Might do a linkpost after this one. But for now, angst.

Therapy day. We talked about my relationship with my father, and it become apparent that I actually had a lot more of a relationship with him than I thought.

It started with me talking about how I would try to intervene between my father and my sibling when he was getting abusive at the dinner table when I was a kid.

What an absurd sight that must have been, me not even into double digits yet, convinced that this was all just a misunderstanding and if I just tried hard enough, I could smooth it all over and everyone would be happy and getting along again.

Absurd, but touching. I was so earnest and I tried so hard. But this was no misunderstanding, it was abuse. My father is a verbally abusive man. And abusers need to abuse. It is how they cope. If you shut down one excuse for them to abuse, they will just find another, because they are addicts desperate for the hit of rage that will make them feel better.

And eventually I figured that out. The problem was not a misunderstanding, it was him. He’s a broken man whose anger issues drive everyone away from him. The man is diseased.

So far, this is all stuff that loyal readers of my blog already know. But I have not, AFAIK, talked about what happened after I figured out that he was the problem.

I turned on him. Instead of mediating, I started tackling him myself, verbally speaking. If he started being abusive, I would interpose myself and reflect it all right back at him. Eventually it would be like war between him and me, a war of words, and every time we battled, I would remember the arguments he had used to justify his atrocious behavior, and the next time, I would have highly effective counterarguments.

I can’t give a direct reason why I took on this role. I can only say that some people are interventionists by nature. When I see a problem like that, I throw myself into it and try and stop it. I can’t do anything else. It would take a huge act of will and a very good reason why intervening is a bad idea in order to keep me on the sidelines.

I cannot sit idly by while bad things happen. I have to intervene. I have to interpose myself betwixt the innocent and the vulnerable and the cold and uncaring hand of fate, or in this case, the forces of evil.

To some that would make me a hero, to others, just a control freak. I don’t know. It’s just how I am.

As our battles continued, my attacks on him grew more pointed and personal. I told him he was a sad, pathetic, tiny man who took out his frustrations on those he loved the most and that he didn’t deserve to eat with civilized people.

And it only occurred to me today, while talking to my shrink, that I won. Eventually, he started taking meals separately from us. My mom would make up a plate for him and stick it in the fridge, and he’d eat it after the rest of us were gone.

And you know what? I am proud of that. I was someone he simply could not bully. He certainly was no threat to me physically. By this point, I was twice his size, and full of teenage hormones too. He was never physically abusive in the first place, but once I grew into my Bubba-ness, that was less of a choice and more like simple self-preservation.

We mutants LOVE puberty.

And I rapidly overtook him mentally too. He could not out-think me, out-argue me, or intimidate me. I was protecting the rest of the family from him and when I am in that mode, I am unstoppable. I was sick and tired of his abuse of my sister Anne and my brother Dave, and I was determined to never let him get away with it. Ever. Period.

It was not long before I had him completely overpowered. And then it was I who chased him away. Because, all else being equal, it’s the offender who should have to leave. Don’t you think?

And even though I fought this fight alone, and sometimes got quite traitorously blamed for the trouble, everybody got to enjoy the peace I created when I chased that bastard away.

I had not thought about that period for a long time before today. And it had never occurred to me just how unusual it was that I took on that role and that I fought so hard, without fear or hesitation.

My therapist asked me, basically, what happened after that? Where did that tireless warrior go? And all I can say is, I was not trying to prove anything, I was just coping. I didn’t see myself as heroic or think of this as some major thing at the time. So it never occurred to me that this was some sort of sign that I had a gift that I should pursue.

See, I am not an angry person. My default mode is laid back and friendly. I don’t actually want to be that warrior most of the time. It was the enemy, in this case my father, who brought it out in me, and afterwards, I just… went back to being me.

I was such a clueless teen!

I should have been a lawyer. I had all the skills. I would have made a phenomenal lawyer for the cause of good, like representing Greenpeace, or even better, the little guy (or gal) who has been stepped on by the big dogs and needs to be able to fight back.

If they don’t suffer, they’ll never learn. And I could have really enjoyed teaching them.

But know, I thought law school would turn me into a bad person, and so I never pursued it.

How I wish I could go back in time and smack myself for that.

Oh well, I yam what I sweet potato.

Talk to you tomorrow, folks!