I Hate you you Asshole! I hope you’re burning in hell!!

January 30, 2008

I had a funny (strange, not haha) experience this morning.

I was up till 2:30, 3:00 AM, unable to fall asleep last night.  When I woke up, I found that I had dreamt a sort of mystery dream.  It was a plot of a man who lived with his mother in an old mansion.  He was abusive to her, and threatened to kill her if she left (which she was saying she was going to do).  She had 3 other children, and they arrived shortly thereafter to pick her up.  He turned to his sister and threatened to kill her as well.  Long story short, the family manages to overpower him and kill him.

In the dream, this mansion was large, and the children, including the man that lived there, came and went at random times.  So the killing was completely safe, because there was no way to track the loss of the man.  I guess he sort of lived here, there, and everywhere (it’s a dream :)).  So the killing turned out to be a very safe, clean incident.  There wasn’t even blood.  They managed to disintegrate his entire body into a tiny tiny pill-sized bag, and one of the brothers took the bag to the library and hid it in a metal book rack.

It’s been a while since I’ve dreamt, so after my morning meditation I wrote down the dream before doing my Morning Pages exercise.

I had only had 3-4 hours of sleep and could hardly keep my eyes open, so my Morning Pages began with “I’m so sleepy, I can hardly keep my eyes, open….  I’m so sleepy, my eyes are..  I’m so ..”

Suddenly, without warning, I entered a state where I found myself writing about my childhood.   It happened long before my consciousness was even aware of it. 

I wrote page after page after page.  It started off a trickle and then became a torrent of uncontrollable and explosive fury, pain, and bitterness.  The hatred spewed out of my brain and onto the paper.  I became the child who spent year after year passing the time holed up in her bedroom dreading the sound of her tyrannical father’s voice calling her name — the child with no identity of her own, filled with self-loathing, and living in utter terror of being alone in the house with him.

My handwriting became huge, wild scrawls as I found myself writing, “I hate you, you fucking asshole, I hate you so much I hope you’re burning in hell for what you did to me!”

This was me, saying this to my own father, who died 10 years ago a gentle and kind grandfather. 

After everything I’ve done in my life to address my childhood and come to terms with my father and forgive him, it turns out I’ve never forgiven him.  It’s all been a huge lie.

“I hate you, you asshole!  I hope you’re burning in hell!”  I wonder if these are the most honest words I’ve ever expressed in my entire life.
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