When your father is standing there with his eyes burning wild and burning fire burning you with his temper, you will understand what is afraid ... he God - a fear I knew from a very young.
Whenever I do something wrong, there is no talk of what I did or do not have any argument made to help me change my behavior - just a waistband, a belt with hard skin. From the first time my father whipped me, I realized that God always carried a waistband on him.
When our dad and his friends gathered at our house, they began to riot in their homes as he recalled the days when he was the Golden Gloves boxing champion. Whenever Dad comes into a fight with a guy, they all step back. They knew they were not his rivals, because no one was more harsh and tough than my father.
I feel lucky when I'm away from home most of the time. He worked on heavy equipment for the road construction team, and his father made him appear on the road once a week. But every Friday night, when I saw Dad's car appear on the entrance, I ran to find the hiding place. Then I'll give you a report about how badly I've been through the week. Soon he would yell my name and summon me to the kitchen. When my father screamed at me, the smell of alcohol and cigarettes hit my nose to my throat, making me want to vomit.
"I'm not in the mood for this," he yelled. "I've been working hard for a week, and now I'm back home with this sort of thing!" Then the waist was removed.
What Dad does not realize is that this sanctioning method encourages the kind of behavior he is trying to prevent. And whenever I told him about it, he was furious and shouted, "Do not do as I do.Just like I said! "
This wrong form of punishment leads to more problems as I grow up. And what makes it worse is that I do not have a way back. I was terrified of my father and did not know what to expect from his wrath. I pray that when I am old enough, I will leave home and stay as far away from my father as possible.
After all, my parents divorced, and I did not see my father the following year. My mother kept in touch with me, and one day my mother called me to tell him I was going to see a doctor, he was very weak. I wonder what I should do now or should I do anything. We are not close. How can we be close behind all the things Dad said and do when I was little? I did not even like men anymore!But I felt so strange in my heart, and I decided to call my father.
"Dad, baby, Lindy here."
"Lindy?" He said, sounding as though he was gliding at his memory of all that had come to his name.
A quiet space. I hesitated, trying to carefully select each word. "I heard Daddy was not well and decided to call Daddy."
"The doctor says I can not live for long."
"Dad what?"
He began to cry and mumble a few words I could not understand, and then he hung up.
A few weeks passed, I thought about my father's situation and what role I should take. While I was thinking about it, I received another call from my mother saying that my father had been sent to the hospice. The hesitation turns into despair. I understand what hospice means. I do not want to believe that my father's disease was at the end. How much time do you have? I must know that.
I jumped into the car and rushed to the hospice. When I arrived, two nurses and a physician were there to comfort me. After seeing my father's profile, I had all the information I needed. All the years of the last bewildered beers have taken its toll. His father had chronic cirrhosis, which led to cancer spreading throughout his body.
I'm afraid of what will come. I feel like I do not belong there. What will I say to the man I have not seen in so many years? I feel like this is the scene of someone's life, not mine. Wary about what I was doing, I walked towards my father's room, pushing the door with a power that I did not understand. And although it was very slow, I went to my dad's room too quickly. When I looked around at the door, Dad saw me and told me to go inside.
"Look at you, Lindy," he said and cried. Then he raised his arm and showed me his leathery skin."Dad is getting tired, and Dad can not do anything."
"I know, Daddy," I say, trying not to feel his pain.
Then I listened to him. He talked about my mother and how things did not work out. He told me that he tried to do the best that he could do for me, but everything turned out to be wrong at all.
"I love you, Lindy," he sobbed. "I'm sorry for you, I'm sorry."
I hugged him in his arms as he confessed his regrets. And although I did not say anything, my comforting gesture showed I forgave him.
Leaving the house, my head turns like a hurry. All happened in one night. In one night I felt dizzy, frightened, forgiven and distressed. My dad is a broken man, not a man I know when I'm in adulthood. Nothing touched him at that time. He is the Golden Gloves champion.
My weakness was loose, and I began to cry like a child. I'm not just crying for what my dad and I did not have in my paternal relationship, but I cried for what we could still have been if my dad was not going to die. Now my father seems to have changed and as a father I can live together. But he was about to leave, and neither he nor I could do anything.
But time is still there.
Over the next few weeks, I visit my dad every night after work. We sat chatting. I even ran errands for him and bought him something he needed. I started to see things about my father that I had never known before. I was only aware of the bad side of my father, now I start to see the good side, and we are becoming friends of each other. But as soon as our friendship grows, it is in his worst condition.
One night, when I visited him, the nurse said that they did not think he could get through tonight.The doctor has increased the dose of drugs, but it is still not harmony, and father is very painful. I was told that every fifteen minutes the messenger would scream, and at that moment I could press a button to send a discontinuous dose of dough to my dad's body. I decided to stay with him all night. Daddy talked very small. And each time the messenger called, I pressed the button again, realizing that each time I did, the father and son were more difficult to talk.
Dad stayed two more days, I was with his father when he died. I took his hand, kissed his forehead and said, "It's okay Daddy. Now I can go. Grandma is waiting for Dad, and now he can make the roads in heaven. "
He was a very good roadman. Dad paved the way fill the gap between father and me.
LINDA POEHNELT
Source: Soul Seeds.
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