not Taking My Daughter Away.

Mr. Hyde hadn’t always turned back into Dr. Jekyll by the time we called home to see if the coast was clear.

On another escape, we hid out at a family friend’s. Their trailer, like ours, was drafty and filled with pot smoke. It sat on the property of the friend’s parent’s farm. The chaotic farm house always smelled of baby chicks and stressful work. I didn’t like it there.

The friends were counseling my mom, listening to a summary of the argument that compelled our escape.

This was one of the worst ones. He put his hands around my neck for a second. I told him ‘get your hands off my neck.’

Then he stopped?

It took a second but he did.

They talked about some self help book they read or some conference they been to and how his behavior would obey whatever these new tools were.

Well maybe we could talk to him.

It won’t do any good. He doesn’t hear anything when he’s drunk.

Well let us try. Can we try?

They called my step dad.

Hello?

Hi Jeff, it’s…

Is she over there?!

Well, slow down, let’s talk about this… Hello? Hello?

He hung up.

He’s probably on his way.

Don’t worry we’ll talk to him, it’ll be okay.

My guts churned for the next twenty minutes. I was sitting on their sticky black leather couch when the trailer door flew open.

Always trying to appease him, I did the exact opposite of how I felt. I sat up straight, smiled, raised my eyebrows, and with my most optimistic, chipper voice said:

Hi dad! 🙂

But I was not on his radar. My sister was.

I heard him lament many times about the two kids from his previous marriage that he was no longer allowed to see. On the surface he spoke bitterly about it, as if he was the victim. But it wasn’t hard to see it was very painful for him. It was painful for me too—they lived with us for a time. As far as I was concerned, they were my brother and sister.

He lunged in and grabbed my sister. His biological daughter.

This is MY daughter. You’re not taking away my daughter.

On his drunken drive over, he must have decided that our escape was not because of his drunk yelling, intimidation, belittling, or terror, but a sudden conspiracy to take his daughter from him. It was so infuriating to be dressed up as monster of his insecurities, when he was the fucking monster.

He had my sister wrapped up in both arms, like a hostage. She was scared and crying.

I was so scared. I thought he was going to take her outside, into his car, drunk, and drive off into the night, and I’d never see her again either.

But the husband-friend blocked the door and my mom and the wife-friend urged at him from the kitchen.

Jeff, let go of her.

You’re not taking her away.

No one’s taking her away.

Bullshit.

He pulled her in tighter. My mom came in closer.

Jeff let her go, no one’s taking her away from you.

You want her for yourself. You want to turn her against me.

He eventually calmed down enough to let go of her and the adults moved out into the yard to continue discussing. We could still could hear through the window.

I don’t want to talk to you, I want to talk to my wife.

You are Jeff, she’s here talking to you.

I want to talk to her alone.

Why?

I want to talk to her alone. Come here. Come with me.

No Jeff, I’m not going anywhere with you when you’re like this.

Come with me.

After hearing her describe how earlier he put his hands in her neck, my ten year old mind believed he wanted to get her alone to kill her. To choke her to death. It was not fair for a ten year old to contemplate his mother being murdered. From the sticky black leather couch my guts still churned.

Please don’t kill her, please don’t kill her, please don’t take my mom from me.