Chapter 36: The Beast

"Enough, then, that I not only recognised my natural body for the mere aura and effulgence of certain of the powers that made up my spirit, but managed to compound a drug by which these powers would be dethroned from their supremacy, and a second form and countenance substituted, none the less natural to me because they were the expression, and bore the stamp, of lower elements in my soul." - Doctor Jekyll


Readers may find the following narrative upsetting or disturbing. I write this to remain true to the title and spirit of the story. It is a journey through the "lower elements of my soul" as I have seen them manifest over the years. If you would take my hand and come with me into this valley then journey with me to the end, and do not let loose too soon. You will be as lost as I was then.


Origins

I have alluded to the rather strict upbringing I had without going into a lot of detail. That was purposeful in order to save the reader any undue angst. The earlier parts of this story now come forward and are featured in the problem(s) that plagued me after PJ came home.

My introduction to "corporal punishment" came when I was about 7 or 8 years old. We were living in Rhode Island and I had come home late one night for supper. Not "late" as in calling-the-cops or going-out-to-look-for-you, but in terms of the military precision of our home. I was due home by 6PM and I was not there at 6PM. When I walked in the door I was called down to the family room in the basement where Dad had a very angry lecture ready for me. When that was over I was instructed to pull down my pants, kneel facing the couch and prepare for punishment. I was not to scream or attempt to block any action with my hand. Then Dad began striking my butt with a dowel rod, about a dozen whacks. I did try to put my hand out and it was struck as well. I then went to my room without supper, restricted there until morning.

This particular punishment was meted out countless times from then until I was 13. I was whipped for lying, stealing, smoking cigarettes and violating other taboos. The preferred weapon was the belt, pulled off Dad's waist and wielded like a cat-o-nine tails on my slender body, sometimes drawing blood. Other objects included willow switches and a ping pong paddle. I never knew how long the session would go, but I determined that I would not let the old man see or hear me express any pain no matter how bad it got. Only once did he hit me with his bare hand. I had been juggling excuses with my 3rd grade teacher over why I hadn't delivered some note to my parents. She finally called the house and spoke to Dad. I overheard him talking to her and when he was done I came into the kitchen to see if I could nonchalantly calm him down. Before one word had escaped my lips he backhanded me so hard I flew across the room, strking my head on an armchair in the living room. That bought me a fat lip, black eye and a bump on the noggin, all at once.

I also turned into a kleptomaniac. I would routinely steal small, almost insignificant items from the store just for the thrill of it. One day an older gentleman in a white shirt and tie followed me around the store while I tried to sneak out with some cheap plastic toy. I eventually put it back, and he stood by the door glaring at me as I walked past. "Stay the hell out of my store, little boy", he growled as I hit the door and ran home. To this day I still have that small urge now and again to nick some tiny thing, but the potential for embarrassment and some good old fashioned self-control always wins out.

One day I determined I'd had enough of the physical punishment. Dad was pissed at me for another screwup and had that familiar look in his eye. I stood up to him and said: "Dad, are you going to hit me now?" He looked at me levelly for a moment and the fire went out of his eyes. "Not this time", he said. And that was the end of that.

But the psychological war games continued unabated. Every mistake seemed amplified to a criminal act, every small success discounted. Shouting at me and referring to me as "You dummy" got to be routine. I had friends in the neighborhood but even that was little comfort. With my meek ways and gangly build I was frequently picked on and occasionally beaten by other boys who seemed to sense just how easy it was to do. Things like that are what led me to days where I'd sit in the window with the Marlin .30-.30, picking them off in my head. Or just climbing the huge maple tree in our front yard to read books and escape from it all.

I started drinking at age 11. My buddy Billy from across the street was home alone a lot and his Dad had lots of liquor. We drank the stuff straight, from Old Grandad to Wild Turkey to good old Beefeater and Seagram's 7 or vodka. I guess my folks never realized how often I got plastered because they never busted me, even though I'm sure I smelled a bit ripe sometimes. Then at 15 I discovered dope. A kid in my neighborhood had some and I smoked a bit one Saturday morning. Went back home and watched the funniest damn cartoons I'd ever seen! This stuff was great!

Billy had a party at his place one day and I drank way too much beer. Puked all night and the folks thought I had the flu. But I think I've told you about that one.

So that was the me who got shipped off to SMA in my 16th year. And that story has been told.

The Rising

"It's like in the great stories Mr. Frodo, the ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were, and sometimes you didn't want to know the end because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end it's only a passing thing this shadow, even darkness must pass. A new day will come, and when the sun shines it'll shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you, that meant something even if you were too small to understand why. But I think Mr. Frodo, I do understand, I know now folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going because they were holding on to something." -Samwise Gamgee

One night, not long after PJ came home from the hospital, he began crying. And he wouldn't stop. We fed him, burped him, changed him, rocked him. No good. His piercing cry continued, growing in intensity in my head. And some dark thing awakened there and told me to make it stop. Make it stop now. I could feel a pull at me to pick the boy up and shake him until the noise ended. My vision was blurred, I felt dizzy and out of control. Adrenaline was pumping through me, making my limbs shiver like it was freezing inside. I fought myself for many minutes, Lani completely unaware of the enormous effort I was making to stay calm. I couldn't believe what was happening to me. I had literally wanted to kill that baby just to stop the crying. What the hell was the matter with me?

In the days to come I found it very difficult to be near PJ when he was crying. I would make excuses to leave the house or do something else to avoid the awful realization that I might be some kind of monster from the newspapers. The Mom who smothers her kids or the father that beats some toddler to death. Me? Better I would drive off a cliff than hurt my own flesh and blood. The horror I felt at these base emotions is beyond description. Nobody who ever knew me would have believed me capable of such thoughts. Yet there they were, torturing me every day. Guilt upon guilt along with a great self-loathing set in, turning my days into a struggle to maintain my sanity. I needed help before I did anything to harm myself or PJ.

I looked through the phone book under "Child Services" and found a place called Child Abuse and Neglect Counseling Services. I made an appointment and tried to hang on to that as a sign that things would get better. When I got to the offices I was met by a kind, middle-aged woman who listened carefully to me as I poured out my heart to her and wept with guilt. She tried to console me: "These are not unusual feelings, Ed. All new parents have problems at first."

"They all want to choke their children?"

"Well, not always. But it's not easy to find the patience to listen to your baby cry and not be able to stop it. What you need to do is talk about this with your wife and work it out with her. She may be feeling these things, too."

So that was it. I would have to admit to Lani that I was having these terrible thoughts. Yeah, good one. Perfect reason for her to finally see just what a total loser you really are and realize her mistake. Got that right, Little Voice.

To help us save money on rent we had moved into her parents' house. There in the dark of one night near Thanksgiving I told Lani about the Beast. She was shocked, though she said the right things to make me feel a little better. She cried, I cried, PJ cried later and she went to him, spending the rest of the night in the living room. Safe from you, pal. Indeed.

I didn't want my in-laws to know about my "little problem" so I had asked the CAAN lady not to send any literature to me. So of course a few days later a large manila envelope bearing the return address for Child Abuse And Neglect Counseling Center showed up in the mail addressed to me. Neal took one look at it and asked "What's this all about?" Lani, bless her heart, was quick on the draw, telling him that I had gotten on the mailing list through the hospital. "All new Dads get this kind of stuff", she told him. He gave me a sidelong look but didn't mention it again.

From those darkest days to just a few short years ago this Beast has lain within me, afflicting my life in myriad ways. I got counseling from several sources and hung in there, determined to beat the thing into the ground. It stems from a deep-seated feeling of worthlessness and lack of control. In naming it I have seen it and in the seeing I have known how to fight it. But it is there always, as much a part of me as Hyde to Jekyll.

In 2001 I had the good fortune to meet and work with a man by the name of Kevin Duggan, who by example showed me a way to calm this inner battle and bring a great deal of order and understanding to my life. I have seen through the wisdom of the Buddha that "I" am a collection of perceptions, driven too often by ego to protect some sacred sense of self against attack. While I am far from perfect (amen!) I don't feel like I'm struggling against myself any more. I don't beat myself up if I slip. I'm not the "dummy" I once was.

I am no proselytizer, but I have used the Four Noble Truths and the Eightfold Path to get me over a lot of heavy shit. I am responsible for all I do and all I feel. And I didn't even have to shave my head or give away all my cool stuff to do it! I just don't worry so much about losing the stuff, though it would be a drag...

My wife and my kids know this about me: I am a Seeker. A flawed, stumbling acolyte who is lurching in the right direction most of the time. And I love them for it.

No harm ever came to my kids by my hands. No trips to the hospital, no "tell Grandma you fell off the swing". But the Beast fed my fear for many years to come, bringing self-fulfilling prophesies to fruition one after another and leading to even darker days. And so the story continues.

Chapter 37 - Comes in like a Lion and goes Out like a Salt Marsh Harvest Mouse.