Like most tragic events in life, large or small, I would be hard pressed to tell you how this all began.
Did it start as early as I suspect, from infanthood, the feeling of abandonment that children get when their parents are not quite ready or capable of being the kind of parents that provide not just the material goods we all require in early life, but the sense of love and security that any child needs at the beginning, by being held and reassured?
Knowing what I know of my father it is possible.
Did it start once my schooling began when one little incident marked me for life as the loser, the one to be pointed at, the one to be pushed aside and shunned, hearing the words come out of the mouths of your peers that crush your soul down into a little compact box, never to be opened?
Was it coming home, hearing the same words and phrases (loser, lazy, ugly, worthless, nothing) from my father that I heard from my peers every day, reinforcing the idea that I was nothing more than what I was told?
Was it being no more than twelve or thirteen years olf after my mom was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and having my father leave for another woman, leaving his son to carry the burden of being the ‘man’ of the house for three of four months, walking two to three miles to do the shopping, cleaning bed sores and taking care of a mother the son barely knew as a person?