Resurfacing Old Scars: Facing the Past with Acceptance and Forgiveness
20 February 2016
Last night, I had a realization that would probably change a large part of the way I think about some of my most personal dispositions in life—for the better. As a matter of fact, I've known this for a long time but I've always suppressed it with the "good" and "nice" things about the person I've always looked up to and will always call my man of steel, my hero, my inspiration for life.
But before I go into the details, I'd like you, the person reading this, to keep this in mind as you go on and discover the realization I'm about to disclose a couple of paragraphs below: I had a flashback with total awareness of the other side of my dad and I faced an agonizingly painful part of my past that I'd covered up with a constant refusal to accept the reality by way of remembering only the good memories, but it doesn't change the truth that he was, is, and always will be the man that is my earthly father who is imperfect in many ways but whose place no one can take in my heart no matter what. And again I say NO MATTER WHAT.
During my dad's wake in April 2007, someone said, "He [my dad] is an almost perfect man." Some of the descriptions I also heard were:
"He is the perfect brother."
"A man with an easy, warm smile for everyone."
Even now, there is no doubt in my heart that all of the things they said about my dad were true. I don't remember what I said when it was my turn to speak but maybe I also said something like "he's the perfect father" to complete the package, seal it, and send it home.
I'd written many pieces about my happy memories with my dad in my old blog. I'd written mostly about him in my English classes in college. All of my friends look up to him like I do. I'd convinced the whole world the way I convinced myself of the person I believed my dad to be. Of course, all of our relatives, especially my dad's brothers and sisters, look up to him as well like the biggest trophy in the clan's collection. I guess I can't blame myself either because I grieved his loss for most of my life after his death. How can you remember how bad someone made you feel when they're already gone?
Research says your subconscious represses the bad and painful memories so only the good ones are on the surface. It's a form of coping mechanism and it happens to everyone, especially to those who have lost a loved one. In fact, for some people, the restraining activity in the brain can take forever. The bottom line is it helps us to not feel worse and somehow be consoled by the things we know and remember in our conscious mind. But total healing only comes after the hardest truths to face and accept have been brought out from the undersense.
1
The first memory of my dad in beast mode that I recalled last night was something that happened when we were living in Cavite and he was attending a Bible school in San Pedro, Laguna. Since it was far from where we lived, my dad rented an apartment where I and my sister can stay after school while my dad went to his classes. One time I was asleep. I don't remember if my sister was there too, but I remember I was so tired and I slept. A couple of hours later, when I was already awake, I remember my dad taking off his belt, wrapping one end around his fist, his face twisted in intense fury and rage, and coming to me while I cried out loud in fear. I was saying, "Sorry, daddy, I didn't hear you knock. I'm so sorry, daddy!" I begged him not to whip me. Before I could do anything, he had swung the belt in the air and it hit me once, twice, thrice...many more times. I turned, stumbled, tried to run, and fell, in hopes of avoiding the black leather on my skin, which I thought was going to kill my young and frail body. I was probably 6 or 7 at the time.
Of course I knew why my dad did that to me. I was sleeping like a dead person when, unbeknownst to me, my dad was knocking on the door for a long time. When no one would open the door, he kept knocking because he knew I was inside. I don't remember what woke me up, only what happened when I was already awake and my dad had already gotten into the apartment. After the beating, he left for his classes, and I remember aching all over and crying nonstop, calling out to my mommy. I'd wondered if my cries had reached her in Saudi Arabia.
2
This time I'm sure about my age. I was 13. We were living in Abra where my dad had taken a post as the commanding officer of the battalion in the small town of Manabo. This was a place where I and my sister had a lot of happy memories with my dad. I had enjoyed our one-year stay in Abra for the most part, except for the few times my dad had lost his temper on me.
Once, we were having lunch, me and my dad. It was unusual because he was mostly away and I'd been used to eating alone or with my sister at home. While eating, he noticed the two earrings in one of my ear lobes. He got furious. I think I snapped back too. He was saying things like "Are you going to get piercings all over your body?" and "When did you get that second piercing?" His tone suggested I was in big trouble. I answered back trying to rationalize my fashion statement to a 44-year old man who cared zero about his appearance and who obviously thought his daughter was imitating Pete Burns.
He said something like, Sumasagot ka pa ha? Sipain kita diyan eh. And before I could say another word, he got up from his chair and actually raised one foot in a way that hints he was really going to kick the hell out of me, face first. But he didn't do it. I stood up and left before he could. That moment gave me the creeps when I remembered how he taught me some Tae Bo techniques the year before. I couldn't help but think he was going to perform those on me.
3
This was also in Abra, the same year my dad almost kicked me in the face. A few days before he came home from a trip, my entire class and a substitute teacher we'd grown close to had a party after our last day of classes for the school year. The party was at the river, the famous tambayan ng bayan in town at the time. It was my first time to taste gin and get drunk. I was so drunk my classmates had to bring me home. Our helper, who was my dad's secret intelligence at home, told my dad everything. I knew he didn't have any ill intentions; he was just very concerned and didn't know what to do. (Special shoutout to Uncle Tony...I miss you.) I knew he was also scared that my dad would hear it from somebody else.
My dad said he wanted to talk to me. He chose the kitchen so we could sit facing each other. We were on either side of the table. Somehow that helped calm my nerves because I was thinking nothing could happen with that big table between us. He told me he found out about me getting drunk and to my surprise, he also said he knew that some guys were coming to visit me at home sometimes. I started explaining myself, saying one of those guys was courting our other helper who happened to be my classmate also, whom my dad employed because her dad was a CAFGU in the battalion and he was helping their family. I told him the truth, well most of it...because I didn't tell him that one of the guys was also coming to see me. I justified in my head that if I told him that, he'd lose his temper again and it would probably be the last straw for him. As if reading my mind, he got up and said he was going to get his pamalo from the room, the big, round timber with a rough surface that he always kept there for a time like this. I started crying.
He called out to me from the room and with jelly legs, I slowly managed to make my way from the kitchen to the door of the room with pleading eyes, tears all over my face, sweat burning my back on a normally cool day. I said sorry. He must have heard wrong because he attacked me in an instant, swinging the wood up high in an effort to make the impact greater when it reached my body. He was aiming at my buttocks, but it was too late—I had turned and turned and tried to move away, wobbling in every step. In an intensified anger at my attempt to escape punishment, my dad started hitting everywhere, not thinking anymore if it was my backside or my abdomen. As if the wood was not working like it should, my dad took a belt and started alternating it with the rough timber. We went in circles around the room and I managed to reach for the door. As I stumbled my way out of the room, I saw Uncle Tony standing helplessly a few meters away with tears threatening to fall from his eyes, his facial expression screaming "Stop! Enough, sir!" but for a moment there was just silence. Then our eyes met, and somewhere in my heart I heard his silent apology and I accepted it with no resentment towards him. Before I looked away to regain awareness of my current situation, I saw him turn around and walk away and I imagined the tears finally fall when his shoulders dropped as he slowly inched away from the "crime scene."
After that incident, I dreaded taking a shower not only because I knew it would hurt when my body got in contact with water, but more so because I didn't want to see the memoirs of the beating inscribed on my body. When the time came for me to take a bath, I locked myself in the room, took off my clothes, stood in front of the mirror, and there in front of me was a reflection of someone I couldn't recognize. The figure I saw was a girl's body covered in ugly, purple bruises, red lines and scratches from the wood's jagged surface, and angry, dark marks impressed by the leather. I cried in pain for the nth time after the beating.
Before my dad left for another trip, he grounded me for weeks and went to my school to report and disparage the substitute teacher who hosted my class's party and drinking session. In a few days, I heard that the teacher was suspended from the faculty. I realized then that my dad's anger went on for days and it had extended to others. That was the worse beating I'd ever received from him. From that moment, I decided it was time to put on the "black sheep" designation. I didn't talk to him for a long time. It dawned on me that I hated him with every inch of my being and even wished we were not related. I was extremely repulsed by the constant memory of that unrecognizable image in the mirror. Little did I know that my hatred for him would grow deeper in the years to follow.
4
We were back in Baguio and I was back in my old school. My mom had come home and decided to stay in the country for good after our application to immigrate to Scotland was rejected by the British Embassy. This memory is a bit hazy to me. I only remember that my dad was mad at something I did. I think I came home late. What's clear to me is how he viciously grabbed and pushed me. I lost my balance and fell on the floor. Before I could get up, his foot came flailing out of nowhere to my stomach. I curled up into a ball and silently cried in pain. He was going to attack me again when my mom came to the rescue. She pulled my dad back and he disappeared from my sight. Then, she came to me, helped me up, and said something like, "It's your fault." They were both mad at me. But I'm still glad to this day that my mom was there or my dad would've done something worse in his anger.
Why?
This was the question I asked all the time the moment I started "living by the rod" and it's the same question I buried all these years in my undersense after my dad died. When I learned about some of the things my dad did that only my mom knew and she never told us until recently, little by little, the answer began to show itself to me. Although the things I found out from my mom were mostly financial matters and my dad's unwise decisions on money and valuables, I found that I was able to connect my ignorance of these things with why I'd looked up to him all these nine years, putting him all the time on a pedestal so I could bask in the glory of his heroism and greatness and make his memory (the good side, that is) my go-to therapy whenever I lost touch of reality. And insofar as it had helped me a great deal all these years to cope with my instability and recurring emotional breakdowns, it was as if I was immersed in cold water last night and all the horrible and painful years and memories came thundering back, with something being revealed to me that I needed to dig out of my subconscious, slapping this command in my face: STOP LIVING IN DENIAL. For the first time since 2007, I remembered clearly the feel of leather on my skin, the spine-breaking blow of an army-trained fist on my back, the jolt of a heavy foot on my stomach, and worse, the mental and emotional impact from all those incidents combined, balling up into one big mass of miseries.
It was too painful I couldn't cry. I told my fiancé all about it last night. Even now while I'm recounting all the memories, I couldn't cry. My head says I've probably cried it all out in all the years I grieved my dad's death and I just didn't know it.
Going back to the question, I tried to recall my dad's personality. When he wasn't angry, my dad was the nicest, kindest, warmest, and most soft-spoken man I know. He smiled a lot and was always ready to give something to someone in need. Like I always accurately described him in previous blog posts, he's the epitome of isusubo nalang niya, ibibigay pa sa iba—the walking charitable institution. He was a jolly guy who was young at heart. As a military man, he was brave and idealistic. He was the perfect image of courage, integrity, and passion for his service to God and his country. Oh, everybody knew and would refer to him as "a Godly man." And he was. He really was Godly in the standards of a person who strives to live by the book, though he might have failed in some aspects.
After some thinking and internalization, I think I've found the answer: my dad had an uncontrollably bad temper and it had something to do with his past, including all the factors you could think of—the environment he grew up in, the people he was around, his family background, etc. All the psychological factors zeroed in on his capacity at dealing with unpleasant situations. It was only when he was angry and in a rage that he wasn't himself. All the other times—most of the time—he was the person everybody knew he was. That's why I and my sister have many happy memories of and with him. Unfortunately, those few exceptions took their toll on my young mind and I'd been broken and depressed as a kid and nobody even noticed. But for the first time last night, I had to disregard my own feelings to look deeper and figure my dad out.
As a kid, he must have been sad, weak, and insecure. Obviously, he was destitute and deficient because of poverty. He probably never thought of having a car, a house, a job, his own family, his own office, a good position in the military, several medals and plaques of recognition decades later. The stories he told us about his childhood all came back to me last night as if I just learned something new. As the third child in the family with two older brothers, the one after him being a girl, he was the main springboard of the two older brothers. They'd always pick on him, gang up against him, and make him do things he wouldn't have done otherwise. When their mother did the laundry or the dishes because my dad couldn't do them, for any reason, regardless if he was sick or not, his older brothers would give him a good beating as a lesson for him to never neglect his chores at home. They called him mahinhin, bakla and other names because they thought he was kind of feminine. Their house was a den of fighters and hoodlums where everything was resolved by a game of fists and weapons. It didn't help much that they moved to Kalinga where tribal and clan wars were a trend. Even the girls became like their brothers, learning their way through life by the fist. Basically, it was just a rough, unpleasant, and melancholic environment for any kid to grow up in.
Later on, the brothers and sisters went their separate ways and since then, my dad had become a vagabond just like them. They did that to look for ways to support the younger siblings' education, put food on the table, and ultimately make ends meet. For them, any place was home. There were no such things as comfort and solace. I've shared in my old blog how my dad had learned to steal and lie just to get through the day and make sure the younger ones didn't go hungry for the next 24 hours. Their mom was always sick and didn't have a job, save for a monthly pension that wasn't enough for her nine children.
My dad earned his education by working for funds and commodities. He was always living on the edge and everything had been scarce. He determined to get a degree and then a job no matter what.
I don't know much about his other careers before he joined the army. All I know is that he was first a police officer, then he became a professor at the Baguio Central University, heading the ROTC department, and then he moved on to military service.
For most of his working life, he was always generous, involved in a lot of social and charity work, and was a good citizen. And for most of this time, he was affiliated with different kinds of people. Unfortunately, some of them used and manipulated him for their own advantage. One time, one of our helpers at home stole my mom's jewelries when she was in Saudi. I found out recently that my mom reprimanded my dad because of that. The stolen jewelries were worth a fortune and my dad wasn't able to retrieve them—well, more like he just let the helper off the hook because she was a relative. Some time in the early 2000s, my dad was involved in car buying and selling. We switched cars all the time. One of his trusted partners in the business tricked my dad in one of the deals and got away with the money (I'm not sure how much my dad lost). When he was the commanding officer in his last post in Baguio before he passed on, one or two of his underlings tried to ruin my dad's reputation. They talked behind his back and did whatever they could to overthrow him. I'm glad my dad didn't budge. Then there was this woman who swindled my dad, saying she was going to fix our broken computer and other gadgets, and she ended up running away with the devices. Later on, she was found by the police and brought to jail when my dad was hospitalized. Months later when she found out my dad was in a coma, she sent a letter that my dad was never able to read. I don't remember the exact words but in that letter she apologized and thanked my dad for helping her realize her mistakes and that she was hoping to live a new life when she got out of jail.
These are just some of the displeasing events my parents had been through. There were many times my dad got defrauded and was a victim of crooks and swindlers. I knew he wasn't stupid so that he didn't know what they were doing to him. Everybody knew he was just letting people off the hook, and for a long time I questioned that in my head. It didn't make sense to me. After he passed on, I realized how big his heart was and how much he had done for so many people and I had seen the results in some of the people he had helped. There is no room for all of those now but I will talk about it in another story.
Now What?
I thought about it overnight and it was like God was whispering in my ear that I needed this unveiling at this time. Why now? I don't know. But as I went back in time to recollect the harrowing details of my dad's bad temper, for a moment I wanted to scream and cry my heart out and bring out all the anger and bitterness I used to have for him, if there was still any left. For a moment, I hoped I didn't have to remember everything and wished God let me keep only the good memories and that this retrospect didn't have to happen. For a moment, I stood before myself in a big mirror and saw the 13-year-old girl covered in bruises and whip marks. At that moment, an old, familiar sadness was awakened within. And the moment waned and passed. The sadness too.
I had to face the painful truth that I'd been depressed most of my life, that my depression and mental imbalance started when I was young, not when I started receiving treatment. As a teen, I loved to cut and listen only to rock music, especially to songs that depicted my feelings. Another painful truth I rubbed eyeballs with was that I was alone and depressed during my childhood and no one knew or noticed. Nobody knew I was cutting, always locking up, writing rather abhorrent stories, and silently dying inside as an extremely introvert, bullied kid. Yes, I was bullied too. I realized when I got older that these were probably the drivers inside that led me to do some things no one thought I could do, not even myself.
Shame on Me
Growing up, my sister and I used to fight all the time. And I mean really fight. Only in recent years did I perceive how cruel I was as an older sister every time I threw a fit in front of my sister. Some of these memories also came to me last night after my recollection of my dad's beatings of me. One time in Abra when my sister and I were fighting, I picked up a really heavy bench and threw it at her. I was so angry for some reason and I kept throwing things at her. She was crying but it seemed like I wasn't present there. It was like a demon was in control and I was at the backseat. What happened next was really horrible. I saw a knife on the table and hurled it at her. I don't remember if the knife landed on her. I shiver today at the thought of it. There was also this time that we fought about something really petty. I was hungry and Marvie ate all the corned beef. I got into a rage and before I knew it, I was already grabbing her head and slamming it on the wall. I don't remember how many times I slammed her head on the wall but I'm pretty sure it wasn't just once.
When our youngest sister Christi was born, I thought maybe things would change. I wanted to be the big sister who'd protect and take care of my younger sisters. Last night, a terrifying memory of me hurting Christi revisited me. She was just a few months old. My mom was at work. I don't remember where the nanny was. I was probably tasked to look after the baby. She was crying. It started from faint to loud, to very loud. I was washing the dishes. I didn't want to stop what I was doing to pick her up and soothe her. Her loud cries got to my last nerve. I got mad. I screamed for her to stop crying as if an infant could understand anything I said. When she didn't stop, I dropped the dishes and went to her bassinet. I looked at her in fury, held out my arm, and instead of picking her up, I swatted her mouth with my fingers. She cried harder.
Remembering all those things makes my body hairs stand on end. How could I remember so many things in just one night? I especially hate myself for what I did to Christi that day. She was just an infant. How could I do that to a baby? Where were my morals and human instincts? How could I throw a knife at my own sister? How could I thump her head on the wall?
Could you believe I almost stabbed my own friend in high school with a knife? The story goes like this...My friend and I had a fight. We were doing the usual stuff friends who fight would do: ignoring each other, telling other classmates to not be friends with them, etc. At one point, he started saying things to me like Basura ka. Walang kwenta. As usual, I got into a rage. I went to the school canteen and borrowed a knife, telling the cook I was going to peel something with it. What I told the cook would later be reported to the principal along with what I did next. With the knife behind my back, I approached my friend and before he could do or say anything, I pointed the knife at him. I said to him in a very loud voice, Basura ako ha? Basura pala ha? I waved the knife in his face, aiming at the right angle to cut him from the forehead to the chin. I saw his face twist in fear and his color go from normal to pale. There were a few other students in the learning center (classroom), plus our supervisor and one other monitor I think. But it seemed like I didn't see anybody else there. I only saw me and my frienemy standing there. Before I could thrust the knife into my friend’s face, someone grabbed my hand from behind and took the knife away. The same person grabbed both of my hands. In the next few minutes, I saw our supervisor and everybody else rushing towards us. They came to my friend's rescue. Suddenly, everyone was involved in the commotion. Of course, you could picture what happened next. My mom and dad got called to the principal's office. The knife was placed in a ziplock bag and it was there on the table while I, my mom, my dad, my friend, and his mom were gathered in the principal's office. I didn't hear much of what they were saying at the time. My mind froze. The only thing that was made clear to me by the principal was that my friend's mom was going to bring it to the authorities and I would be found guilty of a crime because there were several witnesses. It was only hours later at home that I came to my senses and realized I'd almost committed manslaughter. On my friend. I got suspended for two weeks, but on the same week of the incident after my dad had talked to me and I understood the severity of what I did, I asked him to take me to school so I can apologize to my friend. I went home crying. My dad tried to console me by saying he was proud of my courage to own up to my mistake and say sorry to my friend, but I'd already killed myself in my thoughts.
Looking at My Old Scars
By recalling the horrible things I did to others, my hidden scars reappeared. Because of my own scars, an evil desire to inflict the same pain on others got out of hand. My dad's bad temper took its toll on me and I myself developed a fierce temper that was even worse than his. I say it was worse because my dad was normally kind and all that, while I was never nice. I seldom smiled. I was always on attack mode. I easily got mad at anything and everything. I hated the president (at the time it was Gloria Macapagal Arroyo), I always got into heated conversations with people I barely knew, I took to vices to relieve myself of all the self-inflicted burdens, and I always saw bad things even in the good things. I was a pessimistic, narcissistic, self-centered piece of trash. At least my friend was right when he called me a basura. I believe now that what I heard then was just a reflection of my inner self.
I am now 26 years old. It's been an awfully long time since the time I did all those things. After praying about what God revealed to me last night and asking for wisdom on what to do to face tomorrow with no more guilt and sorrow from everything I wrote here, the solution was revealed to me. I'm thankful that God didn't have to prolong the agony. The answer appeared before my eyes when I searched for it. I have to accept that I couldn't change the past and I need to forgive. Who needs to be forgiven? First, I have to forgive my dad for all the times he lost his temper with me. I also have to forgive those who caused him to be that way because to be honest, I was also bitter towards them for a while. Then I have to forgive my family for not being there when I needed them the most and accept that it's not their fault entirely that I didn't speak up or express myself more often to them so they could understand me. I also have to forgive my mom for impressing on me when my dad died that his death was my fault. I know now that she didn't mean it at that time. Finally, I have to forgive myself for all the things I'm accountable for that I messed up. After this phase, I need to apologize to my family.
Sorry, Marvie, for all the times I attacked and hurt you physically and verbally for whatever reason. Our darling Christi, sorry for what I did to you when you were a baby and the times I got mad at you inappropriately. Ma, sorry for everything. You were the one most affected by everything. You got depressed when I was at the lowest points of my depressed state, and instead of being strong for you and helping you cope, I messed up everything over and over again. You tried to reach out to me many times but I rejected help from everybody, especially from you because I misunderstood you so much from the very beginning. I understand now why you had kept some things from us about Dad, but I'm glad you finally came to see that it's okay to tell us now. After telling me about it, I began to understand you more. I'm sorry if it doesn't often show, but I'm proud of you, how you provided for us since I and my sisters were born, how you had to work overseas because Dad was unwise with his money and couldn't provide for us, how you endured loneliness and homesickness for many years in a foreign country, how you didn't leave Dad despite all his shortcomings in your marriage and all the burdens he had caused you to bear, how you decided to stay in the country to take care of him after he was diagnosed with his heart condition, how you stood by him until his last breath, how you disciplined and raised us after Dad was gone though I often misunderstood your ways, how you are supporting me now in my battle and pursuit of healing from depression and anxiety, and many more. You had loved us, your children, the right way. I'm sorry that I thought otherwise for a very long time.
I'm thankful for that revelation though it was still a bitter pill to swallow. I have yet to discover what this awakening will bring about, but even now, merely knowing my level of awareness in this aspect is more than enough. I cannot change the past, but I can accept it so I can move forward. I may have been harboring some anguish and remorse that I didn't know were still there and my life was probably a spitting image of denial that will have blown itself in my face one day had I not stumbled upon this epiphany last night.
“To love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.”
