Living with my dad - and I'm still doing it today

It just goes to show - I'm really struggling at the moment with the crap from the past - and I feel physically crappy. Tired, and my guts feel like they have been injected with Plutonium. It's rancid, makes me feel sick in my stomach, bubbling, heavy, dense, consuming, eating my insides, churning, growing. It's dark, grungy, scary, unstoppable, continuous, self perpetuating. I want it to stop, but can't. I want to get it out, but can't. I want to access it, tackle it head on, but can't.

My therapist would ask what I want to do with it. Historically I would have said pull it out and beat it to death. He would smile wryly. And after a process of further questions I would realise that this was ME that was feeling this - and that what I was in effect saying was that I wanted to pull myself out of my body and beat me to death. I feel like this, because I've been hurt. Dominated. Crushed. And now I am processing the domination and crushed-ness. I am processing the feelings that came with it - the black bags I've chucked stuff into and forgotten about. It's a painful process. Physically demanding as well as emotionally.

It hurts. I want to sob, scream, shout, cry, bash myself against a wall.. I want the pain to stop. I want it to stop, and be able to get on with my life without this pain walking round with me. I want it to stop. Wish I knew a magic cure, a silver bullet. Wish I could pull it out and whack it to death. But I can't, because if I did I would be beating myself to a pulp. And I've already had that experience as a child. I don't want to repeat that, I want to be kind to myself. Nice to myself. Look after myself. Parent myself. Tell myself it's ok. The pain was in the past. My dad isn't beating or abusing me any more. I'm safe now. There's no one around me who wants to beat me up. There is no one. Despite the fact that my radar is on 100% full alert all of the time to ensure I pick up the first sign of someone wanting to beat me up. Never letting go. Always on maximum alert. Just in case. With my wife, with my girls, with my friends, at work. Anywhere and everywhere. Can't stop, must keep my eyes open. OOOOOOOOoooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwww.

I want to stop - but can't. Yes you can stop. You don't need to be on maximum alert any more. You are in a safe place. You are surrounded by people who love you and don't want to dominate you. You don't want to dominate yourself. You can breathe, relax. Let go. Let it go. Let go off the tension, the pain, the needing to hang on for dear life. You can let go. He is not going to dominate you. He lives 100 miles away. You never see him. He doesn't have that hold over you. He can't dominate your life over the phone. Or via email. He may inadvertently try, but you are grown up enough to spot it. Plus your loving wife will help you if you get pulled down. Which you won't. You don't need to be on alert. Your dad is not going to burst in, throw something at you, raise his fist to his mouth as if he is going to strike you, shout violently at you, chase you as you run away.. He isn't going to do that. He isn't.

But I feel he is. I'm on guard in case he does. I'm expecting that any moment he will. Any moment, of any day. I've done it wrong. Got it wrong. And now retribution will follow. Swift, total, absolute retribution. Whallop, utter rejection, utterly crushed, utterly dominated, utterly shot to pieces, in unbelief that my dad would do that to me (what did I do?). Run to my room hurting like hell but not wanting to show it. Get to my room. Anger burns within my bones and chest. I think through the unfairness of it. Think, smart at the pain. There's no way out. There's no other option. I have to stay in my room until I'm called for tea - and then he will be there. Either himself hurt that I'd somehow rejected him or stood up to him, or he'd be morose at his guilt for taking it out on me, or completely ignoring what happened just 30 minutes earlier. As if nothing had happened.

That was as bad. Having to be at the tea table with the family. My dad sat at the head of the table like a king. Us mere minions competing for attention. Whilst our bottoms were still sore, and our spirits crushed. He ruled our family like a fiefdom. We were his subjects. To do his will at his pleasing. And the moment we even looked as if we were challenging his authority in any way, retribution was swift, absolute and violent.

We lived in fear. I lived in fear. I still live in fear. Any time dad might walk in the room and explode in a violent rage all directed at me. And what had I done? No idea. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Take it. Miss the flying objects. Can't miss the anger, names and words. His look was his worst. Utterly dominating, utterly crushing, contorted with anger and besides himself with rage. Gosh I must have done something really bad, I must be bad. I must be really really bad. I've really really hurt him. for him to react like that must mean that I'm a shmuck. I've done something worse that serving the devil. I've done something so catastrophically bad that it justifies my dad's complete rage. Face contorted, eyes wild, barely controlling himself from punching me into next week, unable to express words coherently - it's all my fault.

IT IS NOT MY FAULT!

IT IS NOT MY FAULT. IT IS NOT MY FAULT. I DID NOTHING WRONG. IT WAS NOT ME. IT IS YOU. IT IS YOU THAT IS WRONG. I DID NOTHING WRONG. WHY ARE YOU TAKING IT OUT ON ME?

Dad - you miserable sod. You terrorised me. I still live with the fear to this day. Every minute of the day. I lived in fear of you. I was in fear of you. I dreaded when you would come home from work, and rejoice when you went to work. I dreaded when you came back from being away, and rejoiced when you went. Dreaded if I had to stay in, rejoiced when I went out. Dreaded tea time, car journeys, holidays. Dreaded it (and yet wanted deperately to) when you asked me to help you. I knew it would end in tears. Me not being able to do something you asked of me. You getting really angry, resulting in shouting at me, telling me I was thick, taking over whatever it was that you'd asked me to. Leaving me to feel like a fool. I'd got it wrong again. My dad had got cross with me again. Told me to get out. Go away. I was worse than useless. Failed. Failure. I couldn't even do that simple task.

Sometimes it would follow with a beating of some sort. With whatever was to hand. Bamboo canes? They'll do. A slipper or shoe? Perfect. A belt - yep.

Punishment for a deliberate act of willful disobediance anyone can stand. Corporal punishment for something you didn't do is difficult to take. Welcome to my world. W WDF JAWKDFJ ASF ASF SDF JAwf WDF Jkagf klWDGF l;f qETF GJwdg jWD JFCDCF,wcf,WDGJ, ASDFJ,CASDCG,DFJG,SDGJETV GIRG WROG FG JJGJVASDA SDG ASFG JASFG JASFG JASF JGASFG SRG WRG JIJDFG JFJCGAWRCGJMCGJ,GJ,AERJGMAEFGJM FJGMCGJMZSFSDF SD\G MGH

erth aegsd fg hsdg hsdg sdfg sdkf hj hj

The thing I fear the most is the moment my dad drives a whopping great big nail right through my insides. That's the moment he turns his big ugly rage onto me. And I fear it to my insides because each time was/is as destructive as the first. And there wasn't a single thing I could do about it.