|
Edited on Sun Jun-15-08 04:15 AM by Drunken Irishman
Today is Father's Day and I thought I would discuss my dad, because he's the biggest reason why I hate war.
My father was one of eight children and was raised by his widow mother. When my dad was five years old, my grandfather drove his car off the side of a mountain during a terrible rainstorm. He had been a World War II vet, but outside of that, not much is known about my father's father. Mostly because my grandma would not talk about him and resented the fact he left her with 8 children, even though it wasn't his choice. She never remarried and never forgave him and because my father looked a lot like his own dad, she took her pain out on him. She would beat him, verbally abuse him and treat him as if he wasn't worthy of living under her roof. One Christmas, all his brothers and sisters got gifts, but he didn't. His mother, my grandmother, told him Santa didn't like him.
My father finally decided to leave my grandmother at the age of 16. The Vietnam War was at its height and my dad walked down to the Army recruiting office and with the approval of my grandmother, joined the Army. He soon shipped out to Vietnam and I don't know the details of what happened, because my dad does not talk about the War -- and in our house, the War refers to Vietnam. What I do know is that it messed him up pretty badly and when he came back home, he wasn't the same and he never would be the same. During the War, like many military men, he found himself addicted to heroin. Again, this is something my father will not talk about, but my mom has told me it was the only release from the daily pain he saw. Whether it was the slaughter of innocent Vietnamese, or the death of his fellow comrades. His addiction would continue after being honorably discharged from the military and it would land him in a North Carolina prison for 3 years.
After getting out of prison, my father moved back to Utah and tried to restart his life. He kicked his addiction to heroin and other drugs and settled down, marrying and having a boy. Though the marriage didn't work, my dad stayed away from drugs and then he met my mom. My mom had just lost her son to leukemia at the age of 12 and didn't think she could carry on. Somehow, though, my aunts got her out to a local amusement park and that's where she bumped into my father. Their meet, and subsequent romance, led to marriage and my birth. Right there sounds like the perfect ending, doesn't it? But, as I think we all know, life is rarely perfect.
One of my dad's major vices has always been alcohol. He could kick the hard drug use, but not the drinking. And early on, it wasn't too much of an issue. He'd get drunk, yell and make a fool of himself, but he was rarely abusive and never physically abusive toward my mother or my brother and I. But as he got older, his health began to deteriorate. We never really knew why and since we were working class and didn't have insurance, he rarely went to the doctors. It wasn't until the late 90s that things began to really get worse.
Around this time, my dad would continually forget simple things. He'd have a hard time remembering words or what the topic of discussion was or what he had done 20 minutes earlier. It was a concern, because at that time he was only in his 40s and even though he had some troubles, it wasn't anything major. So my dad finally went up to the Veterans Hospital for tests and the results were not good. I'm not a doctor, so I don't know exactly what it's called, but after a few MRI scans, they found his brain was shrinking. At first they did not know what was causing the shrinking or how much would shrink, but they were pretty sure that was causing his memory loss and his failure to comprehend some of the most basic understandings. Now I'm not trying to paint the picture that he was completely infected with dementia, because he wasn't. If you barely spoke with my dad, you probably would not pick up that there is a problem. But we knew and he knew and our fears were verified. Unfortunately, at the time, they were baffled. So they did more tests.
Soon after, they realized the most likely reason for his suffering was Agent Orange. For those who are unfamiliar with Agent Orange, it was a herbicide and defoliant used by the United States Military, sprayed on the dense jungles of Vietnam. Many American troops were exposed to Agent Orange, but it took years for symptoms to show. For my father, it took decades. And then when it hit, everything just fell apart.
Not only did Agent Orange cause brain degeneration, it resulted in tumors, a cancer scare a few years ago and terrible breathing problems. His breathing was so bad, that it was impossible for him to walk from one side of the house to the other without nearly passing out. It also tied into his losing weight, becoming a weak shell of his former self. But if it wasn't bad enough, he then was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
With his quality of life dwindling, my father became more and more depressed. And when he would get depressed, he'd drink and unlike before, his drinking resulted in far more violent outbursts than my mother and I had ever witnessed. This was a concern, because we knew something was not right. So he went back in for more tests and that's when they realized he was suffering from a pretty bad case of PTSD. As he got older, it became worse and liquor was always the trigger. It would get so bad that there were times where he would slip into military mode and look at me as the enemy. He would tell me that he killed the gooks and he could kill his own son. No child, I don't care how rotten or mean or disrespectful, should ever hear their own father -- the person who is supposed to be their protector -- say that he's capable of killing them. But I saw it and I looked into his eyes and I did not see the man who raised me. I saw someone much different, as if his entire body was taken over by something evil. And I know that sounds dramatic, but it's the truth. When he drank and his PTSD was triggered, he became a completely different person. An ugly person, someone I was afraid of and someone I hated.
Because of this, I grew to really hate my father. I even at times wished him dead, because I knew it would mean a better life for my mother and I. Even though my father sober is a quiet, down to earth guy, the worse his PTSD got and the worse his health got, the worse his anger got. Over the years, I got to the point where I was too exhausted to have any feeling but hate toward him. I tried to love him and I tried to believe it was not him attacking me or my mother, but it was useless. I could not convince myself of this or to accept it as a reason for his actions. And I hate that. I hate knowing that no matter how much I try, my feelings for him have not and most likely will not change. I can say that I do not love my father and it eats me up inside. It kills me to know this. It's not something I say proudly and it's not something I expect other people to understand, but I do truly hate him. I hate him because of the broken promises. I hate him because I cried and prayed when I thought he was dying, only to be told over and over again that I didn't care. I hate him because of him getting in my face and telling me he will kill me. I hate him for pushing me. I hate him for ruining my room because I stood up for my mother. I hate him for calling me a loser. I hate him for everything he has put us through and then I realize, it's not his fault.
It isn't his fault the government didn't do anything to help him emotionally when he returned home from war, probably causing irreversible damage that ultimately led to his PTSD. It isn't his fault the military used a herbicide that led to health problems and then depression and then more alcohol abuse that became the trigger for his PTSD. It isn't his fault that life crapped on him when he was too young to know better and too young to do anything about it. And yet it doesn't change my feelings and it doesn't make it easier to accept his actions. Which makes it far harder for me to understand why I feel this way. And then I realize, I'll never let go of these feelings. But I can sure as hell do my part to make sure another child does not suffer through what I have the past 24 years of my life.
See, so many people believe when the wars end and the troops come home, the battle ends. But it doesn't, a new one begins. Unfortunately, it's a battle that not only involves the soldiers themselves, but their families as well. I've never been to Vietnam and I've never fought in a war, but I sure as hell know what it's like to experience the ramifications of a war. And it's enough to convince me that I utterly detest war. I do not need to see a battlefield or hear the cries from villages as they burn, I just have to remember my life. That's why I hate war and on this Father's Day, I bring you that reason: My father.
|
Printer-friendly format
Email this thread to a friend
Bookmark this thread
(1000+ posts)
Send PM |
Profile |
Ignore
