Sunday, October 18, 2009

I am (Half) Evil

I've written some about my mother (we'll call her "Weakness"), but now to the Father (let's call him "Evil").

He's half my DNA.  That's undeniable.  He's probably mentally ill (sociopath is my guess).  And he's my Daddy.  People are shocked to hear the story - handsome, charming, smart; mean, violent, mysogenistic. 

But what does it mean to me now?  I'm not the little girl who craves his attention and approval (or am I?).  I'm a grown adult whose primary identity is Mommy, but it's a short trip back to remember the pain of being the progeny of a "bad guy" (that's how I've described him to my kids so as to give them instant clarity of why he's not around).

A recent funeral sent me spinning.  The corpse was a beloved father whose adult children spoke of him with admiration, respect, love and a touch of fear.  The girl child spoke movingly of her gratitude of having her father for some 30 years.  I leaned by head against the wall, closed my eyes and thought, "you are damn lucky."  My shit of a father still lives and hasn't earned a morsel of pain from me at the thought of his death. I do not plan to weep when he goes (and it should be painful and soon, please) for I've wept too much for him already.

Christianity encourages forgiveness, but something I really like about my Jewish faith is the tenet that the wronged are not obligated to forgive until it is righteously sought by the wrong-doer.  Even then, the wronged is not obligated to forgive if not so inclined until, the Rabbis say, the third time absolution is sought.  And let's just say this - it's never been sought and it never will be.  He's not capable of it; not deep enough, not introspective enough, not man enough. And thank god 'cause I don't think I could forgive him now anyway.

And I don't think my anger and bitterness hurts me one damn bit either.  It reminds me how not to be, gives me compassion for victims, and it's probably a big part of the good that's inside of me.  But in the end, I am half evil.

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