The Black Hole

There comes a time when fiction blurs with reality, and you begin to question what is real and what is not. The world seems like an endless paradox of surreal self contradictions and irony.

You start asking the questions, "why am I here," "why was I born," "what is my purpose," "who am I."

I was born in semi-poverty. My father drank and was emotionally and verbally abusive, He was a gentle kind soul whenever you were lucky enough to catch him sober. But, like many everywhere, he was mean when he drank.

My mother got the brunt of the abuse, never us children directly, but we were all scarred emotionally for life.

I grew to hate Fridays. That was when he got paid. He would make a direct beeline for the bars. Monday to Thursday there was a tentative peace and calm, mainly when he had no money, not always though. There were the odd times when he did, and that was bad.

That was when he became like a raging bull. Snorting and angry, ready to paw the ground and charge headlong into verbal and drink infused rage. For us it was like being suspended in a FROZEN POND of life, forever waiting for the long thaw to be over.

It seemed that his drink demon amplified every little petty squabble that went before his descent into non sobriety. We dreaded his coming home. My mother loved this man. No matter the abuse. Never physical, never, he was not a violent man.

Smoking is bad for your health. Illegal drugs are bad for your health. Abuse of alcohol is bad for your health. Yet we indulge and hurt the people we care about and the people who care about us.

My father was an artist, he painted, he played the guitar, he built beautiful furniture, he could build houses, without an architect. He designed them, laid the foundation and built them. All without formal training or education. He was a jack of all trades, and he did them all well. What a talented man he was. But, he took to the drink when he was a fairly young man, and it ruined him.

I bought my land when I started working with the hopes that he would build my dream house for me. I wanted him to teach me to play the guitar. I also wanted him to impart to me his vast knowledge of the various medicinal plants and their uses. I hoped that he would be proud enough of his daughter to at least do that for me after the heartache that he inflicted on our under-developed minds as we were growing up.

I was so traumatized as a child by this repetitive behavior, always expecting that things might escalate to violence during one of his verbal tirade, that I hoped he would die. I loved my father, the one that peeked out from under the visor once in a while to reveal himself. But always expecting the worse was again, traumatic to a child.

Then one day he did die. I felt awful. I thought and still think that my wish had been granted. I was inconsolable at his funeral. No one actually knew the real reason why I cried so much. I had wished my father dead, and the universe made it happen.

My life has been deeply affected by the events of my childhood. It is extremely hard for me to sustain a long term relationship. Getting into a relationship terrifies me. I tend to find excuses to not start or pursue a relationship. It is so sad that there are so many of us who suffer from this mental, some physical abuse, and it perverts or distorts our outlook on life.

So you see, there was greatness, kindness and art within the makeup of this man. I loved my father, make no mistake. He loved us at times. At other times he terrified us with his uncontrollable and rabid behavior.

What is it about an addiction that is so strong and uncontrollable, that it defies the deep love of one's family, friends and self and drags one down into depravity.

I am still searching for the answer. Still trying to rise above what feels like a black hole that I keep trying to climb out of, but every so often I slip back down just a little bit.

I am getting better.