Monday, May 4, 2015

DESCENT INTO ABYSS





In retrospect, it's foolish and futile to blame a chaotically destructive adulthood on a turbulent and unhappy childhood, but that's what I did for a long time. As a child and early adolescent I had been too good, too complacent, too willing to please others and never bend the rules. I was as perfect and compliant as it was humanly possible to be. I emotionally remained a child well into adulthood.

I absorbed my father's violence and negativity like a sponge and never questioned his terrifying reign of absolute autocracy. I feared him more than anything else on earth and this fear continued well into my adulthood. I once told my mother that I feared him much more than God - because God is an abstract entity whose presence relies solely on faith and imagination. My father's incredibly powerful presence was horrifyingly real. He ruled every aspect of my restricted world and had the power over whether I lived or died.

My mother was my only anchor in a sea of chaos. She was beautiful, brilliant, and extraordinary in many ways. She was emotionally strong for enduring my father's insanity and for surviving it, yet she was also weak for never leaving him. She tried to leave many times but always failed. One time, when I was twenty, she escaped to Reno, NV and filed for divorce. My father did some detective work, found out where she was, and drove up to see her. He begged her to come back and she reluctantly acquiesced - - knowing full well that there would be no happy ending.

Why am I burdening my blog readers with all this ancient personal baggage? These past few posts are merely random thoughts, preliminary sketches, prelude to a memoir. The things I've written about my father in Ashes (my previous post) are whitewashed fluff. If I ever wrote how bad the situation really was, it would be difficult to believe. I was an emotional zombie for so long that it took years and enormous effort to resurrect myself.

I'm not looking for sympathy. I've finally shed the detrimental effects of my ravaged past. Nothing heroic was involved. Survival is an animal instinct. Life is an on-going exercise in the art of survival.

My eventual escape didn't set me free, but rather trapped me in a detrimental web of self-destruction. Often it is much more difficult to
escape from the ravages of what we do to ourselves than from what others inflict upon us.

I willingly entered the dark, dangerous, delusional underworld of escapism: sex, sin, booze, drugs - the deliciously enticing gamut of debauchery. In essence, it was escape from myself and the world of reality.

The grand illusion of Hollywood was the perfect setting for shedding my painful past and assuming the identity of someone I never really was and never thought I could be. It was surprisingly easy. 

I was young, good-looking, desirable, and more than eager to be corrupted. My transition into the depths of Sodom was swift and seamless. I initially had no clue that I was desirable, and my guilt about being sinful was profound - but I soon learned to suppress any vulnerabilities. 

I projected an exterior facade of abject indifference and intriguing mystery. I abandoned good manners and correct grammar. I eventually learned to be street-wise and to speak in crude abstractions. I feigned being tough. I smoked cigarettes - even though I disliked them and seldom inhaled. 

I dressed like a faux cowboy, for no particular reason other than I liked it: leather boots, Levi jeans, Kennington shirts, occasional cowboy hats. 
I hated hard drugs but I smoked grass, did poppers (amyl, butyl), took quaaludes, and indulged in other assorted downers and uppers. I mostly drank - and drank heavily. On occasion I'd mix dangerous concoctions of alcohol and pills together, just to experience the effect.

Sex? I was a sexual addict - easy and eager to please. What I really desperately wanted was love, but I quickly learned that "love" is a dirty word in the cold and merciless realms of midnight anonymity. 

Later, I had ample opportunities to have serious relationships and I rejected most of them - in the false and selfish belief that it's better to initially reject than to eventually be rejected. Don't ask me to explain this distorted reasoning.

Writing about myself only serves to puzzle me. I was always an enigma and have never yet completely figured myself out. 



I've just deleted the last part of this post because I feel that I'm becoming boring by saying too much.


Well, at least I didn't charge admission.









19 comments:

  1. Life is complicated, will I ever figure it out?

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  2. I picture you in a quiet peaceful place now without loud neighbors and Walmart trips. A place to reflect and remember. Hope you are liking it there.

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    1. It truly is wonderful to have peace and the luxury of privacy!

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  3. You describe it perfectly. Your quiet introspection can serve to help others. I too "absorbed the violence done to me like a sponge." Surprisingly I was able to let it go. For many years I walked around just pretending it never happened. But recently it has all come flooding back, reopening the wounds and allowing the ghosts from my past to ravage my senses once again. Life is a vicious cycle.

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    1. Unfortunately there is no way to expunge the past or to pretend it never happened. The wounds don't fully heal - - but it is possible to let them go. I let the past go while my father was in his declining years. My resentment vanished after s death. Probably too late - but better than never.

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    2. I meant to say "after his death"

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  4. PS) I am glad we both survived.

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  5. I may be way off base here, but I feel a real sense of appreciation that you're entrusting us with the many layers that make you who you are.
    Just my 2-cents worth, but I think your statement, "Life is a on-going exercise in the art of survival" needs added to every kindergarten curricula.

    PS - The more you write about your mother, the greater my respect for the lady ... and her obvious love for you.

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  6. Myra, you always have the uncanny insight of choosing my own personal favorite sentences in my posts. The statement that you quoted s my particular favorite.

    I always admired my Mom but I never realized how truly extraordinary she was until after she died. I suppose that is true of all of us when we lose love ones.

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  7. How fortunate you are to be able to look back on such personal tragedy and drama and have survived it all, not without scars, those can be worn as badges of honour I think, but alive and intact. A great deal to be proud of.

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    1. I have plenty of scars but never thought of them as badges of honor - until now. Thanks for this new perspective!

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  8. There was a point in the growing-up years of each of my children when I recognized some fundamental quality of character that would surpass my own strengths. With it came the realization that they had futures to develop and skills to learn that I would never master. I could have resented it, been jealous, but did not permit myself to because that would make me a mean man. I had to learn kindness and methods of encouraging their strengths. I made many mistakes and it was not easy, but had I come from an abusive childhood it would have been impossible. They range in age from early 30s to mid 40s and I am in awe of their accomplishments. I know something of your skills and talents too and wish your father had been capable of nurturing, appreciating --the reward is a measureless pride in one's offspring. I gather that was a feeling deputed to your mother, remarkable woman. Hope I haven't overstepped comment boundaries here, but this post struck some chords.

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  9. Geo. you NEVER overstep your comment boundaries and I always treasure your remarkable insight. Humility is obviously one of your many virtues - - I'm positive that your fathering skills contributed greatly to your children's success. As always, thanks for your input.

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  10. Jon,
    When I read about your childhood and years in California, I am reminded how impressed with your strength of character and resolve that you have survived and are such a kind, caring and thoughtful person in spite of all the difficulties you have faced.

    As you know (and I have commented about before), my childhood and early years were also difficult but not as brutal as yours. I had a father who constantly put me down. This was the only thing I knew growing up, and thus I always felt inferior. It wasn't until I got away from home that I realized I wasn't as bad as he drummed into my head. Yet still, I have lingering remnants of that mental abuse and get very defensive (and angry sometimes) when someone tries to put me down to build themselves up. Sometimes we just can't completely heal from the wounds that are inflicted on us in our growing up years. But I think you have (and continue) done well. Look where you are now, living in a beautiful area of the country and hundreds of friends who like (dare I say "love") you through your blog. You're doing find now Jon. Keep writing.

    Ron

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  11. Ron, verbal abuse is just as detrimental as physical abuse - perhaps even worse. My father beat the hell out of me MANY times, but the physical wounds eventually healed. He was also a MASTER at verbal abuse and his words cut more deeply than a knife. This causes permanent psychological damage. Much like you, I never fully recovered from it. To this day, I am extremely sensitive to any kind of criticism - to the point that I inevitably lash out against it.

    Despite all the psychological damage, Ron, we both turned out to be extraordinary human beings. We both deserve to "toot our horns" (hey, nothing sexual was implied.....)

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  12. Thats a remarkably honest piece....well written
    It never fails to surprise me just how many bloggers have been brought up in similar circumstances eh?

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    1. Thanks, John. People who have been in similar situations always feel that they are alone. It is indeed surprising to discover that many of us had abusive and detrimental pasts.

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