Memoir: Perfect Peter: Prologue- Installment 10; Back From The Dead
One of the many articles published in the local papers that my mother, brother, sister, and I had to face…
One reason I’m sharing my memoir is because I have realized as a health coach, often, when we are struggling, like when trying to be healthier, our childhood may be holding us back. Until we address our past, our present and future may be affected.
Another reason is, when I shared it with friends, many said, “I feel the same. Can we talk?”
And, the most important reason; Right now, somewhere, an adult is harming a child. They may not know they’re doing it.
If what you read affects you, please reach out to me via email or phone, or leave a comment. My hope is to connect authentically with you, so we can support each other.
Caution, Dear Reader - Some of the content is graphic, and I have been told, disturbing at times. My goal is not to upset, but to share honestly. Only reflection and honesty have helped me glimpse what has eluded me for 50 years-happiness. Please read at your discretion.
*Most names have been changed.
Click here to read my memoir from the beginning.
Click here to read installment 9.
Excerpt:
Therapy and group meetings helped me make sense of what I could never figure out on my own. Then, on the verge of turning 50, the age my father decided he couldn't live anymore, I’d be lying awake in bed at 3:06am, anxious about something, when a narrative started writing in my head. I was remembering my childhood. Visions of knives, beatings, and a deadly fire appeared, oddly, through the eyes of a frightened three year old. I soon learned why I had to change the narrator's age, otherwise the nightmares would never stop.
Installment 10
As I look back to my childhood, it will become easy to point the finger at my father. But what surprises me is, my kind, quiet, overprotective mother will be accountable as well. It won't be about blame, but understanding what happened to my parents in Greece, that they passed down to their children, that I hoped I didn’t pass down to mine.
Therapy and group meetings helped me make sense of what I could never figure out on my own. Then, on the verge of turning 50, the age my father decided he couldn't live anymore, I’d be lying awake in bed at 3:06am, anxious about something, when a narrative started writing in my head. I was remembering my childhood. Visions of knives, beatings, and a deadly fire appeared, oddly, through the eyes of a frightened three year old. I soon learned why I had to change the narrator's age, otherwise the nightmares would never stop.
Because my program recommended it, I started journaling my thoughts. Journaling, coupled with Step 4 in my program, “Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.” led to a trickling stream of memories, that when allowed to flow, unleashed a waterfall of emotions. One day, I was compelled to sit down at my laptop and type out the turbulent ocean of thoughts crashing around in my mind, and haven’t stopped since. Truthfully, I couldn’t stop. The voices in my head spoke all the time; during pushups at the gym, while treating my patients, driving with my kids. I couldn’t ignore them. I tried, because often an overwhelming sadness consumed me, making me want to stay in bed, skip work, and avoid people. I learned I was experiencing unexpressed grief from childhood (often misdiagnosed as depression and treated unsuccessfully with medical interventions). I’d learn the only way out, was through.
I’d read that our inner child, or true self, is the source of our love and creativity. I didn’t know it, but mine went into hiding, silenced at a time when a child is supposed to find their voice with the support of loving parents or caregivers. After two and half years, with guidance from the program and therapy, I finally heard that scared little boy, still hiding in a dark corner of our childhood basement. I’d be driving on the highway, and suddenly a scene from my father’s funeral would play in my head. I’d try to wordsmith the perfect sentence in my mind as I missed exits, quickly pulled over, opened my laptop, and wrote, before the sentences disappeared. It became evident, getting the entire story out with as much honesty and detail as possible would be the only way I could someday be released from the pain I was stuck in.
Still, I sensed something was missing. Unable to avoid it any longer, I had to resurrect my father. Unfortunately, out of the coffin with him came the pain. Most of it I’d feel for the first time because I had numbed myself back then, a survival instinct. Researching the newspaper articles about his death recreated the scenes in detail. Writing about them made me feel emotions I’d long forgotten, if ever felt.
One of them was anger. Not the healthy, expressive kind, but the destructive kind if unleashed I didn’t think I could control. Often, I felt like I wanted to kill someone, with my hands, leading to visions of going to prison for murder. It scared me. I realized there was only one person I wanted to hurt, my father. I knew getting the anger out was a necessary part of healing, but I was angry that I was angry. I hated the feeling in me and the confusion it created. It frustrated and worried me, leading me to think I might never feel better. Often, I wanted to quit the work because it was hard and painful. But I couldn’t stop yet. My father was still alive in my head. I knew I couldn’t live with him there anymore.
Reminding myself he was a sick man and suffered, and couldn’t hurt me anymore, helped me feel empathy for him, and myself. When I’m fearful, which I still am at times, I visualize grabbing him by the collar, threatening him, saying, Stay away from me and my kids. It feels good to protect Kara, Bella, Nicholas, and myself from this generational disease. I couldn’t back then; I was too young, and he was too strong, and sick.
Then, a problem appeared during my writing that made me want to delete it all. Enmeshed within my father’s terrorizing behavior was a fiercely loving man. The man I remember as a child, sitting safely on his lap. Writing about that side of him reminded me it wasn’t all bad. Initially, I resisted including his good qualities. I thought that would weaken the case I was building against him, leaving me exposed as a depressed, pathetic, 50 year old failure trying to blame it all on his dead dad. I realized I had to be honest. Only telling part of the story would end up hurting me, and my children. So I’ve included what made my father human, making him an even more tragic figure, because, in those moments he became vulnerable. I loved my father then, and feel guilty for writing about him now.
When I was done writing, I had to bury him again, which took longer than I wanted. I wish I could tell you he’s resting in peace and I’m living happily ever after. That would be a lie. I still feel anger and sadness from the grieving process, something I’m told I must let myself experience to recover. Thankfully, the anger has shifted to the healing, motivational kind, fueling my determination not to pass this dysfunction onto the people I love most, my children.
More to come…