There were two distinct time periods at home. Times without Dad, when I could be “that kid,” and just revel in my activities. And then…there were the “Dad times.”
His work shifts alternated every week. One week, he was on the day shift, which meant mornings and afternoons were calm, but later afternoons and nights could be calm to violent, depending on his mood. The next week, he worked the evening shift, which meant mornings were dicey but afternoons and evenings were placid. And the weekend times were everything and anything.
And when he was around, I was on high alert. Whoever I was when he wasn’t around, that went into hiding. It was replaced by quiet, tense, scanning, always, for signs of trouble.
Was he in a good mood or a bad one?
Had I tried one too many times to “avoid him” and hurt his feelings?
Was I going to get hit…or more to the point…when?
When he was happy and fun, it was great. In fact, his bad moods seemed like such a distant memory that it seemed impossible that he could go back to that. At those good moments, the bad times seemed like they would never return.
But then it didn’t take much to have hope. Any sign of a positive, a day with a better mood, and you grasped at those moments like a drowning person to a life raft, convinced that, “THIS time it will be different.” The mental reality, at least for me, was, “How could he be this good, fun, seemingly kind and generous, then go back to that? No…that part’s over”…until it wasn’t.
And when he was abusive? He was ice cold.
When he was upset with me, there would be long stretches where he wouldn’t even make eye contact with me. He would look over my head and past me, like I didn’t exist…like he could just as easily walk over or through me, like I was a ghost. When he ignored me, I was frantic because what would I do if I needed something? And of course I would need something, because I was a child and my very survival depended on him.
And if he did deign to look at me, it would usually be with rage-filled eyes. His “looks” would reflect what to me was truly within him at that moment: Empty of any love or mercy. Vengeful. Reptilian.
The photo above was only an “in-between” look. I can see he wasn’t happy that day. But because a lot of extended family was around — it was a family celebration of my First Holy Communion at church — he wasn’t showing his fully angry eyes. However, those eyes still did the trick. Because once he got your attention and transmitted his “displeasure,” and saw you were now upset, then he might crack a smile, satisfied he had achieved his goal.
Even when I was an adult, when that angry look came out, it never failed to trigger a primal terror in me. As a child, I wondered: Would he hit me? When? Would he go too far this time when he choked me? As an adult, it was a well-worn fear reaction from decades of “training.” His eyes could be downright chilling.
But at the time, even after ignoring me and then showing me rage-filled eyes, he wasn’t finished.
The final act would be to alternate angry looks with the “hurt eyes.” That just pierced my heart with the sense that I was wrong, and I had deeply wounded someone who did so many good things for me. And how could I be so cold and mean to him?
Those moments were the worst because of the guilt I felt. I had to be wrong. He was the adult and so he must have been right and I was wrong. And he did do so many good things. How could I have been so heartless to him? If only I’d handled it better or said it differently. But instead, I hurt his feelings.
So at this point, I was emotional jelly. But those “hurt moments” also held out a shred of hope. If he was hurt, it had to be because he really cared about me but thought I didn’t care about him. It was almost “positive attention.” It meant that if he did care, maybe I could make it up to him.
All I knew was that at that moment, I needed to do whatever it took to make this treatment stop. My nerves couldn’t take any more. And I felt guilty for hurting him. So, terrified, desperate, and exhausted, I’d give in.
And then it was better again.
So, let’s start with “first shift” mornings.
Soul Mosaic 
Leave a comment