He Never Hit Me

- Intermezzo -

I don’t like getting angry. Took me a while to realize that.

I finally noticed that it not only takes a lot out of me but a long time to bounce back.

I never questioned this before, whether the anger that's always been there was an unwelcome guest. Maybe it was like avoiding a hangover by staying drunk.

I don’t know the exact moment, but I have a good idea when it started.

My Korean friends at the time joked about getting hit by their parents. But for me it was never a laughing matter.

They didn't take it too seriously, but that was because they were up to no good while I was desperately trying to stay on my best behavior.

My parents’ rage would come on suddenly, unexpectedly. I always wanted to know what it was that I exactly did, at least then I could feel like I deserved it.

But my questions only made them angrier, and I realized they didn't actually have an answer for me.

If they hadn't hit me at the same time they were mad, I don't think it would have been that bad. I happened to be a sensitive kid and the combination overwhelmed me.

My father's violence terrified me. It was the silent kind, but written all over his face. The in-between would fry my nerves, just waiting for each blow that would come out of nowhere at any time.

Whereas my dad always used his bare hands, my mother reached for the closest object. It didn't really hurt, it's just the incessant nature that wore me down. Rat-a-tat-tat. Worse was what she said the entire time. No matter how hard I try, I can't forget the words to this day.

It only stopped because I got too old for them to lay their hands on me anymore. But that was just the beginning for me.

I didn't have any way to release what I was forced to hold in. After a while it makes you invisible, pretending none of it happened.

It only makes you angrier over time.

I hate getting in arguments with my wife; it's so so hard to not lose control.

It's hard to stay silent when the words keep getting piled on. But walking away usually works—when I'm not being followed.

I'm trying.

She'll complain about the aftermath as if it doesn't bother me. It does bother me, when I break something or come close to it.

I'm just so sick and tired of holding it all in.

I'm not trying to blame anyone any more. Writing's the only thing that helps me get it out.

I hope it makes room though, for the good memories that must still be there.

I don't have this problem with my grandfather. It's easy to reminisce about the good times we had together; what I remember is as vivid as real life.

Probably because he never hit me.