There are many things beyond our control. This is a bitter truth that we must learn to deal with while staying in the ring fighting for our prosperity. In a country of high suicide and heightened depression, there’s always a case of someone losing that fight.
Tears sub for words as we attempt to grasp onto rational explanations and root causes. I’m going to make a case, one that might anger you but might save your life. Your scars are the most valuable thing about you.
The people who shape you are the artists whose’ imperfections leave them vulnerable to the criticism of their peers. Imperfections perfectly fit into our being. With the artist not by our side, we age, having to answer for the artist’s work.
Forgiveness is choosing to pursue peace. A plan of actions that take you from “fixing what others broke” to harnessing the new potential emanating from each scar. The seedlings planted in the past resemble b****** children, unaware of the circumstances of their conception.
No one should fault our coveted hopes for restitution. My wounds deserve to be caressed by the source of their infliction; however, it left me chasing Jerry into his hole as my mind witnessed my own humiliation. My life began to resemble a shallow cartoon. A repetition of last week’s episode with remixes of old arguments, grander theories and repurposed explanations.
I remember waking up fearing I would miss the bus. As I exited my room, swaying left toward the bathroom, I saw my mother in the hallway. Her usual austere, stoic demeanor seemed off. I looked at her as she bit her tongue while her eyes pierced my confused gaze. Anyone could surmise bad news was ahead, but not in my wildest dreams could I have guessed what happened next.
“Immigration took Adam this morning,” she uttered.
In a movie, the actor’s job is to embody the presumed emotions a person might have. This was my Oscar moment. Life’s raw nature struck my reality like never before. Forgoing probability, reaching fictionality, but once truth lay naked, I caved to the terms of its severity.
My stepfather, Adam, was my early life’s tyrant, composing strings of melodies whose notes still play in the background of every conversation I have. With my father distant, only picking me up for the weekends, he had free reign to mold me into the man he wanted. As he told me over 10 years later, “you were a pathetic, weak child when I met you.”
And who knows? Maybe I was. Maybe this was life’s raw way of changing the trajectory of a child without a true father. My father hurt me, but Adam would break me. Perhaps the universe saw this as necessary. What if Adam allowed me to see and rearrange my broken pieces into a Tiffany composition? Learn early how to trust and see that trust shatter before you.
I could tell he wasn’t good with kids, or at least was awkward in his affection. Playing involved extreme discomfort. Dangling me from the top of stairs, painful wrestling, being tickled to tears and having a heart attack at every around-the-corner jump-scare was all I ever got. I used to fantasize about going to the park, playing soccer, frisbee or just running sprints to see who’s faster. I never got to enjoy this kind of affection. At the time, I would’ve told you how much I loved him. This was the best version of a father figure I’d ever experienced.
He would give me nuggets of kindness, tricking me into feeling we were on good terms. Other times, his spit-splattering cigarette breath scolded me till a worthless sensation coated my body. I became a dog trained to fear going to the food bowl. Today, that trauma surfaces as moments of demoralized self-paralysis where I see an imposter in the mirror.
Despite the fear he inflicted me with, I never wanted to accept Adam as anything except Pop. My deeply coveted wish for a father figure was at stake. I wanted to dress like him, smell like him and be bald like him. At 10 years old, I shaved my head, tucked in my shirts and floated like a cartoon at the scent of his cologne.
Simultaneously, he began disciplining me to no end with punishments inspired by his time in prison. I found myself constantly grounded for weeks in my room, where I could only use the bathroom. Misery characterizes this time in my life.
Over time, my rage boiled over as I grew tired of the abuse. He had to be brought down, and all 96 pounds of me was going to try.
Another scolding had ensued, with the heat of his breath blasting against my face. I had backed almost into the closet, trying to avoid proximity to his ferocity. As I edged into the closet, my mind realized this was now or never.
“I can’t anymore! You torture me every day. You yell for everything! You’re so scary…you’re evil. I’m in prison living with you.”
Shocking, I still remember my exact statement, but even more so, I had never uttered a semblance of an attitude toward him. Feeling my life was now over, I dropped to my knees. My vision blurred as the tears rained down my cheeks. Years of frustration had split over, and I wanted him to feel my pain.
On my knees, I lifted my head, peering into his eyes. He stood frozen, his mind elsewhere. His 6-foot frame, still as a statue, stood above me in dominance.
“You have no idea what prison is like, boy. You have no idea what it means to be tortured. You have an easy life. It’s my job to make sure you don’t end up weak.”
He knelt as he extended his arms, embracing me as I cried upon his shoulder. I’ll never know, but something changed that day for both of us. After that moment, chaos ceased. There was genuine laughter between us as we played Mario Kart and went for ice cream. There was love there, mutual affection and admiration.
At the crescendo of our relationship, never did I think our time together would be coming to an end, until I woke up to his absence. No goodbye, no farewell, no speech of closure. Just gone.
As he came into my life, I was eager to trust. How he initially treated me soured that trust. His reaction to my outburst rejuvenated that trust. Stripping him from my life shattered that trust.
For years, I wrestled with his memory. His personality was etched into my being. I secretly longed for his return and held onto his things during every move. As I came to terms, I knew he was never coming back. I trashed his belongings and began to hate myself, believing his touch doomed me for a life of instability.
Never underestimate the love you can have for someone who hurt you. I became fixated on the depth of my scars as they dripped into my veins, infecting my perception of the world and myself. My love resided alongside my resentment, leaving me at a crossroads without direction. All I wanted was closure. This is where forgiveness came into play.
Often, we slip, crashing into others and seeing the harm we cause part-in-parcel to who we are. Maybe that was him. I was not aware of the conditions of an addict in constant relapse; I was just collateral damage. The funny thing is my wish was granted. Life gave me a father figure, but the terms and conditions included some unforeseen complications.
Today, I live as a representation of his potential, wearing his good side and learning from what I observed from afar. To choose myself was to approach his memory with love, and I did just that.
Forgiveness implied harnessing the beauty of my scars to craft what could have been. It took me coming around to realize he was a victim to whomever molded him. The deeply wounded artist who projected his pain onto a child, unaware that hurt people hurt people.
In August 2024, he died of a heart attack on his birthday while living with his mom. His instability never ceased, and his fate was met with an unceremonious, gloomy end.
Mohammad Tantawi is a 24-year-old mass communication senior from Smyrna, Tenn.
