A very dark memory

“As you practice yoga, you may experience some moments of discomfort,” my yoga instructor said to a very fatigued and pleasantly rested class after an intense hour session. “Your body may feel some discomfort. You might have some uncomfortable thoughts or memories. But this is all part of how the body works. And through yoga you can work through those uncomfortable times.” It was as if she was reading my mind, because this was one of those rare sessions where somehow, someway, something got triggered - something deep. Something dark. It was at the very moment that we propelled ourselves up into a shoulder stand that a long-buried memory chose to resurface. And as the memories went back one decade… two… three… that I felt my body convulse in some sort of internal tear jerk moment, nearly knocking me out of the pose.

My father and I never really got along. A polite person would call it a difference in personalities. More to the point, we were two very different people. My father was very rough around the edges. A classic “man’s man”, my father was very old-world in his ways, and in his view people had their roles. The mother was to stay at home, make babies, and take care of the house, husband and kids. The kids were to be doting worshippers of the father. And the father’s role was to work, and provide. And if he got to drink and carouse on the side, that was his right. In his world, that was just how it was. The father was lord and master. Or more to the point, as he frequently said, “I’m the BOSS!” With my father, it was about control. Any variance from this narrow world-view signaled a challenge to his control, and he didn’t like it – not one bit.

My earliest memories with my father were not pleasant. My father was the absolute KING of teasing. It would be nothing for him to come into the room where I was playing where he would do something – anything to annoy me. He would tickle me, or taunt me, or push me over, – ANYTHING – that he knew would push my buttons. He was effectively a big bully. I hated it – HATED IT! And the more I protested, and struggled and writhed, the more he loved it. How do I know? He would laugh. He LAUGHED. It didn’t matter that he would tickle me to the point where tears of anguish were streaming down my face. He loved it. It was his personal victory – his power over me. “I’m just teasin’” he would say. Teasin’… tickling, or taunting, or pinching, or terrifying a child to the point of tears – that was “just teasin’” in my father’s world. My sisters all fell into the roles that he wanted – at least they appeared that way to me. Whenever I protested his behavior, my sisters reinforced the fact that he was the papa – the provider – he who MUST be worshipped, and my complaints fell on deaf ears. “He does that to ALL of us!” I would hear. “You think he’s bad with YOU?! He was soooo much worse with us!” I would also hear – as if it was a competition to see which kid could put up with the most. Only my mother would step in. If my mother heard me screaming, she would yell at my dad until he stopped. My sisters think my mom stole me away from my dad. The fact is, my mom PROTECTED me from my dad.

As a rational adult, I know – I KNOW - that my father was not intentionally being malicious. I’m sure in his mind, he really thinks he was “just teasin’”. But to me, it wasn’t (and still isn’t) that simple - it was abuse. Because of the years of this behavior, I never felt comfortable around my father – NEVER. Up until the day he died – quite literally, I never ever ever wanted to be in a room alone with him. And I recall distinctly that horrible time. As the cancer reduced my once strong man’s man father to a 90-something pound shadow of his former self, I still could not bear for even a moment to be alone in the room with him. Never. Never, never, NEVER! It wasn’t that I was afraid of the face of cancer. I wasn’t even afraid that my father was going to die. There was something in me that was still afraid to be alone with my dad. Because of his treatment of me as a child, I always, always, ALWAYS felt inexplicably on-edge, like I had to be on alert to sprint upon the slightest movement. He made me feel just that paranoid. And I recognize now that to this day whenever I’m near a rough-around-the-edges, old-world type of a man, I immediately feel anxious and ready to sprint. The survival instincts kick in, and I have a fight or flight instinct. I cannot stand bullies of any kind, and the paralyzing fear and anxiety I still carry is because of him. To this day, I combat this issue in my personal life, in my professional life, in my hobby life – and it sucks.

But what does this have to do with yoga?

I remember one evening I was watching television in my parents’ bedroom when my dad came home from work. I must have been about eight or nine years old at the time. Seeing me sitting there on the bed, he couldn’t miss the opportunity to tease me. I don’t remember exactly what he did. Maybe it was a hair-pull. Maybe it was a tickle. Maybe he just pushed me over. But it was something – and it really upset me, just like always. In my mind, I knew he was “just teasin’” But then a thought occurred to me. If “just teasin’” was ok for him to do to me, then I guess he would enjoy it if I did it back to him. Makes sense, right? I vaguely remember him walking into the closet to change out of his work clothes. And it was then that I rolled back onto the bed, throwing my legs up in the air, not unlike a yoga shoulder-stand. As he walked out, and maneuvered by the edge of the bed, I sent my legs crashing down on his shoulders, pushing him off balance. Surprised, he fell back against the wall, trying not to fall completely over. I sat on the bed, beaming ear to ear at the success I had in surprising him. “Yeah!!!!” I thought to myself. “I finally caught MY dad unaware!” I actually expected him to be happy with me – proud that I had learned to mimic his behavior. After all, I was “just teasin’”

My father was FURIOUS! So angry that he stuttered his speech and flailed his hands, he yelled at me, “Don’t TALK to me for the rest of the night!!!!!!!!” And then he stormed out.

BUT…. I…. BU….WHA…. HUH…. BUT….BUT….BUT…

I was so confused. I was just doing to him the kind of thing he did to me all the time! I thought he’d like it! I was so confused. Then, I heard my mom’s voice sternly calling for me from the kitchen. Uh oh!

The walk from my parents’ bedroom to the kitchen felt like a mile in the twilight of that evening. Walking slowly into the kitchen, I felt like I was going to throw up. I just couldn’t understand what went wrong. My father sat on one of the kitchen chairs calmly and quietly – something I was not used to seeing. My mother stood there, angry look on her face and hands on her hips like a judge before the accused, waiting for me to ease my way into the kitchen. “You need to apologize to your father!” my mother said while stretching out an accusatory finger.

Apologize?!!!!!! For what?!!! It wasn’t that I was being defiant. But I sincerely had absolutely no idea – no comprehension of how my act was a Bad Thing – especially when it was the type of thing that my dad did to me on such a regular basis. I opened my mouth, and no words came out – just some noises. My throat was so tight from fear, and from my own lack of understanding what was going on. My father, in the meantime, was so angry that he just got up from the chair with a look of disgust, and left the kitchen. My mother, in the meantime, scolded me for bad behavior and it burned into me. What I learned that day was that my father could do whatever he wanted, and I was absolutely forbidden from doing anything about it. It was that day that I learned paralyzing fear of bullies. And that is something I carry with me to this day.

I know that my father did not mean to be malicious. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that he did, in fact, scar me. Whether one intends to knock over and shatter a vase, the absence of malice doesn’t suddenly make all of the broken shards come back together. I would like to forgive my father. And someday, I hope to be able to. But today, I do not. Today, I WILL not! Today, I still have a sad and frightened and hurt child inside that is screaming, “dad, you hurt me. Dad, you Hurt me! DADDY…. STOP HURTING ME!!!!!!!!!!!”

As the memory flooded through my body, my abdomen began to spasm as if I were going through a tear burst. I felt tears well up in my eyes, but did not actually feel a reason to cry. It wasn’t like I was reliving all of that emotion, but rather watching it in my mind’s eye like a movie. And as I slowly lowered out of shoulder stand, I felt the memory and the entire experience begin to drain out of me, bringing an unexpected and unanticipated feeling of relief and drain. Over thirty years later, and I was still carrying that night.

I had thought originally about just putting this very personal and unpleasant post under lock-down. But I have nothing to be ashamed of. And who knows - maybe this will help somebody out there. If you take nothing else away from this post, please remember this - there are all kinds of abuse. But it’s important to remember - not all abuse leaves physical scars.