It’s Been a While

The more time passes, the harder it gets to formulate thoughts into a post. Things have been quiet and fine. The Monster lurks in the background, still commenting here and there on our family blog. Letting it be known that he is alive and well, and watching. But I’ve been mostly successful with shoving his nefarious presence aside.

Or have I?

I find myself angry lately. Angry at my father. Angry at everything that emanates from him, through him. Every so often, I wish I could climb on some rooftop and scream “Fuck you, Dad!”. It would echo and echo, until everyone in the land heard it and it finally reached him and punched him square on the nose and knocked him on his ass with bruises to spare. Or maybe I could read my very own State of the Emotion Address in the middle of the town square. He’d be forced to hear it. Forced to listen.

I wish he would disappear from this earth. I wish he would die. There, I said it. Just so I could stop having to deal with him, and everything he creates and represents, and everyone he touches and exploits. And I could stop being angry, maybe.

I am angry.  Because he gets away with everything but murder. Though he could probably get away with murder as well. I am angry because he has damaged me so profoundly. Beyond repair, it seems sometimes. I am angry because he continues to fool and abuse people. I am angry because many, too many, believe he is the charming, generous, smart gentleman he appears to be. I am angry because he has a manipulative, destructive hold on my brother who has now become an unhappy, unrecognizable jerk. I am angry because he tries to control my other brother and my sister with smooth talking and savvy guilt trips. Both of them still seem to know who he is. So far. Thank God. I am angry because he paints a horrendous (and false, need I say?) picture of me and my husband to my siblings and whoever else will hear it. I am angry because he refuses to stay out of my life. He refuses to let go of me.  He just won’t.

The anger is manageable. It is not all-consuming all-the-time. But when it surges, it is overwhelming.  I feel a tightness in my chest. Like an emotional gag reflex.  And I want to scream and throw something.

I wish I could wage a public relations campaign against him. Film a PSA, beautiful in black and white, nitty-gritty with raw faces and punchy phrases.  And put it out there, for everyone to see. Watch out for this Monster! I want everyone to know what an evil bastard he is, underneath all that charismatic and affable coating. I want to protect others from his clutches.

But, I am not responsible. I am not SuperWoman.  I am not supposed to be the savior of each person who suffers under his grip.

Or am I?

I know I am not responsible for who he is or his actions.  I am working hard to accept that. But am I also absolved of responsibility for how his actions may affect others? What if I could warn them? What if I could protect them? Didn’t someone say once, that to abstain from acting speaks louder than any action?

But to be fair, this altruistic angst is not all that eats me.  I am angry that a version of me lives out there.  A version over which I have no control. A version that is made up, with beautiful shades of malice and artful layers of gall, by the Monster. All lies. All expressed genuinely, I’m sure it appears, with a touch of sadness and a pinch of regret.  All the more to convince his audience of his sincerity.  All the more to pass himself off as a victim.

I wonder if my sense of responsibility for others is perhaps tinged by a desire to rectify the lies being spewed about me. A need to assert myself as one Me and erase that invented, ungracious version. When this thought hits me, I remind myself that I can only control so much, if anything.  Perspectives are subjective.  The people who know me know the real Me. I hope.  I should not care about those who wish to believe the Monster.  They believe a fantasy.  I can only ever affect that by being Me.  As real and good of a Me as I can be, every day.

I finished reading The Sociopath Next Door recently. Finally. It was a grueling read for me, best done little therapeutic bit by little therapeutic bit. It is not a perfect book, and none of the case studies accurately fits my father. But close enough.  It has been tremendously helpful.  The best advice Stout gives, in her tips for dealing with sociopaths, is to get away from them. Run! As far and as fast as you can. And don’t look back.

Oh, I am trying.