There's Going to Be an Explosion

This phrase scared the living daylights out of me every time I heard it.

It was my mother's warning-code for when my father was about to lose it. I don't know how she always knew, but she did.  Maybe she'd become so accustomed to his mood swings that she could predict them like a monthly cycle. Maybe she felt she had done something to provoke him. I'm not sure, but when there was an explosion, it was like living in hell.

I can remember crying and saying, "God, please take me away from this," and wishing he was dead. I wanted the pain to go away so badly I could barely wait to get out on my own.

Usually the target was my mother. He'd drag her down emotional rabbit holes, rehashing every past mistake, badgering her unmercifully. I remember the level of anxiety hitting me as a child-the fear, the anticipation of what to expect next. Would he break things? Would he become so angry and intense that he'd force her into humiliation?

I remember one time he made her strip so she couldn't run out of the house and escape, then forced her to urinate on the dog papers. He did everything possible but hit us and he actually prided himself on that. As children, our punishment meant bringing him our possessions so he could rip or destroy them in front of us.

After every "explosion," I can remember looking up at the ceiling, crying violently in my room, whispering out loud, "I wish he was dead." For years I told myself all kids probably wish their parents dead... well, if that's true, be careful what you wish for.

DADDY Dearest

To me, he was one of the most intelligent people who ever lived. He had an IQ of 150 and could probably win an argument with God. Well-read, articulate, and funny, he was so knowledgeable he could discuss any subject and have a strong opinion on it. He was strong in his beliefs, generous, and had an honest heart.

But my father suffered from a mental illness.

He lived by liberal standards so extreme that some called him a socialist, occasionally even a communist. He believed so strongly in standing up for what he believed in that sometimes he lost sight of who he was hurting in the interim-the people closest to him, who bore the brunt of his convictions.

Dad loved show business and clung to the past with fierce nostalgia. He hated modern entertainment, though he was excited by new technology in toys. In his heyday, he'd rubbed shoulders and held interviews with celebrities-Ronald Reagan when he was still a movie star, Jimmy Durante, Phil Foster, Martha Raye. I can't figure out why he wouldn't encourage me more to fulfill my own dreams of entertainment.

He loved sports and would watch two televisions at once if two sporting events were on. His favorites were boxing, baseball, and hockey. He had a toy road race set up in our dining room for years, taking his games very seriously. He'd joke about running the roaches over with the electronic race cars, telling people they could earn a penny for every one they killed.

When he really started losing it, he had a peanut can that served as his incinerator. He'd stay up nights finding things to burn, using a flattened matchbook cover as a shovel. The smell would drift through the house and wake me up. It was his strange form of therapy-a modern-day Zen garden in miniature, if your idea of peace included insect cremation.

He would stay up until 4 or 5 AM, take six or so sleeping pills, then sleep until 4 in the afternoon. He was a heavy chain smoker, tough and seemingly fearless.

It was devastating to watch him deteriorate. In the end, he wouldn't bathe, comb his hair, change his clothes, or put in his teeth. He had very little fight left in him. That's when we should have tried to get him help.

It's strange-for as liberal as he was, he did discipline us. I grew up with a strong code of ethics. This dysfunctional man taught me to be strong, smart, to have a sense of humor, and not to judge anyone.