This post, I suppose, is an extension of my previous post Death Wish - - just an inane ramble of things nobody wants to hear.
There are times when I think my blog is boring and repetitive. The spark that I once had (or imagined I had) has diminished. Yet, I continue to write - out of habit and necessity. Necessity - because writing (for me) is an addiction.
I've thought about giving up blogging.
Probably impossible.
Or cutting down my posts to one a week. Some bloggers do this very successfully. I'm much more spontaneous than predictable. I write when the mood strikes me. Which is often.
There's a danger in writing too much. Readers grow weary of your unrelenting presence. Yet, there's even more danger in writing too infrequently. Readers will lose interest, assuming that you don't care.
I occasionally (often more than occasionally) repeat things that I've blogged about before. This is not the result of senility (hopefully). I deliberately do this for the benefit of my newer readers.
And, hell, some good stories are worth repeating.
That's what I did in my previous post.
I write about my violent father and dysfunctional childhood mainly because it so severely affected the rest of my life. I can't ignore or escape the detrimental repercussions.
I don't want sympathy. I don't consider myself to be a noble survivor. My story is nothing special. We're all survivors in one way or another. Life sadistically kicks everyone in the ass and we all have our own private bloody crosses to bear.
I could easily write a book about my father. To say that he was complex would be a vast understatement. In many ways, he and I were alike - except that (thank God) I didn't inherit the insane violence. I am alarmingly complex and infuriatingly complicated, which sometimes frightens me.
It would be an impossibility to analyze my father in a blog post, but I'll mention a few things. He was definitely psychotic, paranoid, and probably quasi-sociopathic. When he went into a rage, the level of violence was beyond extreme and all sense of reason was abandoned.
What caused his insanity? Inheritance. His type of behavior was prevalent among many Hungarians. I have my own definite opinions, which I won't go into here.
In "normal" times he could be kind, extremely generous, humorous. I hated those times most of all because they didn't last.
He never handled any situation in a mature manner, but rather reacted with childlike tantrums. He had a terrifyingly intense desire to get even. Nothing was ever his fault. His mantra was "You made me do it" or "It's entirely your fault".
He never, ever said "I'm sorry".
The violent rages were inevitable yet unpredictable. He'd explode in an instant. The anger was never brief. His rampages could last for days, even weeks. And when he finally returned to "normal" it was as though nothing had ever happened. He chose to remember nothing.
What would spark my father's rage? The smallest things imaginable would set him off. When I was fourteen, I got in his way while he was working in the yard. He grabbed me and stomped on my bare feet until they bled (he was wearing heavy work boots). Then he pummeled me with his fists and squeezed me so tightly in a vicious bear hug that two of my ribs were fractured.
Only one small example of hundreds. Many incidents were far worse.
I think the hate that I harbored is understandable - - a hate that nearly consumed me.
I'll regret posting this. I've said far too much. All of it is past history. My father died in 2005. He mellowed slightly in his old age, and I think he had remorse.
I've forgiven him. I no longer have hate. Yet, it's impossible to forget.....
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
