To be the dutiful son isn’t easy …
It’s been one of those quiet days, or maybe l should say, it had been a quiet day … yes, l think that is more appropriate … the day had been quiet. Had. Been. Quiet. The day started wet, it continued to stay wet, and even as l pen this post now, the day now night, is still wet – it’s just wet, wet and more wet. Huge big puddles of wet or just wet puddles in a huge way! There ‘s been no walking, shortly l will do some flexi exercise and l have told my Fitbit to stop being a pratt and some days are just slower – be done with it and stop the digital moanery!
I was working in blog as l do a lot of anyway. Correcting ‘Pages’, improving navigation and basically refreshing old Classic formats and changing them into Block Editor … yeah sure, l would be the first to agree, pretty boring stuff .. but it was keeping me busy, mentally active and sitting and listening to music, l was enjoying myself … a quiet day, a quiet wet day, a quiet wet day listening to music and minding my own business and working with the blog until the phone rang….
… you know, growing up in my family when l was younger was at times very, very hard … we were never what l would call a natural normal family … sure, hecklers could call out – ‘well define normal’ then and they would be right .. but normal in my eyes would mean, not having to continually be frightened of my father, or wary and watchful of my sister and my mother … not living through one terrorist event after another or trying to live in a war torn house … that isn’t normal.
Not being called stupid, a backward imbecile, retarded or worse by said father , watching my sister lap it all up and being spared the wrath of mother and father when they were on a rampage, not having to witness suicide attempt after suicide attempt or threat of from your mother, or, or, and more bloody or … these were not normal households … we were completely and utterly dysfunctional, we were survivors and victims who existed day in and day out – just get through the day … and despite many a time wanting the earth to just swallow me up and for the madness to end … l always tried to be the dutiful son.
My father died October 18th 2018, after an aggressive cancer took him in a few short months after diagnosis in May … in September of that year, he failed to recognise his son during a visit and on the 16th October, he didn’t recognise his son on the final visit … but then … l was never that important to him – l was just his son. People would say ‘I knew your father’ and l would answer … “No, you never did, you knew Brian, you knew the man he wanted you to know. But, you didn’t know my father, because if you did, there is a good chance you wouldn’t have liked him and my father couldn’t have that.”
Despite being first born, l was always second best to my sister … she could do no wrong, she was almost prodigal and l was trying to be duitful …. pointless really – why did l even bother?
My parents hated each other for so many years long before they divorced, long after they divorced , but only upon his deathbed did a reconciliation occur … but it wasn’t that … it was a war of bitterness … “See, now it’s my turn to be ill evil witch!!” Were my father’s thoughts and my mother’s were probably “Oh dear, are you dying dearest darling bastard?”
My mother didn’t need to be at his deathbed, they divorced, they had been divorced for thirty years after thirty years of marriage, she had wished him dead and he the same for her, but then he became vile towards the end .. the Liar King had forgotten who he had told all his dirty foul lies to over the years and as his brain became addled with the cancer, he couldn’t be bothered to lie anymore. The fabrics so carefully woven over the many years started to unstitch and unravel .. but not just his, but my mother’s too … the dysfunctionalities of a truly dysfunctional family started to peel away and be exposed to the daylight like troubled vampires burning against the first rays of hell.
My mother played her part well of concerned ex battered wife. “I am not bitter, but l shall be glad when he is gone, it shall close the story and l can move on with my life for good!”
Famous last words, l thought, we shall see if that is true, time always tells us so …
It’s took me a year and some to finally move on from my father after his death – for the nightmares to disappear of the cruelty of a man l did love, and tried to be the dutiful son to – but was never good enough, but l moved on …….. l am guessing my sister did, but who would know? Certainly not l, we haven’t actually spoken since May 2019 – the only time l will probably see her again is once my mother has passed away. Then, we will be nothing .. just two more people on the planet. I don’t wish her ill, but l don’t wish her well either – l don’t want harm to come to her but l don’t want to know her nor do l welcome her in my life, not after everything l went through with her after my father’s death. She showed her true colours and now her colours are black to me.
But my mother never moved on, she is an extremely bitter woman – 32 years after they divorced, she still hates the man with a passion, she refuses to allow herself to move on … she refuses to let go of the bitterness … she still feels cheated by being married to him…. l have told her on more than one occasion to just move on and she tells me she has, only to continually bring it all up again… more stress, more bitterness, more hatred …
... a quiet day, a quiet wet day, a quiet wet day listening to music and minding my own business and working with the blog until the phone rang….
It was my mother and started again on the subject of a dead husband, a brutal bastard of a man … she wanted to know what he had written about her in his books, the same books she didn’t want to know about before …..a quiet wet, wet, wet day minding my own business, suddenly became a bad day…
I love my mother, despite everything, but we are not close, not like we used to be, she changed during the days of my father dying, l saw her true colours too, colours she has lied about for years even being hers …. “I am not that colour she would say, your father made me be this way!!”
Yet two years on, these colours not her own are on display again … the colours that show her true identity, the woman l used to know who was someone to watch out for and be wary of .. the colours a woman tries to hide as much as a lying father tried to hide the lies … those colours are vibrant again … she is hunting for something, but will not simply say what it is she is after.
… a quiet day, a quiet wet day, a quiet wet day listening to music and minding my own business and working with the blog until the phone rang…. To be the dutiful son isn’t easy …
…. and l wonder, why at times l bother.