Friction and Harmony

So it’s 2010.  Now what?

Not sure where this year will take me.  So far as resolutions go, I’m setting the bar pretty low.  To borrow from an old classmate, my New Year Resolutions are:  “1.) to get another year older,  2.) to accumulate more gray hair, and 3.) to work out less.”

Okay, so that last one is impossible for me…  Divide by zero error: System halted.

Right now, my outlook for the year is grim.  I’m just out of an active “police action” (we won’t call it a war) with Mrs. Who, and now active fighting has broken out on the parent-kid front.  In the meantime, I still find myself living mostly alone in my late MamaBear’s house (blame the suck-ass weather) and getting more and more used to it.  Don’t know what that means.  But getting back to the active front…

My dumbass son “Goob” has chosen his path – one that doesn’t seem to have any room at all for stupid ass parents who lay “guilt trips” instead of pandering to his selfish whims  (i.e., enforce responsible behavior).  He’s determined he’s an adult, but acting like an overgrown four-year-old.  Had the gall (not to be confused in any way with testicular fortitude) to ask me to turn over the keys and alarm code for his late grandma’s house so he could play house with his wounded-bird girlfriend.

It frikkin’ hurts to be a parent when you want to see them do the right thing and they are so caught up in hedonism and rebellion…    I was rebellious, but I wasn’t THAT stupid.  Shit.  Okay, so maybe I was, but I was truly hoping to impart some of the wisdom I gained from my mistakes.  Not much success in that, however, least of all when parental wisdom clashes with rutting teenager.  Hell, in the few years since he discovered his “special purpose“, he’s already surpassed my own notch-count.  It’s disappointing, but not entirely unexpected, I guess.  Not that i can excuse his choices, however… since he’s choosing to be a little prick.

Case in point: he chooses to hook-up with a little tart that drops her panties on their first date – while he’s still in the process of “breaking up” with his previous g/f after providing her with a “morning after” abortion pill.  Oh – she was under the age of 18, so that’s a case of illegal dispensing – and her parents were more than furious, wanting to swipe a chunk of his ass for the piece that he got from their daughter.  He was more or less oblivious, leaving Mrs. Who and I to mop up while he went about his cavorting.  In the midst of it all, he tried to demand that I “meet” his new piece of tail with him.  Lacking a grain of respect for his little “Tragic Doll”, I declined.

Flash forward about eight or nine months, we get wind that Tragic Doll is claiming to have given birth to a baby boy – our grandson.  Right away, I’m skeptical, since just a month before, she claimed to have had an inoperable brain tumor and lay dying in the hospital, only wanting to talk to Goob one more time.  Dozens of times a day.  Oops, she died.  No, she didn’t.  Maybe the brain tumor made her forget she was dead.  Or that she was pregnant, since miraculously, she never had a brain tumor but suddenly she has a baby.  Who has “a lung disease”.  And some hell of an insurance plan, since he’s been in NICU for nearly three weeks and “all his bills are paid for and will be paid for until he’s 18.”  She just wanted him to come see her to take a paternity test, even though such tests can be done with oceans and continents between the subjects.  When we demanded to see proof of the child’s birth – of the certificate which bore my son’s name as the father, of the child’s illness…  OOPS!  He suddenly died.  Oh, and she didn’t really have a baby because she was in Coast Guard Boot Camp the whole time.  It must have been her cousin who was spoofing the whole ordeal because she wanted to make my son see how “special”  Tragic Doll has become since he left her, and that “he would take one look at her and want her, but she’s not available to him any more.”  Funny how Tragic Doll’s cousin sounds exactly like Tragic Doll in the telephone call recordings.

All the while we were uncovering Tragic Doll’s psychotic, hysterical claims and manipulative lies, Goob was getting on with Wounded Bird, who was evidently okay with the fact that his previous relationship was playing itself out with us in the middle, leaving him free to slip her some between the sheets.  All evidence points to her being totally willing to betray her own self-respect by letting him poke her.  But she’s learned sooo much from her life of hard knocks that all her decisions are intelligently and morally sound.  Because she’s…  you know…  An 18 year old “adult”.  And an admitted runaway.  Rumored to have been fired for blowing a guy in a back room at Wendy’s.  Pathetic and sad.  Tragic, really.  I feel so sorry for her.  But there’s not a damn thing I can do.

The two of them are feeding on their past histories of abuse and claiming it “makes them strong” against the world.  In reality, they’re indulging in that abuse, but they don’t see it that way.  Of course, how would WE or anybody else know their lives?  THEY are superior in their conjoined response to this terrible world – their tragedies having steeled them against the “false morality” of others…  especially parents!

Yes indeed, if there’s one thing that heals the wounds of sexual abuse, it’s a good, guilt-free fuck!

Of course, Wounded Bird has no parents to speak of.  She and Goob met in grade-school, and were trouble from the start.  The gravity of sexual abuse trapped them in a violent orbit – nearly causing them both to be expelled at one point or another.  Thank god for a tough little Irish nun who stood between them.  I admit I always felt sorry for the girl, of course for the tragedy of her abuse, the absence of loving parents, and all…  But also for the way my son had treated her back then.  She was a year behind him, and in front of classmates, he had accused her of “wanting to suck your stepdad’s cock.”  (Hence the near expulsion from parochial school.)  I was mortified and ashamed of his actions then, but I understood where he was coming from.  Then, she was a threat – she was a living totem of the abuse and the abused.  No doubt there was a physical attraction – she pursued him from the get-go, and she was a cute girl.  I know Goob isn’t blind…  So to Goob, she was no doubt a bundle of desire, guilt and shame -  and represented perhaps the part that “let the abuse happen”, and likely even the part that may have “felt good”.  He responded with venom then.

Now, having come to terms with many of those feelings, I’m not surprised to see the abuse continue to play itself out as lust and nurturing for that part that is “accepted” or even “forgiven”.  That part was evident in Goob’s indignant defense of his recent behavior, stating:

It is the past events in a person’s life that makes them who they are today, and honestly however FUBAR of a past, I am happy with who I am today, so I may not like the events, but I accept the past, I would not change a thing in it, even if that means getting abused by [ex-con felon scum].. it is something I have come to terms with and do not hide.

Jackpot!  Going through all that got me all this (i.e., laid + kindred understanding + acceptance) today!

What worries me most about this is not the acceptance, but the evident embracing of this past.  And I believe that has a lot everything to do with the sexual relationship he has cultivated with Wounded Bird.  They simply have no clue of the dangers they are flirting with.  Perhaps both are doing some rescuing, but WB is BAD needy – it’s written all over her.  Her posture, body language, facial expressions, submissive glances and clinginess.  (The unsettling way she hugged ME longer than necessary on two occasions screams her need for a “daddy” figure and goes that much further to my argument for her desperation for male attention and approval.)  Most telling of all was her defensiveness when I tweaked her by telling her I pitied her.  (And I truly do.)  But I knew, and I was right; she came out swinging at the very notion and wouldn’t let it drop.  They are both feeding on age-old hurts and new manipulations, and they’re too stupid-young to see any of it.  They “love” each other out of need and pity, but don’t recognize that, either.

It’s a Catch-22.  The more I say about it, the more Goob digs in his heels.  Yet if I bite my tongue, he infers my tacit approval.  Worse, it’s causing a rift between my son and myself that may never heal.  On FaceBook, he commented on a picture of us at his Army BCT graduation:

lol, back when he was proud… seems like those days are gone, and so is he. Fuck it. dont need family, as far as im concerned they are all dead now to me, because obviously to them I might as well just be KIA.

I don’t know what to feel but sadness at that statement.  Obviously it’s not true, but the alternative to him feeling this way is for me to accept the damage he’s doing to himself by allowing his stupid ass behavior to go un-reprimanded.  Further, doing so would be my sacrificing someone else for my own benefit; WB may or may not be a hopeless case, but allowing them to recklessly indulge their shattered pasts is a recipe for a lifetime of failed and abusive relationships for both of them.  It endangers not only them, but any children that might come about, as well as those who look up to them as role models for their own behavior (namely Buck).  Call it “Tough Love” , but it would be irresponsible of me as a parent to do otherwise.  Wouldn’t it?

I just don’t know anymore.  The thing that often scares me most is my own anger – something of which I have an abundant supply.  AT&T has “rollover minutes”, I have “rollover anger”.  It just keeps stacking up.  Of course I realize that my anger makes the things I say and do that much more difficult afterward.  But my pressure relief is faulty.  Plus, I seem to possess a flowing, predatory skill – of narrowing in almost effortlessly on the tenderest spot to land my blows.  I read body language naturally, and within minutes of observing someone can pick the two or three of the most self-consciously guarded physical or psychological aspects of an individual to launch my attack.  Heaven help you if I’ve known you longer.

I’ve had to check myself constantly in this battle of wills with Goob and his Wounded Bird mistress.  I let it slip briefly once, and the damage was instant.  It escalated into the position we find ourselves in now: after weeks of what can best be described as a “Cold War truce” since he left for Korea, we’ve recently broken-off negotiations and the hostility level has risen.

Where it goes from here, I have no idea.

Son, you rock! I’m incredibly proud of you. Stay safe, proud and mean!  Hooah!

The Warrior Song

I’ve got the reach and the teeth of a killin’ machine,

with a need to bleed you when the light goes green

best believe, I’m in a zone to be, from my Yin to my Yang to my Yang Tze

put a grin on my chin when you come to me,

‘cuz I’ll win, I’m a one-of-a-kind and I’ll bring death

to the place you’re about to be: another river of blood runnin’ under my feet

forged in a fire lit long ago, stand next to me, you’ll never stand alone

I’m last to leave, but the first to go, Lord, make me dead before you make me old

I feed on the fear of the devil inside of the enemy faces in my sights:

aim with the hand, shoot with the mind, kill with a heart like arctic ice

I am a soldier and I’m marching on

I am a warrior and this is my song

I bask in the glow of the rising war, lay waste to the ground of an enemy shore

wade through the blood spilled on the floor, and if another one stands I’ll kill some more

bullet in the breach and a fire in me, like a cigarette thrown, to gasoline

if death don’t bring you fear, I swear, you’ll fear these marchin’ feet

Come to the nightmare, come to me, deep down in the dark  where the devil be

in the maw with the jaws and the razor teeth,

where the brimstone burns and the angel weeps

call to the gods if I cross your path and my silhouette hangs like a body bag

hope is a moment now long past, the shadow of death is the one I cast.

I am a soldier and I’m marching on

I am a warrior and this is my song

my eyes are steel and my gaze is long

I am a warrior and this is my song

now I live lean and I mean to inflict the grief,

and the least of me is still out of your reach

the killing machine’s gonna do the deed,

until the river runs dry and my last breath leaves

chin in the air with a head held high,

I’ll stand in the path of the enemy line

feel no fear, know my pride:

for God and Country I’ll end your life

I am a soldier and I’m marching on

I am a warrior and this is my song

my eyes are steel and my gaze is long

I am a warrior and this is my song

Hat Tip: Blogfather Harvey over at IMAO

Our own Private Goob celebrated his birthday last week by doing pushups.  A LOT of ‘em. 

It seems the soldiers in training are assigned a number of pushups for each piece of mail they receive – which they gratefully knock-out.  Along with our family, friends, and blog-friends mailing him and sending birthday well-wishes, Mrs. Who had her class mail a bundle of crafted birthday cards to him.  Two-hundred fifty-five pushups for the lot!  Goob didn’t sound distressed about it at all, however…  The DS allowed two buddies (who enthusiastically volunteered) to help him knock them out.  Thanks to EVERYONE who has been writing him – the cards and letters have been much appreciated!

Sorry I haven’t been posting more in the way of updates and photos – especially the photos.  Since about the second week, I haven’t been able to pick him out of the crowd!  But here are some cool pics from his unit (I don’t think any of them include Pvt Goob):

Belt fed weapons and night vision…  No wonder he says he’s having a good time! 

The majority of training has been completed, and now they’re preparing for final inspections and graduation.  They’ve already completed the rite of passage and have received their berets.   I’ll be at Fort Sill, OK in just over a week to see him graduate, and to spend a few precious hours making him retell the whole experience before he ships out for AIT until at least late November, possibly longer.

We heard from Private Goob today!

I barely recognized him by his voice – he was severely hoarse.  I immediately thought that it might have been from all the yelling they do, but no…  He’s sick.  Very sick.  He’s been congested, and he’s been throwing up, but evidently enjoying the training enough that he doesn’t want to miss any time with his platoon.

“Yesterday,” he told me, “we had tear gas training.”

“Wow, that must have wreaked havoc with your sinuses!  Did you do okay?”

His reply cracked me up…

“It was hell on earth!  But actually, it cleared me up enough to breathe for the first time in a couple of days!”

Then he detailed what had happened.  They were supposed to enter the bunker, remove their gas masks, state their name, hometown and social security number, then exit after 30 seconds to clean and reseal their masks.  He said he choked on the first syllable, dropped to his knees, then ended up projectile vomiting.  As he exited the bunker, there was a female soldier taking their pictures.  He thinks he may have thrown up on her boots, too.  As he was trying to recover, he felt a hand on his shoulder, turning him around.  He realized it was a Drill Sergeant, and thought to himself, “uh-oh, this isn’t going to be good.”

He had a streamer of snot that was wrapping half his head, from his chin to his eyebrow – and no doubt some revisited breakfast on his face, too – and his eyes were bloodshot and streaming.  But instead of getting yelled at, his Drill Sergeant was laughing hysterically and trying to take his picture with a cellphone camera!  No doubt that picture made the rounds at the end of the day!

He said he’s really down with being sick, but he’s not going to let it wash him back OR make him miss anything…  He’s looking forward to learning to shoot the M16-A2 rifle this week, so he really doesn’t want to have to spend any time in medical.

I am so proud of him for toughing it out.  I asked him if he’s still happy with his decision…  “Definitely,” he replied, “but there have been a few times when I’ve really wondered what the heck I got myself into!” But he affirmed that he is enjoying the camaraderie and the challenges, and he’s looking forward to where this experience will take him.

Unfortunately, just as he was telling me about his graduation and ‘Family Day,’ his cell phone battery died.   I’m on my way down to the T-Mobile store as soon as I finish this post to buy a new phone charger for him.

Thanks, everyone, for your kind words.  I printed them out and am sending them along with my next letter.  In the meantime, here are some pictures snagged from his unit website:

This is my favorite picture so far…  He looks so different.  The transformation to man and  soldier has begun!

Son, you have no idea how proud I am of you!  I love you, kiddo.  (Guess I won’t be able to call you that much longer…)

-Dad