Dad Issues

I recently discovered a collection of 90s music on amazon. Or something like that.

Anyway, the point is, the 15 or so tracks for each of the years 1990-99 are my tapestry. I know every single song. Pretty much all the words, certainly the melody, and usually the song and the year it was released to boot. I'm often a year later in my guesses, mostly, I think, because the music got radio play in the year following release.

Some of them remind me of girls. A lot of them remind me of the skating rink. Just as many remind me of the two houses (they moved a lot then) where my cousins lived in those days. And a few more -- the older stuff from junior high school, especially, reminds me of my parents house.

Of my father. Of my bedroom, of being alone, without friends, or hope, or even the glimmer of truth that maybe there would be a way out eventually.

And as I lay here for the past hour, remembering going to movies alone in the summer time, remembering programming my Apple II alone, remembering reading voraciously absence TV, peers, and sports in the vacuum my father created so that he could brainwash and control.

I remember the golf club and the neverending hatred. (see the past post about dad trying to kill me for the golf club reference.)

And I imagined, tonight, going to his house in the present day. I imagined being alone, then I realized that I, perhaps, am not strong enough to do that. Well, actually, I didn't realize it until just now, writing about it. At any rate, I then imagined my brother and sister there with me, because I can so easily see myself defending them with fervor, grace, and even (mostly) maturity.

I imagined letting my sister talk. I imagine telling him to shut up. Calling him terrible things as he continues to interrupt her.

I imagine telling him that if he doesn't shut up, I'll make him. And then I imagine him challenging my manhood, trying to pull some sort of power trip like he used to. Pull something that always worked before.

And then I imagine pointing out that he claims to never remember the terrible things he did, about how he denies all of it. And then I say, "well, I won't do anything that you never did to me."

And then I ask him if he still can't remember.

And then I ask him if he still has a set of golf clubs. I find one of the irons, and I pull it out and I swing it towards him, not hitting him, and I ask if he remembers any scene like this in his mind's eye.

But, even in my insomnia-driven nighttime daymare, I can't do it. Even squeezing my pillow and shaking, adrenaline rushing through my tightening veins as I relive that terrible, terrible age, I can't swing it.

I want to say, "let's see if your reflexes are as fast as mine were at 15!" and swing it at his head. I want to wind up and swing that bitch with all my might, hoping even as I can't do it that he won't be able to block it.

But I can't do it.

And even in my dream, I fake the swing and then hit the wall with it. I hit it hard against a corner of a wall or table, because I want to see it bend. I want to hold it in my hands and swing it hard enough to see it bend in one swing to a 70 degree angle like he did to me against my 15 year old forearm.

I want to know what it felt like. I want to know how hard he hit me. I want to know if it really would have killed me or not.

I want to know if he remembers.

Holy shit. Maybe this is why I don't play golf.