Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Death of an Honor Society scholar and star athlete. Birth of a quick triggered thug (My Life-Part VII)

                                             SUMMER 1993

 A lot had happened since March. I finished my Junior year of high school on the National Honors Society for the third straight year. Ended with a 3.7 GPA. Met with football coaches from Iowa, Mich St., Minn, and Purdue. Also met some baseball coaches from all over. California, Florida, Pennsylvania, and Wyoming to name a few. But I had spent the last 9 weeks of that year in a daze. Even at the height of baseball season, I just didn't care. Sure, I was throwing in the low 90's and finished the season with a 397 BA. But March was BAD.

 Mom was buried on March 4th, Her Mother's birthday (Mammau). I thought I was hit hard, but I never took into account my Father's feelings. After all, I was just shy of my 17 birthday and was the most selfish I had ever been. But the one thing that day taught me, was true loss. An aching of the heart that I had never experienced before. I was the Momma's boy. The youngest child in a family of two girls and two boys. I was the apple of my Mother's eye. I could do no wrong, and I knew it. God Damnit did I take advantage. And all of the sudden it was gone. Just gone. She taught me how to write and play music. She helped me with math. And she cheered for me at little league. And suddenly, she was gone. It devastated me in ways that I never knew possible. Depression, chemical dependence, violence. I would discover it all. But I still had the old man, who was over three years sober at this point.

 I remember going out to Dinner with him one night after school ended. He ordered a Budweiser. My jaw dropped. I didn't think anymore of it other than the fact that he wasn't suppose to drink due to the medication.
But he was an adult and I was a teenager, so what did I know. All I did know, was at this point, I needed and leaned on him. Within weeks, my Father's Dinner beers became much more. By the end of July he was back to whiskey and beer by the truckload. I had just went on my merry way. I was working out and doing my thing. Lifting weights in the morning, work in the afternoon, and martial arts at night. Mean time, the old man was drowning his sorrows in brown bottles after work. Four months had passed since the dirt was dumped on Mom's grave, and the old man was back to his old form. But I was older now. I just did my own thing and he did his thing. Both of us being hardheaded Irishman didn't know how to handle this time. So he went back to drinking, and I buried myself in football, weights, and Muay Tai.

 I remember coming home one night in late July to find a woman sitting in my Mother's chair. She was a repulsive fat hillbilly named Linda. She lived in Cedar Lake Indiana. "Hey kiddo, this is Linda, she's going to help take care of you." That was a polite way of saying, this is the woman I was fucking while your sister took Mom to radiation. Dad was always quite the ladies (?) man. But I soon realized that the old man was spending evenings with this pig while Mom was Dying. That's not for effect, she was literally fucking dying. But whatever. What was I going to do. This woman moved in to take care of me. Soon she was driving my Mom's car. And I was just oblivious. I had so much hurt and pain that I just buried.

 Over the next four weeks, my Father's drinking got worse. He always had little comments for me, but I was in my own little daze. Two weeks before Senior years was going to start, I came home after work. Dad was on the recliner with a beer and a Wild Turkey on the rocks next to him. "Hi Dad", I said as I passed him on the way to my upstairs bedroom. "Hey, how was your day?" he asked. I said, "Good, how was yours?" He replied, "Well since you ask, it was pretty shitty. I've been going through Mom's things." I didn't know what to say, so I stood there in silence with my right foot on the first step. "Just so you know, she would still be alive if it weren't for you." That is seriously what he said. My Father blamed me for Mom's death. "You had to keep feeding her those cigarettes, didn't you?" I didn't say a word. I just went to my room. I unpacked my gear and threw a bunch of clothes in my bag.

 "Where the fuck do you think you're going?" he yelled as I walked passed him again. "I'm going to Erik's house." I said. "Oh yeah, you walk out that door, don't even bother coming back!", he said. At this point I just kept walking pass the old man towards the back door. I knew he was drunk, and he just told me that it was my fault Mom died. So I just wanted to get out of there. All of the sudden I got shoved in the back. I lost my footing and slammed my forehead into the Dining Room table. As I was on both knees on the floor I squeezed my forehead. It hurt so bad. I dropped my head a little bit towards my knees, and I saw the blood start pouring onto the carpet. At that very moment, I had my first psychotic break. I stood up, turned around, and proceeded to motion to my Dad to come get some more. I distinctly remember saying, "Alright MOTHERFUCKER, let's go!" Up to this point, I had never as much even disobeyed my Father. But at this very moment, at this very time, I saw a lot of things. I saw my Mother. I saw myself handing her a pack of Virginia Slim Lights. I saw her bald head. I saw a whore sleeping in her bed, with her husband. And I saw my blood.

 He took about six steps towards me with his right hand cocked back. As he threw the punch, I drew my left arm up. As I blocked the punch, I slid my hand behind his head. While I was doing this, I threw my right hand behind his head as well. I now had my Father in a "Clinch". I proceeded to throw four knees to his drunkin face. When he went down, I started raining down elbows. In the end, My Father went to the hospital, and I was under arrest. I had beaten my own Father so bad that he spent three days in the hospital.

 The scariest part is that I didn't even see him as my Father at that moment. All I saw was a man who accused me of being the reason my Mom died. He was nothing to me. An after thought. The charges were eventually dropped. He eventually married his "one true love". I went on with my thing.

 The last word I ever said to my Father was "Let's go Motherfucker!!!!!". That was 20 years ago. Jesus, Twenty years ago. I have spent my entire life burying this incident. My wife didn't even know this tainted part of my life until about six months before our wedding. It's not something to be proud of. I am downright ashamed of it. But in the last twenty years, I've justified it. "FUCK HIM" I would say. My own Duaghter has no idea that she has a Pampau. My Father has never met his Granddaughter. But who cares? Fuck him!!!!!!!

 The truth is, I've battled with this since I was 21. I have a Father who is alive. Not only does he not exist in my life, but the last time I spoke to him, I was breaking his jaw. I have been planning this post since my last. Taking notes and everything. After all, this year is my biography. But as things work, life has thrown a curveball.

 I got a call from my sister today. My Father is in the hospital. He is 77 years old and going in for a quadruple bi-pass surgery on Thursday. He will most likely not make it out of surgery. It's been twenty years since I've seen him. But I have to let him know that even though I do do not forgive him, I do love him. After all, he is my Father. He gave me life. The least I can do is let his last possible moments on Earth be forgiving, and to let him know that he is loved.

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