Clay Parts

It's really interesting watching our faces mature into adults and take on the various features of our parents. It is like a sculptur reaches into a bag of premade parts and slaps them on our slabs of flesh. And underneath the mask of similar features, our personalities develop.

I see my mother in my face, clearly etched in my forehead and brows, which are entirely hers, but everything below was bestowed by my father. My eldest sister somehow looks like neither yet both, and my younger siblings both favor my mother. As the only child with my father's hazel eyes, I look the most like him. My mother would tell me so.

"You look just like your dad."

The problem was that my dad had me when wrinkles were well progressed in their march across his face. It was hard to imagine we could be that similar. I scrambled to find old photos of him, to cling to anything that would reveal it. The best I had was a military photo, and truthfully, I have never looked as serious as that.

Allen and I were alike in more ways than just our looks. My personality was like someone had copy and pasted. I was outgoing and adventurous. We shared in all of our hobbies, specially building and crafting. I was curious about things and would hold conversations about geometry or history, punctured with a million questions I expected Allen to know the answers to. He always gave one, even if it was, "Here, read this book."

It seemed I got his brains, creativity, and charm. I even was cursed with his dyslexia and insomnia. I ended up being the only kid with either. Naturally, there were parts to Allen that were not any good. He was calculated, calloused, and had an unwavering commitment to holding grudges.

When I matured into my teenage years and developed more brazenness, no one told me I was just like my father in a positive sense. If it was levied by my siblings or my mother, it was utilized like a weapon.

Allen was our abuser and a monster. My likeness to him was associated with his indifference or his temper. Just like him, my words once I was angry were sharp, hurtful, and effective. I held grudges and made my disdains known. The only difference was that I did not yell.

When put under pressure, I would shut down. My snap was like a light switch clicking into place and something other surfacing. Of course, it was abusive conflicts with my parents or other adults that triggered it. I would stop feeling, stop caring about everything and anything.

Every conflict became a game to win, and any damage I sustained was irrelevant.

I would wield the most hurtful words I could find, sometimes with a dry laugh, sometimes with no expression at all. Once I shut down like that, I could see the way it upset my mother or siblings, but I felt none of it and no remorse later.

"You're just like your dad."

Those words felt so damning, even if it did not show. I unpacked it in therapy for a while. If I was just like Allen, what did that mean for my future? For my friends or spouse? Would I be a good aunt? Would I have patience? Would I seek to control and own someone until it contorted into abuse?

The urge was there. Allen taught me to control people. He taught me it was the most powerful tool you could wield over anyone. He also taught me it should be no sweat to cut someone out from your life. And I learned it with ease. No one could hurt you without permission, and I gave no one permission.

It is increasingly difficult to know how awful one parent was and reconcile that you are just like them. The same people that whispered how monstrous Allen was or remarked, "What is wrong with him?" told me how similar I was.

Similar to what? The good, the bad? Both? I did not want to be Allen, so I never got drunk. Never picked up habits that I might not be able to put down. I let go of the urge to control people through lots of self-reflection and therapy. It crawls back in on occasion, this rampant need to tell others what they can and cannot do. I suppose we all struggle with it. But I know the buttons to press to coerce them. I know Allen's playbook.

"You're just like your dad." What an awful idea to leave a child with. I knew what it meant. Sometimes it would be paired tightly with, "You're a monster."

"I'm not emotionless like you. I'm not cold like you." People would say. Because my temper was his. My default was his.

I knew what they meant. "I'm not like Allen. Like you."

What a curse to inflict on a child. On an adult. I think it's easy to hate abusers and then to find fault in those traits when they are echoed in their child. But I never grew into Allen. I chose not to be that version of myself, though I doubt I ever could have been.

I think about those extra shackles that were assigned to me. It took years to reconcile that I was just like Allen in temperament and personality, but that I was not Allen. It had felt like my destiny was written simply because I was his daughter. I had to reclaim my agency. Had to reassure myself that I would never water the bits of me that were rotten until they corrupted everything I touched.

And, honestly, I think a bit of that rottenness is in all of us. We are a patchwork of clay parts tossed together from our parents and their parents and theirs. Perhaps you inherited Great-Grandma's nose or Grandpa's temper. Maybe like every other person in your family, alcohol is your undoing if you touch it. We may be the workings of their parts, but we get to decide when the cycles break. And we get to choose not to tell kids they are just like their abusers.