One:

We had guinea pigs which had blessed us with four, beautiful, little balls of squeaking fluff. These four little pets were fun to hold and I did so often. One afternoon I accidentally killed one of the babies. I didn�t know, for sure, that it was really dead. I hoped that if I put it back in the cage, the mother could somehow fix it. My motivation was healing. Dad thought that by putting the guinea pig back in the cage, I was trying to cover up my sin; that I had killed the little thing and was trying to pretend I hadn�t. He thought my motivation was to not get caught.

He didn�t ask me what I did or why. I received a long, stern lecture about taking responsibility for my actions. When I tried to explain why I did what I did, he mistakenly thought I was trying to make excuses� that I was attempting to shirk my responsibility.

I remember being slapped � open hand to left hip with just enough force to know it wasn�t a loving pat but not enough force to cause pain � but I don�t remember if that slap was truly connected to the guinea pig thing. I don�t remember the actual facts of the event as clearly as I�d like. I was too immersed in my own heart-hurt. I was so scared and heart sick over the death that I peed myself.

I remember being pushed away from him � that might have been the �slap� � and being called a murderer. Dad was disgusted with me because I had �killed that innocent, helpless little baby�. He was more disgusted when my bladder released because I was �trying to get away with it�.

My father was cruel to me that day. I was already at a number nine guilt level. I already felt horrid. Dad didn�t see that. He was oblivious to my personal turmoil. He thought my physical and emotional reactions were a statement of malicious intent rather than fear, self-loathing and utter sorrow.

What I needed was to be held, rocked and loved. I needed to recover from the guilt-stricken shock. I punished myself so severely, but his lecture only reinforced all the negatives I had been telling myself. I was humiliated and so sorrowful, but condemned for trying to weasel out of my due punishment.

That incident was damaging to my relationship with Dad because it taught me that no matter what I said or did, he wouldn�t believe me. That incident taught me that I was nothing but a murderer in his eyes. From that incident, I realized that I was despicable, disgusting and evil. I was telling myself those things. His echo simply confirmed the lie.

Don�t call Dr. Phil yet, there�s more.

Two:

There was a night when we had a large gathering of Church families at our house. During this time, the WonderFink and a friend � the same friend from the �wrestling� incident � were taking turns shooting the Fink�s BB gun out the window of his bedroom. I thought it looked like fun, so I got my BB gun. I dumped all the BBs out and dry-fired into my pillow about twelve times to be sure there were no BBs left in the gun.

When I started shooting out the window, I was aiming at the tree tops, clouds and stars� things up in the sky. I continued, enjoying myself, even after the friend said, �Oh shit. They came back.� The friend then ran into the Fink�s room, tossed the BB gun into the closet and the two of them went about doing something else. I, of course, was caught with a BB gun in my hand.

We children were lined up downstairs and Dad demanded to know who was shooting out the window. Idiot that I was, I piped up, said I�d been doing it, but that I�d dumped all the BBs out of my gun and had been aiming at the trees. I�m not sure how far into my explanation I got because Dad backhanded me so hard across the mouth that everything went blank for a moment. My next memory is of being exiled in Mom and Dad�s room with a swollen and bleeding lip. I remember a woman, long-ish face, long, straight hair � red? � large chest � I only have a split-second memory of her � I seem to recall her attempting to comfort me, but I can�t remember anything she did or said.

I seem to recall Dad apologizing to me, but that might just be in my head. Eventually he discovered the truth, that the friend-of-the-Fink had been the culprit, but the damage had already been done. From that experience I learned that when Dad asked a question, he didn�t really want the truth. I learned that Dad would not only lose control � hitting me � that that physical punishment wasn�t enough. I also had to be put in solitary confinement � shunned. That regardless of truth, I would be shunned at his whim.

The truth of the situation was that the friend had been aiming at passing cars. He hit one, broke the window out of it and narrowly missed hitting the passenger in the face. I was the only one with a gun in my hands. Dad was embarrassed and humiliated in front of multiple Church families. Someone had to be accountable, and I had admitted to shooting my BB gun.

I�ll get to the third, and most damaging, incident shortly. Right now, however, I need to think on something else. I really want my closet right now. I�d like to fly on the wings of oblivion for a while. Go take a nap, I�ll catch up with you in a few hours.

Okay, I�ve slept, refreshed myself; fortified myself with a dose of Barq�s and a Lindt White Chocolate truffle, and availed myself of the �facilities�. Now, I need to figure out if I want to go back to sleep or get dressed for the day. Shoes or no shoes; that is the question.

What�s that? You think I�m stalling? I�m using humor � albeit bad humor � to distract you from the real story?

You�re right. I don�t want to dive into the morass of this topic. I�ve held on to the anger, fear, pain and hatred of this third event for so long that letting go of them is� well � I feel like I�m about to watch my best friend get strapped into the electric chair. It doesn�t matter that this friend is a rotten individual. It doesn�t matter that this friend truly needs the chair. The only part that registers is that I�m about to give up a twenty plus year companion.

I�ve spoken about the Silver Dollar Incident a couple times. I�ve told bits of the story in my online diary. I haven�t thrust my heart and soul through the eye of the needle of truth though. That action is what pares away the emotion, leaving naught but cold fact. The fact heap can then be examined, analyzed and disposed of.

For more than twenty years I�ve held on to the rage and pain of the SDI. I�ve shoved those emotions into a closet in my mind, but I haven�t gotten rid of them. Every time a bit of irritation over what happened pops into the forefront of my brain, I quickly shove it back in the closet and slap a layer of brick up over the door. Over the years I�ve built up a tremendous amount of brick. In fact, it�s probably been enough to build a full-size replica of the Great Wall of China.

Regardless, incident three was the one and only time Dad truly lost all control. That�s the way I�ve rationalized his behavior, anyway. I don�t honestly know what was going on in his head. I know only what I perceived. Because I was somewhere around ten years old, my perception wasn�t necessarily accurate.