Summer, Buddy Holly, the working man’s folly good golly miss Molly
Reasons to be cheerful when all you want to do is crawl back into bed alone… Monday and what a start to the week, everything there is has been done, books have been written, blogs posted music played and songs sung.
Yes, it’s all been done and better than I could do it… Or is it?
I started to write the next chapter of my personal life history and then I thought I may have mentioned that I don’t get on with my dad without saying why, and 1967 was the year that our relationship became more strained. It was also the beginning of the end of my relationship with my dad, which I didn’t go into. Since this is supposed to be a wart’s and all tale of my fall into hell and fall out with my dad why didn’t I go into details of the beginning of this fall out? Why have I chosen to ignore the part he has played in my subsequent mental illness by telling what a good job he did on me starting in 1967?
Music was my only escape from him, and it brought me closer to my granddad and grandma (his parents) beginning in 1968. I couldn’t wait to escape his fury and anger which was always directed at me, my two younger brothers escaped his wrath and whatever they asked him for they got, I never did, if I wanted anything I had to save and buy it for myself which meant I appreciated it more.
In 1966 I asked him and mum for a Scalextric racing car set for my birthday but was told it was too expensive to buy so I stopped asking for things. In 1967 my youngest brother asked for a racing car set and my dad went out and bought him one the next Saturday. I didn’t mind as I often played with it racing Paul when I could get the old man off it.
I asked for a stereo record player and dad bought one for himself so I was given the radiogram he had bought when he married my mum in 1951. I bought my own stereo turntable, amp, speakers and headphones when I started work in 1971. In 1967 my dad would be building things in his shed at the bottom of the garden and if I ever asked if I could help he used to tell me that I was as much use as a wooden leg so no he didn’t need my help. Both of my brothers would go and help out with things he was making I was never allowed to.
When I started building jigsaws he would wait until I went to bed then finish it off for me and when I asked why he’d done that he would tell me that he had only helped because I was making a pigs ear of it. You know if you tell someone often enough, and with enough force, that they will never amount to anything worthwhile how is it never your fault that they never do amount to anything because they just give up?
I have only recently begun to appreciate that the reason why my daughter sees me as a failure is because I have never achieved anything in my life. Sure I attempt things but as soon as it looks as though I might be getting some where I sabotage myself and it’s all because of the programming carried out by my dad on my young self.
I once accused my dad of treating me differently to my brothers and he said that I was being stupid but when I started writing my life history, I soon realised that either I got him all wrong or else he did treat me as the “black sheep of the family” and I don’t think I read him wrong at all. I think I need to do a 1967 part 2 telling of my (failed) relationship with my dad (he’s still alive so it’s not like I’m speaking ill of the dead).
Comments on this post will decide whether or not I publish it on here or just keep it for my own benefit.