Living Against Our Will

THE CYCLE OF TIME

“Not a novice, lest being puffed up with pride he fall into the same condemnation as the devil” (1 Timothy 3:6 NKJV).

“Jesus, please make Daddy stop. Please, Jesus, don’t let him kill Mommy.” Mommy cried, “Dennis, please stop, dear God, Dennis, please.” Kenny and I lay huddled under the covers, shivering with fear. It was dark, and we couldn’t see anything, yet our eyes were wide open. We could hear Daddy; he was in a rage, a terrifying rage. I don’t remember how I got into my big brother’s bed, but we were scared and quietly praying for Jesus not to let Daddy kill Mommy.

“I am going to wrap your head around a “******pole!” Daddy hollered. I imagined my mom’s head being wrapped around the telephone pole at the end of the block. “I’ll flush your head down the toilet!” he screamed. I knew Mom couldn’t survive that. She would be gone forever. I envisioned her head swirling down the toilet. The turmoil went on for what seemed like hours, and I do not remember falling asleep. I must have been around three-years-old this particular night. Kenny, my older brother, was four. Calling upon Jesus offered us comfort. I have not a memory that doesn’t include knowing Jesus, thanks to a praying grandma, and I would call upon him many times during the darkest days of my life.

The next morning, when we woke, Dad was extra nice to our mom, and he expressed lots of love to all of us. I liked this kind of daddy but rarely experienced him. Things were going to be okay, I thought, a fresh start and a brand new day.

Looking back across the scenes of my life like a movie, the images do not seem real. That night was one of my first memories, and the visions look like a dream. They play over in my mind when I am trying to make sense of how life can become so disrupted yet justified. It wasn’t always like this. There were happy moments, depending on what mood Dad was in and how the alcohol was going to affect him that particular day. Our entire life was determined by Dad’s state of mind—his mood, his hopes, and his dreams.

My childhood placed me within the wide gate, but my hungry, searching spirit continued to strive for the narrow road of hope. Even though I was emotionally crippled and sometimes held hostage by my father’s brokenness, I pressed on. When the darkness overlapped us, the world stood still, and I searched my tiny existence for a way to fix it. “I have to fix this,” was my thought and course of action for the majority of my life. Somehow, I accepted ownership of responsibility; I was the one who had to fix everything, take charge of all the broken pieces, and put them back together again.

It’s funny how you can love someone so much yet dreadfully fear him or her, but this was our normal way of life. Regardless of the fear, I idolized my dad and believed he was the smartest, hardest-working, most handsome man I had ever known, and to my knowledge, he never missed a day of work. He was witty, was motivated with big dreams, and looked a bit like Elvis and Dean Martin combined. Dad was born in 1939, following the Great Depression era, as life was beginning to blossom again. This generation produced many, many big dreamers. My grandpa, Dad’s dad, was a dreamer as well and wanted to be a chef and start his own restaurant. Grandpa also had the incapacitating sickness of alcoholism. I recall Dad searching for something, never sitting still for long, always trying to find his niche; I admired this quality. “There are many plans in a man’s heart, Nevertheless the Lord’s counsel—that will stand” (Proverbs 19:21 NKJV).

He rarely drank during his workdays, but when the weekend came around, we never knew what to expect. Many nights were spent in hiding. Sometimes we would go to the drive-in or hide at my mom’s parents’ home, Grandma and Grandpa Frey, which became my safe haven in many ways.

“In his pride the wicked man does not seek him; in all his thoughts there is no room for God” (Psalm 10:3–5 NIV). I know Dad did not want to be abusive and full of anger, but he could not figure out how to fight the demons in his head caused by the destruction of his own childhood. Therefore, he self-medicated with alcohol. Men have a hard time dealing with pain. They internalize and project their trauma with an attitude of pride laced with anger. Dad possessed an insane amount of pride, almost narcissistic over his own opinion of himself. Narcissism is a disorder in which the person has an overinflated opinion of himself with no regards to how he or she makes others feel. Many times you will find a very fragile, insecure individual underneath who wears a haughty mask of pride in constant search of praise and affirmation. In some cases, this is a learned behavior.

In addition, Dad had “little man syndrome,” and at five-foot-six, he overcompensated with a massive attitude, which I inherited. He could not come to understand that he had a problem with drinking or anger; it was everyone else who had the problem. Sadly, most abusive individuals retain an attitude that externalizes blame. Angry men often deal with their emotions with aggression and justify their abuse due to their own sickness; it’s easier than taking responsibility. Dad also possessed an extreme amount of determination and felt he could overcome and conquer anything. When he developed cancer, he never told us kids until after he was in remission, he just called us and said, “I beat cancer.” “Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall” (Proverbs 16:18 NKJV).

When I think about the way Dad treated my older brother, I am convinced this was the repeated treatment of his own relationship with his dad. Kenny was a small child, a very quiet, meek little guy, and a bit of a momma’s boy. Dad struggled with that. If you were Dennis’s son, you needed to be tough as steel, never cry, and never let your emotions show. Men receive this message from culture, movies, and life in general. Unfortunately, this reality is destroying our young men in the process. Many men are abandoning their responsibility to stay and raise their children; peers, the media, or hate groups are doing it for them.

My little brother Darren, on the other hand, would be everything Dad wanted from a son, tough and energized. One day as Kenny sat playing nearby, Dad lifted Darren up and said, “That’s my boy”, that’s the son I’ve always wanted.” When Kenny disappointed Dad, he would use words such as “stupid little *****,” yelling for him to go hang out with the rest of the girls. The psychological and physical damage, including spiritual injury, would show up later in Kenny as he strived to be the man Dad wanted but could not live up to the unrealistic expectations.

I envision Grandpa doing the same thing to Dad. Reflecting on what Dad’s childhood might have been like has helped me forgive him for the abuse. It is disheartening how he was always trying to make the world proud of him, especially his family. It was when he failed within himself that he took his failures out on us. Dad was really screaming and hitting toward the self-hate within his own heart. Make note of this reason why people abuse. It is not your fault, and there is nothing you can do to change them. Dad was smart in so many ways, but in other ways, there was something terribly wrong inside of him. You could see the sparkle in his eye turn dark and hateful within seconds.