Seeds of Evil
Parents are interesting things, I grew up thinking my
parents were fairly moral, good, respectable people. I'm not sure why, it was
probably the way they took care of me, and I saw them go to church, I saw them
give to charities (sometimes) and aside from their staunchly right-wing
attitudes towards life, politics, aborigines and homeless people, they were my
parents, and any flaws they ever had were cancelled by their seemingly infinite
kindness to myself and my siblings. They were both doctors, so I assumed that
both of them were fairly intelligent, and they both knew a lot about things I
didn't understand, medicine, disease, the human body, awe inspiring things which
in a way put them beyond the reach of my questions. Question the existence of
God, occasionally, question the superiority of my parents, never. I still
disagreed with them, but at the end of the day, I still saw them as my mother
and my father, and they were perfect. My younger years were spent trying
to be as perfect as I thought my parents were in many areas, especially
spirituality. Both my parents taught Sunday School, and they were fairly active
members of the church, I can remember thinking that when you get to about 25 or
30, you just stop sinning because I thought my parents were perfect. It
shouldn't have been this way, but when I begun to realise that they were only
human, I began to resent them even more.
The battle between the child who claims independence and the parents who will not allow it, happens in every family, in many different ways. For example my family is fairly musical. All of us learned the piano and at least one other instrument. For me, it was piano, guitar and saxophone, and piano was the one I hated the most. Whether it was my superficially, over-jewelled "wife-of-a-used-car-salesman", hoity-toity, prim and proper, can't-stand-the-sight-of-dirt piano teacher, or the fact that Piano Practice was something which got in the way of me watching television, I'm not sure, but I do remember fighting bitterly with my parents about when I could quit piano. They always maintained that when I was 15 I would be old enough to stop, and I always look towards the day I could pack in my books and my trophies and stop it. I think more than anything, Piano was a symbol of my parent's dominance over my life. I only played the piano because they wanted me to, and because they told me to, that was it. So while I was still playing the piano, I was still living my life as, essentially, the proletariat child under the oppression of my bourgeois parents, not economically of course, but socially. Whether this was their intent or not, I often got the feeling that I was nothing more than a pawn in their game of social chess. They'd play the Michael card at gatherings as the child who could play the piano and the saxophone, of course, I was never half as big a draw card as my brother, who was in their eyes the perfect son, no friends, no life, lots of filial piety, but still, the way my mother would be proud of every thing I did came off, not as pride for her son, but as pride for herself as a mother. The way she used to make me do things like tuck in my shirt or practice the piano so people wouldn't think she was a "terrible mother", only confirmed how much I was only a show pony to them. They ignored me in discussions at the dinner table, they focused their attentions on my brother and sisters, while I (the typically under loved middle child) manifested into the twisted wreck of pathetic human achievement you see before yourselves today.
The very idea that my parents were perfect still astounds me now a days. Not because they are especially horrific, but nobody is perfect. I guess I didn't understand their fights, I tried to stay out of them, I remember one time I got involve and jokingly suggested my father had said something he hadn't, boy did I get in trouble. I know I got in trouble because I don't remember what it was I said, but only that my father had a stern talking to me afterwards. My parents lived "up there" in the world about 5 ft, while I crawled around in the cesspool of our house hold below table height. Still, the giants of 10 years ago provided for me well. 3 meals a day without fail, blankets and a bed, toys, clothing, computer, television, running water, and typical shallow parenting things like band aids and books. I was fine with being bought off in some areas. The fact that they didn't spend any time with me, and that they didn't help me with my homework were happily traded off for food and shelter, but then there were things I would've given everything to have a piece of. Like the way my brother would beat me up all the time, constantly tormenting me, teasing the 0 - 7 year old child I was, and just generally being an arsehole. My brother and I shared a room, and yet 3 or 4 nights a week I'd come down stairs crying after being put to bed, begging that my parents would do something about him, but they didn't. They'd rarely lift a finger, and if they did, it was things like letting me sleep in the spare bed, away from my brother. I was told to ignore him, and to sit there and take it, because if I didn't show any reaction he'd eventually get bored and stop it. The problem was, it's impossible for a 0 - 7 year old to show no emotion when he or her is being tormented by his or her older brother, and he just kept at it. He kept teasing me, kept picking on me, and I wasn't a very secure kid, I mean, I'm pretty sure I had self esteem issues, (and it probably had something to do with this), so yeah, I just kept being teased by my brother, and running downstairs to my parents and crying, and I kept being put back to bed and it just kept going on. And I still thought my parents were perfect.
Soon, I began to pick faults with my parents. The way they put him up on a pedestal and crushing me into the ground, the way. ... oh what's the point..
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Yeah, so my parents. They're not perfect, just like me, and you, they screw up. They're far from perfect. Maybe they have a drinking problem, or they're "Sunday Christians" or they're horrible right-wing, conservative, racist parents who segregate themselves from white people and hate aborigines. Maybe. Maybe they're not. I've given up trying to understand my parents, I don't really want to know them. The more I find out about my parents, the less I respect them, because I know about all the good things they do, and the only things I can find out about are the bad ones. I mean, they could be tax-cheating, murdering, fat cats. I don't know anymore. 10 years ago I would've said there's no way my parents could've killed someone, but now I don't know. I mean, they never cease to amaze me with their secrets. Do I think they've killed someone? No, there's no evidence to suggest they have, but still.
I think I've lost my train of thought now... Oh yeah. My parents. They sent me to Trinity Grammar. I was just so depressed every day I was there, so full of disgust. The fact that practically every day I'd plead with my parents to get me out of there, and every day they'd tell me no, and that this went on for four years left me crushed. In fact I'm pretty sure that if certain things involving my relationship with the school didn't happen I'd still be there right now. Again, I was only at Trinity because my parents forced me to be there, and they kept me there to show their dominance over me. If it wasn't one thing, it was another, they just had to be the power-abusing, authority junkies. ... If you go to someone for help, and even though it is well in their power to help you, they allow you to suffer, how can you respect them? 4 years of gruelling hypocrisy, economic elitism, racial segregation, and seeing my friends bullied and some even sexually abused.. how was I meant to feel? How could I respect the people who kept me in the shackles of Trinity Grammar School? There was no one I could turn to aside from those I shouldn't turn to. I even began to ignore God, and ... all the while, my parents did nothing. I didn't trust them, I didn't respect them I didn't honour them, I didn't do any of the things the son in a stable family should. Instead, I fought with them constantly, and although it's as much my fault as it was theirs, everyone involved was at fault.. ....
The worst part about the relationship I have with my parents is that they still claim to know what's best for me. Isn't it obvious they don't? Hey, I probably don't know what's best for me either, but I've got a damn better idea than the two bastions of injustice and hypocrisy that my parents can be at times. How can they claim to know what's best for me when they don't even know me? I feel as though I was just hanging out in my room and suddenly it was colonised.. or something.. That out of nowhere, they sprung up, and they didn't understand me, but just assumed they knew what was best for me. I guess we can't expect our parents to be good now a days, what with the television being the third parent, and society down playing the role of the family in our post gender-equality world.
I'm probably not an easy person to live with. Especially when I can't hear myself think because of all the pointless bickering.
+Hing--->Out
I called my baby a piece of shit, she hated it, I hated it, the funny thing
is now we both feel fine...