There's no doubt that I've had an extraordinary life - - much of which I would be reluctant to reveal in a public blog (or even a memoir, for that matter). Despite the brash facade that I project on this blog, I am in truth fiercely private and introverted. I'm not comfortable talking about myself. Also, I'm often hesitant to reveal certain things, because - to be blunt - they might not be believed.
I've noticed, however, that the older I get (not that I'm old, of course....) the less concerned I am about what other people think - - and the stronger my desire is to reveal things about myself and my past.
In my previous post I mentioned that I believe curses come home to roost, and that I had a story to tell. I've never told this story to anyone before, except my mother and one of my cousins - - mainly because it makes me look bad. Vindictive, childish, completely irrational.
My only defense is that intense anger - especially after years of pent-up rage - can make us do insanely irrational things.
It's no secret that my father and I always had an extremely turbulent and violent relationship. There was no mysterious reason behind this. My father was an extraordinarily violent person with a temper so insanely brutal that I still shudder at the memory of it. I feared him until the day he died. His inner demons caused him to lash out at anybody, for any reason. Since my mother and I were the people nearest him, we always bore the full brunt of his rage. The frequent physical violence was also accompanied by constant verbal abuse. His vile words cut like a knife.
One small, random example of physical violence happened one summer when I was fourteen. My father was working in the back yard, putting down a cement sidewalk. I was watching him and happened to get in his way. A huge mistake.
He immediately started pummeling me with his fists, then stomped on my bare feet until they were bloody (he was wearing heavy work boots). He then got me into one of his infamous bear hugs (it wasn't the first time) and managed to fracture two of my ribs. My hysterical mother managed to intervene and save my life.
I was a fourteen-year-old kid - - pathetically skinny and abnormally frail. I didn't have a fighting chance.
That's only one small example of many, many others.
What about the curse?
Fast Forward - -
years later when I was a young adult. No need to go into details. My father and I had another blowup, which - of course - was violent and physical. During the course of this one, dear ol' dad got a loaded gun and threatened to kill me. Eventually he turned the tables (so to speak), handed me the gun, and begged me to kill myself, over and over.
Implored me to kill myself - - said that he prayed I would die and wanted to see me dead.
My intense hate for him always rendered me helpless and caused me to act completely irrationally. Later that day, in a blind fury of hate, I found an old photo of him. I spat on it, cursed him out loud, and said that I wanted him to die. I took a pin and jabbed his photo in the abdomen, over and over, cursing him every time.
That very night, a few hours after I went to sleep, I began having severe abdominal pain. As I became fully awake the pain got worse, until it was so violently intense that I was writhing in agony and couldn't get out of bed. It was the worse pain I ever had in my life - - and it was located in the exact area of the abdomen where I had pierced my father's photo with pins.
To abbreviate a long story:
I had an attack of kidney stones which was so severe that the stones ripped my right kidney and seriously damaged it. I was in the hospital for a week and it took many months to recover. I had pain in my right kidney for years afterwards.
I remember grimly saying (about my father),
You can't win with that son-of-a-bitch. Even my curses failed.
Was this all a mere coincidence?
Not on your life. After this incredible incident, I fully believe that curses come home to roost.
Link to my other blog
(one is enough - why the hell would I have two??):
Cabinet of Curious Treasures
