The Greatest Sin

I remember the day I was driving when I heard this song blast through my speakers:

Sitting on an angry chair
Angry walls steal the air
Stomach hurts and I don't care
What do I see across the way, hey
See myself molded in clay, oh
Stares at me, yeah I'm afraid, hey
Changing the shape of his face, oh

Little boy made a mistake, hey
Pink cloud has now turned to gray, oh
All that I want is to play, hey
Get on your knees, time to pray, oh

Serenity is far away
Saw my reflection and cried, hey
So little hope that I died, oh
Feed me your lies, open wide, hey
Weight of my heart, not the size, oh

I had to pull over immediately.  Never had a song hit me as emotionally as this one did.  The song is from Alice in Chains, and it is entitled Angry Chair.  I immediately went out and bought the CD, and I must have listened to it 50 times.  The words described in a few minutes exactly how I felt as a child almost every day when my father was home.

Every single day when he was about to come home, I remember wondering how his day went.  Would he be happy or mad?  How could I tell?  How should I act when he arrived?  Should I embrace him or simply go to my room?  I dare not say or do the wrong thing for I would pay for it immediately or later that night. 

I watched how within five minutes of coming home he would change his clothes, go to the bathroom, and pop open a beer or make a drink.  He would then sit down, light a cigarette, and start talking about whatever was on his mind.  When he was mad or upset I would keep quiet and find something to do to get away.  That was easy since I already knew how to act.  The challenge came when he acted like he was happy and nothing was bothering him.  Would he simply eat, drink, and then eventually pass out?  Or would something come up that would set him off?  Would the alcohol kick in and turn his mood in the opposite direction?  That was the scary proposition I had to deal with and figure out.  I just never knew.

Bedtime was always scary.  Sleeping was frightening.  There were times he would wake up in the middle of the night to confront me.  He would go out of his way to find a reason to come see me.  Did I leave the toilet seat up?  Did I forget to do something?  Did I not tell him something I was expected to share with him but didn't because I had no idea I was suppose to?  Dare I fall asleep?  Often times I could not.

I do not want to turn this completely into a story about how my father mistreated me, nor do I want to share every specific event because frankly they are so reprehensible and embarrassing that I must keep those things to myself.  But, for the sake of those that care about me or wonder why I am the way I am, I guess I have to share some things.

Earlier I mentioned I was afraid of belts.  Today, when I walk into a closet and see a belt hanging, I cringe.  You see, the belt was my father's tool of choice when it came to punishing me.  It was one thing when I saw him coming with it, but when I was sleeping and he walked into my room and started whipping me without warning—well, that's a whole other matter.  He wouldn't care if I was awake or asleep; if he felt compelled to "punish" me, well it was my fault that I was unprepared.  He once told me that it wasn't his fault that I didn't hear him come in, and if I was smart I would sleep on my stomach so if it happened again, he would aim for my butt.

How fatherly of him.

To this day, I catch myself sleeping on my stomach, and when I do, I immediately wake up looking for him.  I am 44 years old, and I still look for him.  I still feel that leather belt he had.  I feel it hitting my buttocks, my back, my legs, and yes, my face.  He once "accidentally" struck my face when I was 10 years old.  I didn't go to school for a few days after that.  I was good at covering the marks on my body, but I couldn't wear a mask to cover my face in the heat of summer in Florida.  Those few days I simply walked down to the park at the end of my street that faced Peanut Island.  I don't know how many days I spent down there alone.

Today, I look at parents scolding their children in public places and hope to God they don't strike them in my presence.  I will never tell someone how to raise or treat their child, but if I do see a parent spank of heaven forbid slap their kid, I don't know how I will handle it.  I hope I never have to find out.

Every day I give Jake a hug and kiss.  I promised myself that I would kiss him as often as I could to equal the number of times my father hit me.  I can only hope that one day the kisses surpass the hits.  If I have my way they will.