Sometimes I wish that all pain left a physical mark. Instead of having to endure hurtful (and obviously false) remarks about my being, I would get punched in the nose.
People don't like to listen to memory because, of course, anything anecdotal about emotion isn't proper evidence. Because words aren't real, they are just sound, balls of fluffy air that softly brushes our eardrums. No, words don't actually mean anything. In fact, this blog entry is just a figment of your imagination and no matter what combination of words I use I will never fully communicate to you what I mean.
Show them a scar or a bruise, a bloodied towel, and all of a sudden people have the gift of sight.
My parent's lack of imagination is beyond mediocre. It is narcissistic and boring.
I remember this one time, during my junior year of high school. After a dance my father picked me up in the snow and started yelling at me because he had this weird hunch that I'd skipped the dance and drove around town. Once I confessed that the dance was boring, that I in fact skipped out to hang out with some friends down the block, he took me home and threw me into a pile of barbells, loose weights, and the bench press. He proceeded to whack me with chairs and tables, calling me names and threatening my life. He concluded by punching me in the ear where my newest piercing was.
I started bleeding profusely. Once he noticed the blood, he stopped and started crying.
"I'm sorry, Angie!" he yelled in my face. He explained that he was angry because his friend had died in a car accident earlier in the day, and he was scared that I was going to die too.
I wanted to ask him that if he was so scared I was going to die, then why would he beat the crap out of me?
The next morning I was covered in bruises and my ear was swollen. While showering I analyzed every marking in my line of vision. I reveled in the fact that my father had finally snapped and took the next step: he actually tried to beat my face in like he always said he would. I secretly wished that from then on the beatings would get worse. Then, I wouldn't have to think about harming myself. Then, I would have proof for the next time I try to convince my guidance counselor at school that I'm not happy at home.
The truth is, the only reason I went to that dance was because I hated being home. And I hated my school. So why not go for a joy ride? Ya know, hang out with some people who actually respect me? These guys never called me a bitch, or mocked me, or threatened to kill me, or beat me. I felt safer driving around in their tiny beat up car than with my maniacal father who doesn't even know how to control his own temper.
When my father noticed the blood gushing out of my ear, he looked like he had a revelation. Holy shit he finally crossed the line! I think that was the fastest I ever saw him jump out of a fit of rage. How is blood dripping out of my body any different than me sobbing? I always sobbed when he got angry at me.
The pain is always there. Just because there isn't any blood, that doesn't mean the person next to you isn't dying.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment