The origin of violence

or too little too late

I was an abusive father,

an abusive husband,
an abusive friend.
Selfish.
Egocentric.
Emotionally unavailable.
Violent even…
For what is the origin of violence?
Where does it begin?
How is it to be measured?
For fuck’s sake, stop calling it “assertiveness”!

My early life may explain this,

but does not justify it.
Nothing justifies it.

I am not trying to redeem myself,

nor to be forgiven.
I am not trying to fix anything,
certainly not the stolen childhood,
the broken souls,
the seeds of uncertainty…
The damage is done.

I just want to acknowledge what I have for too long pretend to deny:

I have not been the good person I tried to impersonate.

The hero I dreamed (to tears) to be.

I am the heir of the kingdom of foes.

The warden of anxiety and fear.
The executor of an inheritance of self-hatred and pain.
The bad father.
The bad husband.
The bad friend.

Other than that,

I am nothing.
I have no one.
A lonely pariah realizing,
seemingly too late,
that it all could have been different,
and the fact that it wasn’t cannot be considered an accident,
a predisposition,
the inertia of a pattern,
a damaged inner child,
anything beyond my control.
It was,
unquestionably,
my own voluntary doing,
my irredeemable fault.

And even-though there is love.

Undeniable love.
Unconditional love.
Apologetic-penitent love.
It is invisible under the cloak of sorrow and fright of yester-days.

No matter what I do,

the scars remain.