The Guest Room is Not My Room
This week I thought a little more family history was in order. I had to think pretty hard to come up with something out of my past. Actually nothing is further from the truth. There are plenty of things to write about from my past. I just needed to pick one.
Now it’s time to tackle my father. He was an interesting man prone to extramarital affairs, at least when I was around. I guess one vagina just wasn’t enough. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t that my mother lacked the ability to accommodate him. She had no self esteem and was pretty willing to sell her soul to anything. I remember the day she appropriately told me that my father came home and thought they ought to check out the local swinger scene.
We lived in a pretty small town; I’m talking around 12,000 people. The local swinger scene meant they pretty much banged their friends.
My mother, of course, couldn’t handle what she agreed to. My father did what every man in the 70s did in his situation. He nailed everyone he could. Apparently that included a couple men too.
There was this one day when I was asked as a seven year old child to not sleep in my room. If my recollection is accurate, it was so “guests” could sleep in my bed. Well the only guest there was this guy who creeped me out in a big way. It’s funny how I have no idea now what he looks like, but I can remember what he felt like. Well there I was in the “guest” room, which is where the “guests” normally slept. It was late at night. My parents had Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon blaring in the living room. I couldn’t sleep and they insisted that I have my door closed. This was new too. Usually I slept with the door wide open.
Here is a word to parents. Children at seven years of age are pretty smart. They can tell when something’s up. I could tell something was up. I felt sick to my stomach. I tried to sleep for some time and couldn’t. The music was too loud and I could hear occasional grunts from the living room. We lived in a 40 foot long modular home, so the living room was a thin wall away from the “guest” room. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore and opened the door and everything was dark. I thought this was strange because when “guests” were over the lights were usually on. I had to call out a few times before one of my parents answered. It was my dad. He came to the door and he was naked.
This was a new development for me, especially since I was a little boy who loved to hang out in my underwear and run around naked. Whenever company came over I was ushered into my room to put on some clothes. When my dad answered the door in his birthday suit, my stomach dropped a little lower.
I asked him why he was naked. I don’t remember his exact response but it was a sad excuse for an explanation. He mentioned something about some drinks and music. I asked him where our “guest” was and he said he was out in the living room. Since that’s where my father had just come from I was seriously disturbed. My father tried to console me while it was obvious he clearly wanted to get back to what he was doing.
I honestly cannot say whether my mother was out there involved in this transaction of drunken bodily fluid exchange. My intuition tells me that she wasn’t, that she had gone to bed and probably felt about the same way I did. Heck maybe she left for the night. All I know is that I never saw that guy again.
After that my mother continued to sink into drunken stardom. We were shunned more and more by our neighbors. The lady who ritually beat her son next door moved out and the yard became a mess. My father never provided an adequate explanation about that night. I know now what was going on. It’s unfortunate my parents suffered such lack of judgment. My behavior turned more and more toward a child acting out. My parents smoked more and my asthma got worse. I think the worse thing of all was that I no longer felt safe. I didn’t feel like my parents would protect me.
It wasn’t a cognitive realization but I felt it all the same. To me this is the worse kind of abscess a parent can allow. I know people who were sexually abused as children and beaten but it comes down to the same thing. They weren’t truly taken care of and were left to take care of themselves in a lot of ways. I think this is a shame.
There isn’t really a whole lot more to say on this other than my life since then has been one shakedown after another. I’ve had to learn how to grow up on my own. I’m still learning. I’m happy to do it, but some help before my 29th birthday would have been nice. I thank my wife for the patience to stick with me as I grow up. The last six and half years haven’t always been easy, but they were worth it.
As always thanks for reading to the end. Until next week, enjoy life to its fullest and cherish someone every day. It really makes life worth living and there’s no substitute for when you feel really great about someone.
Now it’s time to tackle my father. He was an interesting man prone to extramarital affairs, at least when I was around. I guess one vagina just wasn’t enough. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t that my mother lacked the ability to accommodate him. She had no self esteem and was pretty willing to sell her soul to anything. I remember the day she appropriately told me that my father came home and thought they ought to check out the local swinger scene.
We lived in a pretty small town; I’m talking around 12,000 people. The local swinger scene meant they pretty much banged their friends.
My mother, of course, couldn’t handle what she agreed to. My father did what every man in the 70s did in his situation. He nailed everyone he could. Apparently that included a couple men too.
There was this one day when I was asked as a seven year old child to not sleep in my room. If my recollection is accurate, it was so “guests” could sleep in my bed. Well the only guest there was this guy who creeped me out in a big way. It’s funny how I have no idea now what he looks like, but I can remember what he felt like. Well there I was in the “guest” room, which is where the “guests” normally slept. It was late at night. My parents had Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon blaring in the living room. I couldn’t sleep and they insisted that I have my door closed. This was new too. Usually I slept with the door wide open.
Here is a word to parents. Children at seven years of age are pretty smart. They can tell when something’s up. I could tell something was up. I felt sick to my stomach. I tried to sleep for some time and couldn’t. The music was too loud and I could hear occasional grunts from the living room. We lived in a 40 foot long modular home, so the living room was a thin wall away from the “guest” room. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore and opened the door and everything was dark. I thought this was strange because when “guests” were over the lights were usually on. I had to call out a few times before one of my parents answered. It was my dad. He came to the door and he was naked.
This was a new development for me, especially since I was a little boy who loved to hang out in my underwear and run around naked. Whenever company came over I was ushered into my room to put on some clothes. When my dad answered the door in his birthday suit, my stomach dropped a little lower.
I asked him why he was naked. I don’t remember his exact response but it was a sad excuse for an explanation. He mentioned something about some drinks and music. I asked him where our “guest” was and he said he was out in the living room. Since that’s where my father had just come from I was seriously disturbed. My father tried to console me while it was obvious he clearly wanted to get back to what he was doing.
I honestly cannot say whether my mother was out there involved in this transaction of drunken bodily fluid exchange. My intuition tells me that she wasn’t, that she had gone to bed and probably felt about the same way I did. Heck maybe she left for the night. All I know is that I never saw that guy again.
After that my mother continued to sink into drunken stardom. We were shunned more and more by our neighbors. The lady who ritually beat her son next door moved out and the yard became a mess. My father never provided an adequate explanation about that night. I know now what was going on. It’s unfortunate my parents suffered such lack of judgment. My behavior turned more and more toward a child acting out. My parents smoked more and my asthma got worse. I think the worse thing of all was that I no longer felt safe. I didn’t feel like my parents would protect me.
It wasn’t a cognitive realization but I felt it all the same. To me this is the worse kind of abscess a parent can allow. I know people who were sexually abused as children and beaten but it comes down to the same thing. They weren’t truly taken care of and were left to take care of themselves in a lot of ways. I think this is a shame.
There isn’t really a whole lot more to say on this other than my life since then has been one shakedown after another. I’ve had to learn how to grow up on my own. I’m still learning. I’m happy to do it, but some help before my 29th birthday would have been nice. I thank my wife for the patience to stick with me as I grow up. The last six and half years haven’t always been easy, but they were worth it.
As always thanks for reading to the end. Until next week, enjoy life to its fullest and cherish someone every day. It really makes life worth living and there’s no substitute for when you feel really great about someone.
posted by morrisson66 at 9:23 AM
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