Tuesday, 23 October 2012

My Dad - Mr. Hyde

Unfortunately, I have some brutal memories of my father.  It would be impossible to include them all in a single blog post.

I know there are kids who’ve had it worse than me. At the same time, when you’re living in an environment like I was, it’s your own little version of hell.

My dad was pretty free-wheeling with his slaps to the head. He also had a fondness for throwing fake punches at your face. They would come so close, that you could feel the breeze on your nose. I’m amazed that I don’t have a permanent eye twitch. The fake punches were usually a prelude to a beating, or at the very least, he was going to rough you up a bit. He would steadily get madder, as he ranted and raved. I probably drove him to the brink with some of the things I did, but he didn’t just lose his marbles when it made sense. Most of the time, it was over diddle-squat.

There are many things I plan on taking responsibility for throughout the lifetime of my blog, but in defense of myself, I’d like to say that I had no guidance whatsoever. You weren’t allowed to ask why or question anything. You couldn’t have an opinion.  I’m just saying, it would have been nice to have someone who you could turn to in a crisis, who would have been the voice of reason and wisdom. In my opinion, a lot of the troubles I had were for that reason. If I had a problem, I would try and work things out by myself and, well, sometimes it didn’t work out so good. On the flip side, I was pretty defiant. I just could not understand why I couldn’t have a life. I was going to do what I was going to do, and although I was pretty scared of him, I got “seasoned” to the abuse, and became somewhat tough.

My father had a little weapon that was attached to his body. It was a stumpy index finger that was the result of an old work related accident. He would poke you in the chest with that thing when he was trying to get his point across, and it hurt.

Our house was a very tense place to be. Whenever my dad was lying on the couch watching TV, having a nap or composing a letter to someone he was pissed off at, God help you if you bumped into it. It’s kind of comical to look back and remember that particular scene, as it was a regular occurrence and just BEYOND ridiculous. The problem was, that the end of the couch jutted out and infringed on the direct path leading to the bathroom and laundry room. Bumping into that couch was a hard thing NOT to do.

The house was a split level, and there was a short set of stairs leading down into the family room. As soon as you were down the stairs – boom -  there was the couch. You had to veer left about a foot to miss it, and then immediately veer right so that you didn’t run into the bookcase. That particular end was also the same one that my dad’s head would be situated. You had to make a conscious effort not to clip the couch on your way by.  He didn’t get physically abusive for such a violation, but it was still pretty nerve wracking.  If you bumped into it, his arm would reach out to stop you in your tracks. The more times you bumped it, the more pissed off he’d get.

If he was working on a letter, as opposed to napping, the disruption would rob him of his concentration, and it was all your fault. You needed to be super quiet, because even if you whispered, he could hear it. He would lie on that couch for HOURS working on letters to people. Every word had to be just perfect, so that the person on the receiving end knew EXACTLY who they were talking to.

King Shit of Turd Island.

Yeah, he was a real peach.

I remember one time when my oldest daughter, Sunny, was about a year old, my dad stopped by my place. He wanted me and the baby to go out for dinner with him. Wasn’t that nice of him?

We arrived at the restaurant, got seated, and the waitress came to our table to fill water glasses and take drink orders. When she was done, I said, “Thank you.”

The waitress left the table. My dad looked at me with a grim expression and stated, “You just embarrassed me.”  In a hushed tone, and  out of the corner of his mouth, he added, “I’m paying for dinner and I’m the one who should do the thanking."

I was a little thrown aback at such a weird statement, but when you live like we did, weird is normal.

Okey dokey then.  It’s easier not to argue with the king.

The waitress came back with our drinks, and the word flew out of my mouth again before I could stop it.

“Thank you.”

I did it again. I’m in trouble now.

My dad made eye contact with the waitress, and nodded his pompous head at her to acknowledge the drinks. He gave me an ominous look, and when she walked away, he told me, “Don’t do it again.”

I won’t bore you with every detail from that night, but let’s just suffice it to say that it was a stressful couple of hours. I could NOT stop saying thank you to the waitress. I tried, I really did, but it just kept popping out. It’s hard not to laugh at the absolute ridiculousness of it, isn’t it?

What an idiot.

There’s bad… and then there's worse

One time, when my dad wasn’t home, my mom decided to use his work truck. I was probably about fifteen or sixteen years old. My boyfriend at the time, Jerry, was over visiting, and he asked my mom for a ride home. He lived in a neighboring town, about a fifteen minute drive away. My mom had her own vehicle, but it wasn’t at home at the time. I don’t remember why it wasn’t there. My dad’s work truck was in the driveway. It wasn’t brand new or anything. It was just an older, grey Chevy pickup.

We left to take Jerry home, and on the way back, my mom had a minor fender bender. There was barely any damage, but the accident was her fault. I was terrified. I instantly knew that my dad was going to flip out. I also knew that I was going to get blamed for it. I could tell that my mom was worried too, but only about herself. It wouldn’t have mattered whose fault it was anyways. My dad reacted the same way to everything - with anger and accusations.

When my dad got home, he walked right by the truck and into the house, without noticing the damage. My mom fessed up right away, and he immediately started losing his shit. He grabbed his magnifying glass (that’s not true, I’m only being factious), stormed out to the truck and located a couple of little scratches.

I ran to the dining room window to watch the scene unfold. He was getting more and more worked up, with his arms waving all over the place. He marched back and forth, around the perimeter of the truck, looking for more damage.

You would have thought that old truck was etched in gold or something.

I took off from my spot at the dining room window and headed for the family room, wishing I could make myself invisible. I sat on the couch and picked up my address book. I was pretending to read, so that I could try and stay off his radar. I heard them come into the house. Their voices got louder as they came in the direction of the family room, where I was sitting. He was ranting and raving, berating my mom about her audacity, in even thinking, that she should use his truck in the first place.

The dreaded moment arrived. The one I knew was coming.

He turned on me and declared, “If she didn’t have to drive your boyfriend home, then it wouldn’t have happened.”

There it is.

Was I surprised?

You know the answer to that question.

I made the mistake of letting out a noise that probably sounded like a sigh, and I tossed my address book on the coffee table. The ugly look in his eyes told me what was coming next. I was up off the couch in a heartbeat, running for the bathroom. I could feel him closing in on me, and I barely had time to slam the door and lock it. I’m surprised that I even made it.

Instantly, he was pounding on the door, demanding that I open it. I wouldn’t.

Two punches - that’s all it took.

Two punches and his fist came through the door, into the bathroom where I was standing, scared shitless. His big sausage fingers unlocked the door.

Just thinking about the sight of that hand, unlocking that door, makes me shudder. It was pretty shocking.

He dragged me out of the bathroom, and I was struggling to get away. He had me in an almost crab like position, with his arm underneath my back, and my head and legs were hanging downward. As I continued to fight against him, he dropped me onto my head.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up and my parents were standing over top of me with looks of concern on their faces. They were probably worried that he’d killed me or given me brain damage. They were probably worried about how that would affect their lives.

I always wondered what they would have done if he had ever accidentally killed me. I bet they would have tried to cover it up, and I’ll bet double that they would have succeeded.

Oh, and you really DO see stars when you wake up. That isn’t just something you see in cartoons.

A Little Side Note –
I brought this incident up to my mother once…
“No, no, no,” she said, shaking her head emphatically, “When you got knocked out, you and your dad were play fighting!”
*Big eye roll*
I beg to differ.


  1. Trixie, CZBZ turned me on to your blog. I really like your writing style--the way you deliver the horror with a large dollop of droll..... looking forward to reading more adventures of Trixie. Your Dad and Mom sound like real peaches. And I know, cause mine are nearly as juicy (although no physical punches were ever thrown by my father. Still, few verbal punches were ever pulled....) .

    1. Hi Calibans Sister! Thank you so much for taking the time to comment, and also for your compliments on my writing. If you don’t laugh, you’re going to cry right?  I’ve been derailed a bit, as my mother is at it again. But I will be back, WITH A VENGEANCE, with many, many more blog posts. One thing that you never run short of, when it comes to a narcissist, is MATERIAL TO WORK WITH. If you ever need someone to talk to, or a shoulder to cry on, I am always here. Victims of Narcissists need to stick together. We know better than anyone what each other is going through. Much love and lots of hugs, Trixie 
      PS – thank you so much for the shout out CZBZ, you rock!


All I ask, is that you please don't hate on me.
You are more than welcome to post your opinions.
Try to be kind, but above all, be honest.
Have a great day! :-)
- Trixie