I Will Always Hate My Dad

Forever.

(A detailed list follows this introduction, and I’ll be adding more to it as I recall all the terrible and deeply repressed memories.)

If you ever wonder why I behave the way I do, or I’ve done something to upset you – assuming you’re not yourself a piece of shit – and you happen to stumble on this page you might get a better feel for why I sometimes think or act and behave the way that I do. There’s a lot of context about my life that’s missing for people, who when they see me on the surface assume I’ve always led an average, trouble-free existence.

I think my two greatest sources of pain and hurt are that I’m often upset at other people for not really getting this context and assuming I neatly fall into the category of a certain type of person, and the other one which is arguably worse is that I also stumble and have lapses in judgment or fail to live up to my own ideals. Then again, many people really couldn’t care less if I was that upstanding of a person and would do their damndest to cut me down anyway.

So why create a page documenting the reasons why I’ll always hate my dad?

In one part for myself, another part for anyone who’s curious, and another part for any estranged family members who I guess will probably have been on the receiving end of some inaccurate negative portrayal of me.

I’m going to have to write all of these down, because I keep forgetting them – I want to forget them, but they’re a part of my past that I can’t just push away or sweep under the rug.

And I need a place where it’s all stored, so I can see it all at once. Hossein, if you’re reading this: you were always just a sperm donor and have done little to contribute to much of all of the good things about the person I’ve become today.

The fact that you’ve let your son grow to the age of 33 but obstinately refused to acknowledge just how far you fell makes you virtually irredeemable – but I’m imagining this is because you were broken long before you and my mother conceived me. You did mention once that you were a victim of political torture, so maybe that explains some things.

You probably told my half-brothers’ children, and I suppose you told his wife as well, that I was some terrible person. Or maybe they just never really cared, who knows. For all I know, your insane brokenness bled into their lives and they had to suffer the same torrent of idiotic abuse and terror you unleashed into our lives.

Secrets families hide under the rug, but the truth is all of humanity is as neck-deep in this excrement as you or I or anyone else – from the Royals to the homeless and to your run-of-the-mill murdering psychopath, it’s all a part of the same tapestry.

Most of what people do is window dressing to mask the root of the problem. I’ve believed for many years now that humanity is trash – there are plenty of examples and the way this coronavirus pandemic has been handled so far is yet another testament to the callousness and murderous ignorance of people. It’s not all bad, and some people will try to play it off but the dark side of human nature is simply there.

This is also one of the reasons I don’t give a fuck about religion Christianity or other religions or hold authority figures in great esteem (or really give that much of a shit about the fucking cops – yes, dear reader, even Canadian ones). When I hear them talk about the sanctity of “the family” and all of that other masturbatory bullshit, it’s incredibly easy for me to see the parallels between all of the endless crap that I had to sort through as I grew up, and see the same subtle signs that many if not most of the people who profess Christianity the loudest are showcasing.

I wasn’t always a good son. I did a lot of unruly things as I grew up. But this page isn’t about me.

The (incomplete) List of Reasons, In Bullet Form:

  • At the height of the fighting between my mother and father, when I was a kid – I think I must have been around 11-12 at the time – when he and my mother were fighting (and they fought often), he pressured me into writing a letter (when my mother was away) to disown my mom and claim that I wanted to be in his custody.

    He spent weeks working me to this point and my voice shook and broke as the tears ran down my face when he finally coerced and pressured me to read it to her at dinner.
  • My dad always spoke a big game about “being a man” and why it was important as “a Lotfabadi” to embrace so many of such attitudes and outlooks, but I’ll forever remember him as the man who raised his hand against my mother, time and again.

    I’m sure that must make him very popular with a lot of guys.
  • My dad never told me that my elder brothers were in fact my half-brothers. I had to figure it out for myself when I did the math and realized that their ages were longer in time than the length of my parent’s marriage.
  • He also just about always smeared whichever of my half-brothers, between the three of us, were not completely acquiescing to his every demand in front of the others — always behind the back of the brother who had fallen out of favour.
  • I can’t remember if this was around the time when I was 4 or 5, or 6 years old and I had just started going to school – I’m jogging my memory now and I’m certain this was before I was enrolled in primary school – I have this one specific memory of my dad, mother, and two half-brothers sitting at the breakfast table in our kitchen and having a discussion that quickly grew heated – which culminated in my dad violently breaking one of the wooden kitchen chairs into pieces before storming out to wherever he went off to – either our parent’s bedroom or into his study, I guess. Or was it out of the house? Those parts of the memory are hazy.

    I have no idea how to pass judgment on that event, if it was even understandable that he was so upset or if it was even called for, for him to break that chair. I just remember it wasn’t so pleasant to witness this as a young kid who had no idea what the hell was happening, did not even hear what the words being exchanged were, and why he suddenly got so angry.
  • Occasional nightmares about him raping me and my mother – now, these are just dreams, and I don’t know if they ever really happened. But, on the other hand, they’re also probably a good indicator of what kind of person he was.
  • That I get to be “that kid” whose dad wasn’t exactly the father he should have or could have been. Then again, shitty human beings are a dime a dozen and for all I know it takes a village to create a man that broken.
  • It’s 3:32 AM and I’m up writing this because I can’t sleep, thanks to all of these old memories bubbling up to the surface. I woke up at 6AM today and got a lot of work done, exercised, and diligently stuck to the diet plan I’ve embraced. But as the evening wound on I had a sick feeling at the bottom of my stomach and I had no idea what it was. Also this entire writing exercise was mopey as fuck and I should calm myself down and get some rest. Life’s not slowing down, after all.
  • I’m not sure what happened in the divorce court, but he tried to have me testify as a witness that he never hit my mother. I’d lied about it to the police of course because they were strangers and, honestly I’ve seen how the Canadian justice system is an absolute joke for myself, but also because at the time I thought I was “saving my father’s honour” to protect him from incrimination as a witness to his assaulting my mother.

    With his lawyer, he tried to have me be presented as a witness that could not be cross-examined. I’m not sure how that works in lawyer-land. I personally think lawmakers and the people who work in the legal sector are trash who create libraries of rules contained in hundreds of volumes of books that are made deliberately inaccessible to normal people and parade it in front of their faces as a false display of virtue.

    Like police who write traffic tickets to meet a quota or to work for a government that mostly wants to wring money out of people by making stupid and impossible rules to follow.
  • When we ran into each other years later, he had the audacity to suggest and even attempt to make me believe that it was I who abandoned him and my brothers, not that he had been very much so responsible for perpetrating abuses that easily gave me every right to cut him out like the cancerous tumour he was and will probably always be in my life.

    I’m sure part of the reason he said what he said was to assuage his own guilty conscience and repress the knowledge of what he did, but on some level I also think he really never gave a fuck, either. He probably wouldn’t even give a fuck to this day that he did all that.
  • After the fight that finally split my parents apart, during which my dad struck my mother, the police came to arrest my dad. In order to cover up for his crime, my dad tried to convince me to create a daily journal. Why? Because – and he never put it in these words – he wanted me to fabricate evidence that he never hit my mother.

    I think this must have been his idea too, because this happened before he hired his lawyer.
  • Speaking of his lawyer – the guy who would represent him must have been a real piece of work too. He told my dad when he went to consult with him that in Canada it was “a crime to be a man.” — I don’t know what the fuck being a man means to so many men (here or elsewhere), but I’m sure to a lot of these other losers and blowhards abusing your children and beating up your own wife is the most positive expression of masculinity they can imagine.

    You self-righteous pieces of shit are truly all the same. You wouldn’t know masculinity to save your sorry lives, even if it came and bit you in the ass. Now I don’t believe in God (guess why) and it’s a shame there’s no hell for you to all burn in, but for what it’s worth I hope you all kill yourselves and rot in it anyway.

Truly, Lucifer neither did nor ever said anything wrong.

If anything I’d even go so far as to say that Jesus was likely a bastard who could not stomach the idea that he was born out of wedlock and never knew his father – and compensated for that by imagining that it must have been God, and he attempted to emulate the only father figure he had by trying to become God himself.

At least it’s a lot easier to sympathize with Jesus as a human being than God incarnate.