Beer and Rumination

Last night, I had two potent beers and watched Birdman. This is a dangerous game when your medications are also potent.

Sure enough, when IMDBing how old Michael Keaton is (63), I realized that my father is 65 years old as of last month, and while that might qualify him for Medicare and Social Security, that’s nowhere near old enough for me. Especially since his family line has a penchant for living as close to forever as human beings can reasonably live.

My father is the worst human being I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. If that sounds like an exaggeration, I assure you, it isn’t. Both my mother and my best friend’s mother (who unfortunately chose to date him for a time during my sophomore year of high school) have restraining orders against him to this day. My mother divorced him 24 years ago, and my best friend’s mother broke off their relationship 15 years afterward, 11 years ago somewhere around this time. He raped them both, and was physically violent to my mother on multiple occasions. She’s been in the hospital more than once as a result of his hand.

I’m lucky in that he only hit me once.

I was a senior in high school, and living with him at the time. I had been on the phone with a friend who had to hang up and call me back. It would be a matter of moments between hanging up and the phone ringing again. I was sitting on my father’s bed with the phone in front of me; he was putting away laundry nearby. When the phone rang, we both reached for it, but I made the ‘mistake’ of pushing his hand away, saying, “I got it. It’s for me.”

In response, he punched me above my left knee, on the outside of my lower thigh. It left a bruise for well over a week — I don’t remember how long exactly.

When I backed away from him, and said that he would never touch me again, I remember his laugh, as if to say how ridiculous — over this? I left that afternoon, and went to my mother’s house to exchange music on my iPod — my father’s place didn’t have iTunes. I don’t remember how I mentioned it to her, but it was casual — our relationship then was strained, nothing like it was now, and I imagine I wanted to tell her so she would feel badly about making me leave her house.

She didn’t say much about it, and I left to see a movie with my best friend — Silent Hill. We were cowered in our seats at the sight of various creepily crawling monsters when my mother tapped me on the shoulder (not the best move) and told me I was never going back there again. And I didn’t, save for the day after she got an emergency court order changing my custody — we went into his house during the day, when he wouldn’t be home, took everything that was mine, and left.

For whatever reason, my freeze-out didn’t last as long as I would have hoped. I’m ashamed to say it was probably due to convenience. My freshman year of college was a miserable experience, and I came home every weekend I could make plans with friends, which was often. I needed rides back and forth, and my mother could only do so much, so, eventually, I reached out to my father.

That ended one afternoon in April 2007.

I had spent the weekend talking with my mother about her history with my father, piecing together the history of violence committed by one whose genetics I shared, whose awful temper I sometimes shared. She told me that, when in the Navy, he had picked up a fellow sailor by the pecs and left weeks-long bruises because he had pinched my father. She told me that he had held her in the air by her throat when they were long-distance dating, leaving her in terrible pain on the flight home. She told me that they had had a puppy together — but that he had grown sick of it, and so, one day, shot the dog instead of giving him to a shelter. She told me of the many, many cats he made her give away after promising they would be permanent pets. She told me that he had called her fat when she was pregnant, while he made her pose sideways in a two-piece bathing suit to monitor her progress. She told me that he had anally raped her, many times.

She told me that when she decided to leave him, we ran away in the middle of the day, while he was at work. We had to take the dog, for fear of her life, and, since the women’s shelter we stayed in didn’t allow pets, my mother begged and pleaded until a local vet agreed to kennel her until we found a permanent place to stay. We lived in that shelter for weeks. I was two years old, and they had been married for about as long.

She told me I hated going to see him on alternate weekends as a child. I believed it all, but this I could remember. I remembered staying with him and his girlfriend in the house they shared, and being forced to sleep in the basement because the guest room shared a wall with the master bedroom. Presumably he couldn’t keep their sexual activities outside of the four nights per month I stayed with him, so I cried myself to sleep at night, scared of the furnace, the cold and dark. If I couldn’t sleep, he made me march around the room until I became exhausted, or to stand in the corner, but not lean against the wall.

He did take me rock climbing, to the science museum, the aquarium, and the children’s museum, but more often than not, I spent my father-weekends riding my bike to the local library, stocking up on books, and climbing the tree beside the driveway, reading away the time. I remember playing by myself in the woods for hours, going deeper and deeper into the wilderness, and never hearing my name be called. I remember only being allowed to watch educational VHS tapes about the biomes of the Earth. I hated it there — I remember many things.

She told me these things because I had asked her, knowing he was going to drive me back to college on Sunday afternoon. It had been about a year since he had hit me, and I was ready to confront him, scared as I was. He never drank, never did drugs, but worked out constantly, and was strong, especially for a man in his mid-fifties. I had caught slants of his temper before of course — he would never yell, but his eyes would turn cold, and his voice would sharpen, and you would know to hold your breath and do as you were told, else

I was in the car, calculating the time until we were to reach my dorm, on a busy street in Boston. I knew that once the car pulled up to the curb, I would have to fly out of it and away, and that it would be difficult for him to follow, especially since leaving his enormous Buick on a street that narrow would be almost impossible in the city.

So I confronted him.

I told him everything I knew, with anger and dismay. I told him that I knew what he was, that I was ashamed to be related to him. I repeated back to him the story of the time he had hit me, never asking him to apologize, but speaking in such a way that it was suggested. And then I asked him why.

“You had to know who was in control.”

At that point, the car was at the curb and I flung the door open, grabbed my bag from the back, and hurled my parting words into his face before slamming the door, and racing up the stairs. Recalling it even now gives me a speeding heart. I don’t remember what I said to him, but it was intense — it was loathing — it dared him to take action.

There were no elevators to the dorms on the first floor — you had to walk up to the second first, and then present your ID. I remember there were people in front of me, and I cursed them, sure I was about to feel a hand on my shoulder, and fire in my face at any moment.

It never came.

Instead, I rode up to the eleventh floor, hid out in the laundry room, and — sobbing — called my mother. I told her I never wanted to see or speak to him again, and I haven’t since. It has been eight years.

He has tried to contact me since, calling me every so often until I changed my phone number. My mother told me that when we split from him, he hired a private detective to hunt her down, and wouldn’t be surprised if he’s done the same with me. He’s incredibly thrifty, and made quite a lot of money when I was a child. How else would explain the sudden appearance of his mother in the restaurant I worked at in 2012? I pretended I didn’t know her, poor thing, with such fear and sadness in her eyes. She has since passed away. That was the last time I saw her, the first time since I was a child.

I dream of him often, nightmares all. He’s always hunting me, for violence or sex — though he never assaulted me that way, not that I can recall. I’m always afraid he’ll turn up somewhere, and thank my job for it’s lockdown approach to security — no one gets in without a badge, no exceptions. I thank my building for requiring a fob to swipe into the parking lot and building. I thank my husband for being a man that makes me feel safe.

And I wait for the call that will inevitably come, the one where some lawyer somewhere will tell he’s died. That day, I will feel a great deal of relief.

Perhaps it sounds monstrous to think this way about your father, but then again — if you knew a man who had beaten and raped multiple women, who had hurt and neglected you, who savagely killed animals and never apologized for any of it — if such a man happened to be your father, even — wouldn’t you hate him, too?

Uppers and Downers

Wake up.

Take 75+75+75mg of your SNRI so you don’t feel depressed, so you stop fighting or fleeing from every day.

Take half a milligram of your benzodiazepine to keep calm and carry on.

Microwave a cup of coffee with cinnamon roll creamer.

Drink in big, fat swallows to combat the aftereffects of the atypical antipsychotic you took at bedtime.

Get shaky.

Get fidgety.

Get real productive.

Clickety clack all over the keyboard, planning out your social media day.

Find inspirational quotes.

Post them to Twitter and Facebook.

Schedule the rest.

Feel very accomplished.

Crash into the restlessness, the foot tapping, the uncontrollable hand tremors.

Go back to bed with the laptop and your books to lay beside your snoring husband —

you have a tendency to wake up very early these days —

and keep moving, even in under-the-covers comfort.

Your feet rub over and over each other because there is no such thing as stillness anymore.

Even in sleep, there are nightmares:

Your abusive father comes after you for sex.

Dinosaurs and aliens kill and eat the people you know.

The crazy world turns apocalyptic.

You run to survive, to stay alive, to remain unviolated, to find a moment of peace in sleep —

The worst is it’s lucid.

You know you’re trapped in a horror-film-dream.

Waking up takes an incredible act of terror.

Instead of stretching and opening your eyes to the warmth of sun, you flail and punch and bite.

You try to calculate how long you must stay awake —

the film picks up where it left off.

Or else a new one begins, but the genre never changes.

The lethargy never goes, but restfulness never comes.

And the days run this way, like a wind-up toy.

Some hand keeps the gears tight, and it is not yours.

Your therapist says you’re better, and asks what would you like to do now?

You insist upon continuing your weekly visits.

You don’t see what she could possibly see.

You eat a lot of protein, to keep your energy level.

You are often hungry and your heart rate is often high.

You practice mindful breathing.

You practice yoga, moving through your asanas adeptly;

if your mind cannot be strong, your body will be.

You practice meditation, chasing peace, knowing that wanting anything is contrary to the practice.

You try to take the nothingness of after-the-panic-attack-goes and implant it into your sitting time.

You are aware that ‘trying’ is contrary to the practice.

You breathe.

You blink.

You think of breathing and blinking and drawing your shoulders away from your ears, your shoulder blades in, back, and down.

This helps for a time.

Other times, there is an urgent lassitude that comes and then you are most productive.

You are aware of the choke hold of productivity.

You crave it like a BDSM fantasy.

You sleep and wake at strange hours, letting the day pass as it will.

The sun is also a mechanical thing.

So too the moon and stars.

You find solace in selfish cat-cuddles.

You find solace in being fucked.

You find solace in great amounts of nicotine.

You don’t think about repercussions.

Sometimes you spend a lot of money.

Sometimes you eat a lot of blueberry scones.

Sometimes you laugh.

You have a favorite sweatshirt.

You clean your teeth on the cuffs.

You spill food down the front.

You use the hood as a swaddle for your head.

You are loathe to put it in the wash.

You obsessively brush your teeth.

The taste of a dirty mouth digs into your brain until rectified.

Until now, you had ghastly oral hygiene practices.

You drink water with excessive amounts of ice.

You begin to experiment again with wine.

You develop cravings for ginger ale.

You begin texting conversations that you don’t finish.

You worry your friends feel neglected.

You give good advice in a piss-poor tone.

You give people reasons to get angry with you.

You have a fantastic idea for an article about your cats.

You have a fantastic idea for a novel about Jeopardy.

You have a fantastic idea for an in-depth piece about David Foster Wallace.

You don’t write much of anything.

You listen to a lot of podcasts about motherhood.

You listen to podcasts about productivity.

You listen to podcasts by middle aged men talking about bric-a-brac and their children.

You crave a lot of silence.

You crave a lot of silence.

Befriend Your Fears

I have been avoiding this topic for sixteen days. I’m afraid of my own fears — a silly statement, unless you’re a Roosevelt; then it becomes profound.

The last time I saw my therapist, we began to talk about my nightmares (or should I say dreams? I sleep, and there’s nothing there but fear.). When I was younger there were monsters behind my eyes, and now there are men, three men, who shift in and out night by night.

There is the downstairs neighbor who holds raucous parties on occasion, parties where people end up screaming at each other, and girls cry. I hear it all through the heating vent, and it colors my dreams. The man’s voice is the voice of a drug king; he is fighting with a friend who comes undone when he drinks or does drugs, and the man has a girlfriend whose screaming drowns out what the fight is about. In my dreams, the man, the drug king has taken some interest in me. He finds me amusing, pursues me, but not romantically. His girlfriend’s eyes and ears see and hear, yet she interacts with me in the building’s elevator as if we are to one day become friends.

I come home from work one day, and there are twenty or so people waiting. I know they wait for me. I fight them, shrugging off the first two, but I realize it won’t stop until I am battered black and blue. I stand still and silent as they rush toward me, awaiting the pain — and I wake, hearing the sounds of the man, the girl, and the friend echoing up the heat shaft; they won’t stop until the sun begins to rise.

There is another man, more boy than man, skinny thing, all elbows and nose, and his presence is sinister, but in the dream, I don’t suspect a thing. I talk with him, drink with him, lie in bed with him, re-establish intimacy that is never consummated because I wake first in protest. I have awoken punching walls. I have awoken about to scream.

The dream is a film of the past, of misdeeds done in the name of confusion and loneliness, and I watch myself ruin my life again and again, unable to intervene, only able to wake up with a wrenching will, panting with the effort. I settle myself into my husband’s arms, and stare off into the darkness for a time, blank-faced, hoping the memories will clear.

There is one last man, a powerful hunter, a repetitive abuser — he seeks me out in my sleep more than the others, mainly for sex. I do not like to talk about him. He exists in the real world, has hunted me, has hit me, has raped women I know — he has a history of hiring detectives to track down the people who attempt to elude him.

He is out of his prime now, would have arthritis, maybe his skin cancer has returned. He will be 65 on Sunday. I fear him most of all.

How does a woman befriend these fears that return her to shrinking girlhood? How does she remain strong in the face of three men who play upon her most vulnerable weaknesses? That is a thing that eludes me upon waking, every time.