father stuff
Jun. 15th, 2005 04:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thehefnerY'know, as I'm plotting out my graphic novel, I'm put in mind of something my mother used to say regarding my father: "You know, John, if you put all the things your father has done and said, no one would believe you. Or at least, they wouldn't understand." This is one of the fundamental truths about growing up with an alcoholic, and thus the reason for groups such as Al-Anon. How do you convey the years of molding and manipulation, of guilt and hurt?
Like, I called my Dad up yesterday, yesterday being one of those rare non-work days where I didn't go over to see him (yet he still wants me to call him to say hi, if nothing else). So I call him, and the conversation goes like this:
ME: Well Dad, turns out the auditions start tomorrow and go into next week, so my audition is next Tuesday.
DAD: Oh, oh, ok. Well, uh, so when is your audition?
ME: ... next Tuesday.
DAD: Ohhh! Ok. All right. So... so you're at work now?
ME: (lying) Yeah.
DAD: Oh, that's good, that's good. It's so nasty and sticky hot today.
ME: Yeah.
DAD: Do you have air conditioning at the comic store?
ME: Yeah, we do.
DAD: Oh, that's good, that's good. Are you having a busy day or a slow day?
ME: Kinda slow.
DAD: Oh, ok. (pause) So, so, so tell me something. What else is new?
ME: Nothing, Dad. Nothing new has happened since yesterday.
DAD: Oh. Well, guess that's all, then.
And while this whole exchange is taking place, the knot in my stomach is getting tighter and tighter. By the end, I want to curl up into a ball and explode. I'm utterly furious, stressed, my hair falling out, nails tearing apart my chair crazy. And my mother understands how I feel, because her mother, my grandmother (some of you will remember her from the incident with the crisco cake frosting?), does the exact same stuff to her and drives her just as crazy.
"They're trying," Mom says. And of course, when we get upset, we're the ungrateful ones. *They're* not doing anything wrong, they just want to make conversation, what's so wrong with that? In theory, nothing. From them? Every fucking thing. And then we get angry, we're the bad guys, they're the poor depressed elderly cripples with no one left who "busted their asses" (Dad's favorite phrase) for us.
How does one convey this through storytelling? I know that for the stuff about my girl angst to make sense in proper perspective, much of the comic has to be about my relationship with my father. It's central to who I am and why I'm like this.
A couple of days ago he went upstairs to "lie down for a few minutes" like he frequently does. I walked past the bedroom at one point to catch him not napping, but just lying down, staring straight ahead. The bedroom stank of filth and dried bodily fluids, and there were about three dozen used tissues on the floor (used with what, I couldn't say). I normally stay till around 6 but there was nothing left for me there to do (I mean, not like there ever IS, but well...) so I told him I was leaving. He looked absolutely heartbroken. "You... you are?" Heavens, a full 45 minutes earlier than usual.
So today, just before I began to write this entry, he said to me, "Johnny, I'm going to go lie down for a few minutes. Please... don't leave." The sadness in his voice, the touch of pleading, the utter dependence on me. What the hell is to be done with this man? I just don't bloody know. All I can do is put up with it and try to vent these and other such feelings of pain and angst into my art. Maybe I'll find some answers there.
Like, I called my Dad up yesterday, yesterday being one of those rare non-work days where I didn't go over to see him (yet he still wants me to call him to say hi, if nothing else). So I call him, and the conversation goes like this:
ME: Well Dad, turns out the auditions start tomorrow and go into next week, so my audition is next Tuesday.
DAD: Oh, oh, ok. Well, uh, so when is your audition?
ME: ... next Tuesday.
DAD: Ohhh! Ok. All right. So... so you're at work now?
ME: (lying) Yeah.
DAD: Oh, that's good, that's good. It's so nasty and sticky hot today.
ME: Yeah.
DAD: Do you have air conditioning at the comic store?
ME: Yeah, we do.
DAD: Oh, that's good, that's good. Are you having a busy day or a slow day?
ME: Kinda slow.
DAD: Oh, ok. (pause) So, so, so tell me something. What else is new?
ME: Nothing, Dad. Nothing new has happened since yesterday.
DAD: Oh. Well, guess that's all, then.
And while this whole exchange is taking place, the knot in my stomach is getting tighter and tighter. By the end, I want to curl up into a ball and explode. I'm utterly furious, stressed, my hair falling out, nails tearing apart my chair crazy. And my mother understands how I feel, because her mother, my grandmother (some of you will remember her from the incident with the crisco cake frosting?), does the exact same stuff to her and drives her just as crazy.
"They're trying," Mom says. And of course, when we get upset, we're the ungrateful ones. *They're* not doing anything wrong, they just want to make conversation, what's so wrong with that? In theory, nothing. From them? Every fucking thing. And then we get angry, we're the bad guys, they're the poor depressed elderly cripples with no one left who "busted their asses" (Dad's favorite phrase) for us.
How does one convey this through storytelling? I know that for the stuff about my girl angst to make sense in proper perspective, much of the comic has to be about my relationship with my father. It's central to who I am and why I'm like this.
A couple of days ago he went upstairs to "lie down for a few minutes" like he frequently does. I walked past the bedroom at one point to catch him not napping, but just lying down, staring straight ahead. The bedroom stank of filth and dried bodily fluids, and there were about three dozen used tissues on the floor (used with what, I couldn't say). I normally stay till around 6 but there was nothing left for me there to do (I mean, not like there ever IS, but well...) so I told him I was leaving. He looked absolutely heartbroken. "You... you are?" Heavens, a full 45 minutes earlier than usual.
So today, just before I began to write this entry, he said to me, "Johnny, I'm going to go lie down for a few minutes. Please... don't leave." The sadness in his voice, the touch of pleading, the utter dependence on me. What the hell is to be done with this man? I just don't bloody know. All I can do is put up with it and try to vent these and other such feelings of pain and angst into my art. Maybe I'll find some answers there.
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I agree
Date: 2005-06-16 03:04 am (UTC)You are an awesome and fantastic guy. I love getting to see you. Other people do too. We have a deep and strong respect for you. You made my ride up to NY a blast and a great memory.
Free yourself. Please.