Let's start with the bad. If you didn't read yesterday's post, my father was an awful son of a bitch, and he hates his mother despite being just like her! But he was cruel, yet I could speak, and my body would leave bruises that could be identified, so I didn't receive the worst of his hellish hands.
Morgan was a puppy when we got her from my baby-sitters. We were good friends back then, when I was ten and she was playful with all the kids she was raised around. Then my dad brought her home. She was still so nice and sweet. Then, y'know, thus less than a year old pup peed on the carpet, and my dad ruthlessly beat her. Yelping. That's the right word. She would yelp, y'know, the standard, thirty or forty times he BRUTALLY smacked her, with his hand, with a boot, with her bowl that finally broke when I was thirteen.
She got mean. Because of what you're about to hear, I turned mean on her too. She used to be playful. She became defensive; territorial. When I was twelve, she gave me the scars I have on my right thumb, having lashed at me, latching on, and slicing two lines down my closest digit as she lunged at me entering the kitchen, where her cage was.
She was always a princess when my dad was around. Never could convince him, my abuser, that his dog was vicious towards me. She was his sweetheart. Until, y'know, she had an accident or barked too much at something in the backyard. Then she was his rag doll to be dispensed true narcissistic justice on. But that's what made her mean and kept her mean.
She musta had a hell of a life, with him being the domineering force that determined that force was necessary to be, and then there was me. I know I hit her, but that was rare, as she would retaliate. When I was fourteen or fifteen, I would lock her in her cage just to protect myself. But I was cruel, too, because of what I was raised by. I would hold a butter knife just in her cage, not doing anything with it, just agitated her by being there, and she would bite it, and occasionally she'd bite it wrong and yelp, and I would be pleased that I won the war we were in.
Then there was one Thanksgiving that he and his stepmom and my brother went to visit her family. I was the black sheep, so obviously I was left alone to watch the animals, of which my father had many, mostly reptiles. But I was alone with Morgan. She was vile anytime I went to the kitchen, as usual. But I kept her. Until that night.
I fed her. She ate. I went to let her out. She almost jumped out, like usual. She stopped herself. She looked at me. She backed up, staring at me. She dropped her hips. She defacated on the floor. She then lunged at me, snapped, then ran to her cage. I snapped. I regret this so often in my life. But I suffocated her. I lost it, and in my rage, I ended the war we was in. She stopped moving. I held fast. I let go. Her eyes were glass. I yelled "I'm the devil" I to her dead face. I cleaned up by throwing the shit in her cage. I cleaned up and went back to what I was doing.
Reality set in. I called my dad. Texted him. He got back to me the next morning. I told him she was dead. I made up some basic shit. I would find out years later when I confessed and apologized that he always knew. He said words. My dad is real good at saying words to excuse himself. But he let me believe he believed she had an aneurism for years. He always knew.
My father is not an orc. He doesn't just smash a village for no reason. He's human. And he lost control while raising me countless times. And the there's his cruelty. Y'know the type. So sarcastic he'll make you cry. That was my childhood. I try my damndest every day to be better than that. My mother died when I was nine. My first nine years of life, I knew love. Then it was cold for a long while. Then God did done light a fire under my ass to be the quasimartyr I am today.
Life is precious. Every being deserves to live. I don't even kill the cockroaches. I look not to step on ants. In this, I see God's plan. Everything gets a free life. It's those that have faced hardship that rise. And it is those that have faced unjust hardship, yet persevere to be better that wind up in a situation I was in prior to living this life. People wonder why God lets children suffer. We chose these lives knowing we would have a chance at rising beyond normative beinghood.
Who was Moses? He was found in a basket on the Nile, no? He was abandoned. He was unloved. So how did he survive? His nation took care of him. He was a loved, unloved child.
Who was Jesus? Well, what is the North Star? It is a fixed point in the northern hemisphere, and was thus used as an ancient symbol representing "a moral maxim," and thus those following the North Star were "doing the right thing." One of the three wise men was Jesus' father who impregnated that fourteen year old, who registered with the state to find a husband. Joseph was a skilled carpenter who couldn't get a wife of his own, so he registered for a used one. He was a narcissist, and this Jesus was never good enoughfor his step-dad, and so Jesus was a loved, unloved child.
We loved, unloved children have the capacity to understand morality and this reality at a greater depth. I am not better than anyone because I cannot do what you do, but therein, you cannot do what I do. I exist to teach; that is my teleological purpose, and if I must throw my life away for that, so be it. The world is worth it.
