Picnic beneath the family tree

Last weekend I spent Saturday afternoon with my family (father, step mother, two brothers). I have intentionally put distance over the years between my father and I. My father was diagnosed as being bi-polar a few years ago and overall I would have to say the last 10 years in general have been a marked improvement from the first 2o years of my life. My relationship with my father has been odd for as long as I can remember. By today's standards my father would be abusive but I never remember feeling that way. He was rough and largely unstable. Often times he was just as likely to give you hug as he was to pick you up by the hair and throw you. I say that and I can imagine the reader is filled with absolute horror. I can honestly say however of all times he ever grabbed my by hair I never really remember it hurting. As I child I would have said that my father has a way of hitting you without really hitting you. He would hit, push, or throw you, but in such a way that the amount of damage was pretty controlled and there was never a mark. Always afterwards he would come back crying and apologising. I learned quickly that apologies were a double edged sword however. It was always, "I'm sorry I did that, but if you hadn't (fill in the blank)". My relationship with my father has always been a battle of wills. One of his favorite games was called "milk the mouse", in which he would take one of my fingers and fold it in and squeeze. Then he would give me commands like, "bark" or "say your name is "Quazi Moto" etc, and if you didn't he would squeeze harder. The problem was I wouldn't give in. It could last anywhere from 15 minutes to a half hour, and I would cry from the pain but I would not submit. Even as a kid somehow I understood something. The fact that I would not submit was both a source of great frustration and great pride in my father. It was almost as though his need to control and his pride in my relisience were conflicted. It is this theme that was the basis for most of our relationship and why I think it differs so much from his relationship with my brothers. Some would argue my brothers are smarter than me in that they simply gave in right at the beginning. I think thier submittal appeased his sense of control if not somewhat dissappointing his hope for a new challenge. Again, even as I recount all of this I never really thought of it as abuse. I considered it to be a right of passage almost. I think what actually bothers me the most was the mental manipulation. My father had a way of making it seem as though you were crazy. If your told enough their is something wrong with you eventually you may believe it. My father often says I am very manipulative and attributes the trait to my mother, however I believe that if the accusation holds any truth at all the roots grow closer to him than my mother. My father is not paticuarly book smart but he does have a cleverness about him and I learned very early on never to show weakness around him. He has often told me that he considers me to highly unemotional and devoid of feeling. The true comedy is that this in stark contrast to almost everyone else that has ever met me. As I have said before I never hated my father but their have been some past events that weighed heavily on my mind. A few years ago my father did something unprecedented, he admitted the things he had done, admitted they were wrong, and apologised. More than the apology the fact that he acknowledged the events of the past, events he had often changed the details of or more often simply denied entirely. In my mind it was enough to let go of what little baggage I continued to carry with me. In any case, I have only shared the previous story that you might have some understanding as to why the events of last weekend struck so deep. Perhaps it is the medicine to blame, perhaps its being bi-polar, either way sometimes the reason does nothing to help the impact. For whatever reason he was feeling rather introspective and it was is this mood that he began to ask me, "Why were you always such a disobiently child?", "You were always so contrary as a kid. Why were you like that?". Even my step mother tried to remind him that things weren't the way he was choosing to recall them and that he was a different person back then. Her hints however fell on deaf ears and he persisted. I am happy to say that kept my patience, however I would not let him simply revel in his make believe world of past events. So I told him much of what I have told you here. He never wanted my respect, he wanted my obediance. If you want obediance buy a dog. You ruled by fear and you hated my oppisition as much as you loved my spirit. You encouraged it because the challenged amused you, which is why you continue to pursue it to this day. In truth the only fool here is me. My words while perhaps comforting to me most likely had very little impact on him. There can be no real victory for me due in part to the fact that I don't think he can really understand. My mind wanders back more often since my last birthday. For my birthday my father gave a few Garbage Pail Kids cards that he picked up. He remembered that I had collected them as a child. The cards for me brought back a different memory, one that he recounted as happily someone might retell about a family outing to the zoo. I was younger, maybe 7 or 8 and among the sides for dinner that evening were a mix of lima beans, carrots, and peas, etc which like most kids I was not very interested in eating. This gave way to one of his more explosive episodes in which he ran into my bedroom and got all of my cards and began tearing them up by the handful, yelling and screaming, "I bet you'll eat now you son of bitch, yea your eating that shit now aren't you. I bet if I keep this up you'll beg me for more!". When it was all said and done only a few handfuls remained. I never really bought them that much after that. I still have them to this day in a box downstairs but truthfully they bring me no joy. I am nothing if not a thinker. It would be one thing if he had given me the cards and not remembered the events surrounding them. This is not the case however. He remembered the cards and the events. Knowing this he not only chose to give me the cards but he also alluded to event with a seeming amount of pride. I have a hard time understanding why. Why would he not feel awkward about the event. When something I have done wrong to someone in past is mentioned I usually still feel a twinge of regret, not pride. He's has acknowledged the way he was and things he did were wrong and at the same time he takes a sort of pride in it. Is it pride in being mean? I do not hate my father, but I do not feel a closeness either. Perhaps I avoid him because I don't know exactly how I feel, or perhaps its just that I don't want to put the energy into sorting it out. The past is the past and it is my hope I will carry foward the lessons I learned when I have children. Maybe once the lessons are understood its best to close the book and put it away.