Prodigal Son

As far back as I can remember, I have lived in my father’s shadow. Decisions have been made ‘in my best interest’, paths have been changed to suit others, and the type of man I have become has been based on someone else’s judgments. This was not the life I chose but one that was inflicted upon me. And who is the grand master making these wise decisions for me? None other than my brilliant dad. Or as the rest of the world refers to him: Rock Star, Legend, God, Groundbreaker, Innovator, blah blah blah. You see, my father is quite famous and successful and is no doubt a household name, even in your household. But, his true identity is not important. It’s who he is as a man and a father that I am interested in. And let me tell you, those designations applied to him by the public couldn’t be further from the truth. I have some of my own…asshole, loser, womanizer, child abuser, and all around piece of shit. That’s just the tip of my list, trust me I could go on. Harsh words about a father from a son you might say. Not if you knew my father for whom he truly is. Let me paint a picture for you. It’s Christmas morning, my sister and I run downstairs filled with joy to see what Santa may have brought us. What Santa brought us that year was a Jack Daniels indentation across my mother’s forehead, lying in a pool of her own blood and broken glass. (Right next to the ‘World’s Best Dad’ mug we got him the previous year). Good old dad really knew how to bring the yuletide spirit into our home! Ahh, I love the smell of domestic abuse in the morning. As the parade of black and whites, fire trucks, and ambulances pulled up to the house I could only think of my mother…and of course what may be in my stocking. You see, I was only 7 years old so I can’t be considered selfish to still want my gifts, can I? What came next was one of the most amazing magic tricks I have seen my father pull off in all my years, and he has pulled quite a few. “You see officer, when I came downstairs to put the gifts out for the children, my wife was already lying there injured and it was all I could do to bring myself to call you for help. I don’t know what happened, perhaps she feel down the stairs?” Yes dad, she fell right onto a bottle of JD, very nice job. I suppose it wasn’t such a magic trick since the officers were asking for his autograph instead of filling out a police report. Nice to be famous in America isn’t it? Not only did this situation concern me for obvious reasons but to hear in this way that there was no Santa Claus was just more than my little mind could take. The last memory I have of this ‘holiday’ was sitting by my mother’s bedside in the hospital and hearing her apologize to my father for what happened. From childhood to adulthood I still find that amazingly perplexing. Anyway, enough about my vivid childhood memories. Just thought you should know what a wonderful guy I had directing my every move in life, I was bound to be a well-rounded person, don’t you think?

Fortunately, Naomi was too young to recollect much about that wonderful childhood memory. Still, every year I try to make Christmas extra special for her. I buy her a heartfelt gift, maybe pick out the biggest tree on the lot and bring it to her; hell one year I even dressed as Santa and did the whole ‘pass out the gifts’ routine. I figured she might as well enjoy what a real holiday feels like since she missed out on so many as a kid. Being three years younger than me provided just enough space to shield her from some of the terrible things I witnessed, but as she grew older that quickly changed. She wonders why I make such a fuss over the holidays, but I won't tell her. It makes me feel good to do it. Of course, as we got older, that only happened on the rare occasion when she wasn’t in rehab or somewhere worse…another casualty of the rock n roll lifestyle. Aren't you proud dad? Naomi was too weak to resist what was much too accessible to an impressionable young girl, or maybe she just wanted to be like her dad. Me, on the other hand…I can control it. I may have a drink or two on special occasions but would never abuse it like he does. It makes me sick to even think about being like him in any way. Of course, you can't escape who you are and, like it or not, I will always have pieces of that man in me; that's MY demon to struggle with.

The abuse I have endured at the hands of my father, or ‘Mr. Rock n Roll’, as I affectionately refer to him is beyond comprehension for most people. There was a time when that type of behavior was accepted or at least overlooked by society but that time has definitely passed. Being a child of the 70s was very different than being a kid today. If your mom or dad smacked you in the store in front of people, they probably assumed you had it coming and almost approved of it in some sick way. Today, CPS would be called in a heartbeat and the parent would be dragged off to jail. I guess we call that progression? Honestly, I wish someone would have taken me away. A foster home would have been a nice vacation from the hell I endured on a daily basis. OK, yes, there were some positives to the ‘privileged’ life I was born into. Vacationing in a different, exotic location each year, having every possible toy one could imagine, getting a new Porsche on my 16th birthday, etc. Most of my good memories are materialistic ones or came at times when my father was on the road and it was just Momma, Naomi, and Jack. The ‘Three Musketeers’ as we liked to call ourselves. I looked out for my sis and mom looked out for the both of us. Those were special times and I often dreamed about the three of us running off to some deserted island and living a carefree life, being one with nature and living happily ever after together as a family. Those dreams were short-lived however. For every positive experience, there were ten negatives to accompany it. It’s funny how all my friends were jealous of me and wished they had my life. I guess I hid it well, even back then. For every extravagant birthday party they attended there was a night of verbal and often physical abuse, belittling me as to why I didn’t deserve the party I never asked for in the first place. For every exciting trip I was sent on, there was a knot in my stomach knowing I had to return to him. Once I came home with what I considered to be a pretty horrible sunburn. I now know a sunburn pales in comparison to the fiery end of a Marlboro Red stamped out on my back. To this day, I won’t take my shirt off in public. I got tired of coming up with excuses for this nice little gem my father gave me. I think my favorite was ‘I backed up into the barbecue on the 4th of July’. I assumed one of these so called adults would recognize how ridiculous this sounded and say something. But again, life in the 70s was not focused on protecting the children, at least not in my experience. So, now it’s just a nice little reminder to me when I feel it or see it as to how far I have come and to never forgive him for what he has done. Of course, some of us were a bit more forgiving, actually way too lenient when you think about it. I love my mother and can only imagine what he put her through, but the blind eye she turned to what was occurring in our house is something I still struggle to deal with. Standing up to him would have been the last thing she did, I truly believe that. So, she found a way to ignore what she didn’t want to know and built a fantasy world around my sister and I that I saw right through, even at a young age. But God bless her for trying. ‘Mrs. Rock n Roll’. Sounds glamorous doesn’t it…not so much actually.