By: Schvach Yid
It’s the name of a blog site, author unknown and unseen. She just posted a bit about her personal schtick with her daddy to be accessed at:
It has rung oh-so-true with me, so here’s my comment:
So what's the problem you're currently facing; some dilemma is irking you? Do you anticipate having your face kung fu'd? Have you discovered 'daddy' in another, and are you drawn to recruiting him/her into your life, certain that you'll live to regret it?
Our problem is that we love our abusers. We will do anything to defend them. We nurture them by giving them all the fodder they want, all the rope they need to hang us. It’s called fear. G-d forbid he should do anything else to us, and let’s not provoke the monster by complaining, so just fluff the freak.
Back in the old days, on my first job as a nurse, I provided care for a ‘kidney patient’.
Her husband was a brutish bully of a man – a vending machine-sized factory worker with a quick temper and the physical strength to back it up. One fine day he arrived on the nursing unit to visit his wife with the older of his two daughters. He wouldn’t let her out of his sight.
As daddy and daughter left at the end of their visit, he slipped his arm around his daughter’s waist; she, as if answering, rubbed her hip against him. Bang! Father and daughter my foot, they looked like a guy and his date. Daddy was f*cking his daughter!
I kept my big mouth shut; my co-nurses were gossiping idiots who hated my guts. They would have gone straight to the guy, and he, no doubt, would have decimated me.
Perhaps half a year later a lengthy article appeared in The Sunday New York Times Magazine, reporting that the daughter had recruited a high school classmate to kill her father, and kill him he did, with a single round from a .22 rifle. The beef – he had helped himself to her on a regular basis, and had ‘moved on’ to her 8 year old (I think) sister.
Unlike you, I loathe my father. He’s now non compos mentis, having suffered a stroke, two closed head injuries, and advancing senility – and I can’t manage to muster one grain
of rachmonis for him. He never put me through a glass door, never slammed me against anything, but the sound of his voice horrified me, not to mention the emotional effect of hearing the sound of loose change and keys jangling in his pants pocket as he approached from a distance. As kids, when we came home in a good mood with smiles on our faces, my father was expert at wiping the smiles off our faces and instantaneously hurling us into an emotional depression within seconds of discovering our glee.
He never straightened out; he could never accept us as adults. His abused continued to include my bother’s children. Thank G-d they live 1,500 miles away and only saw my father once or twice a year.
Face it. With a healthy brain he was a first class son-of-a bitch. Not that he didn’t have problems of his own (he grew up as a Jew in Germany under the ascendancy of the Nazis, not to mention his SOB family). Still, the responsibilities of parenthood….
So, whoever you are, please take stock. The world is filled with injured people - you, me, her, him, them. Thank G-d you’re bright – very bright – and sensitive. Be assured, the pain will never go away.