Note: This is a very dark and very personal post, and may be triggering for some readers. Please use your best discretion before reading.I have no rational explanation for the paternal side of the family, to explain the darkness and brutality that we have faced for generations.
I call it "demon blood", because it seems like every last one of us is damned.
It cursed my paternal grandfather, who managed to kill my paternal grandmother with abuse and neglect, and who got away without answering to the law.
It cursed my sole paternal aunt, who I never knew, because of a certain "gun cleaning accident".
It cursed my oldest paternal uncle and his children, who tortured and abused me regularly.
It cursed my father, who ran away from home and joined the Navy, only to take on the guilt for his dead mother, as if there was anything he really could've done to save her. Frankly, he was half-way to being a casualty as well.
It cursed him to inflict violence on his own family--yes, milder than what his father did. He never struck my mother.
He did strike me, though, for standing up to him when he was yelling at her abusively.
He struck me for being bored in Left Field, in one of my vain attempts to appease him by feigning interest in sports.
He struck me for being late home from school.
He struck me for showing interest in the pornography he hoarded.
He struck me for playing with his razors--again, a vain attempt to appease him by feigning interest in the trappings of masculinity.
He struck me with a beer can, upside the head, for making some comment I can't even remember.
He struck me for telling a dirty joke that one of his friend's kids taught me.
And when he finally felt like he couldn't strike me anymore, the abuse kept on coming. Like calling me "faggot" when I scraped my knuckles bloody and complained of the pain. Like fashioning cat o' nine tails out of garden hose, as a threat.
Like terrorizing the fuck out of me when he discovered I liked to dress in a feminine fashion.
That demon blood was inherited in his children, too, although it seems to be turned almost entirely inward.
In my case, I can feel that demon blood surging every time I witness an outrage. And believe you me, there's ample outrages to be witnessed. And, quite frankly, I cause some of the outrages in question--and the demon blood is no more merciful to me than to anyone else.
I channel as much of that hellfire as I can into other venues, like black metal and BDSM, where it can be rendered relatively safe. But inevitably I find myself consumed by it.
It's a wonder I'm not dead by my own hand. To be honest, I have such a personal revulsion to suicide that I cannot imagine killing myself. I know full well that there are people in this world who, for some reason, care for me and therefore would be terribly hurt if I were to die. That doesn't stop the temptation.
This demon blood calls out for some sort of violence. I want to turn it towards justice, to keep it reined in and under my control, used for good, or at least kept from being used for evil. I've sought pills, therapy, religion--any means to keep the demon blood at bay. So far I have been somewhat successful. I've lived longer than my dead aunt, perhaps longer than my dead grandmother. But that's not to say that I have perfect faith that the demon blood will not prevail at the end.
If you think I worry too much about hurting my loved ones--you don't understand what I'm worrying about.
If you think I'm too good, too awesome, too whatever to allow my self-destruction--you don't understand what I am facing.
That demon blood HAUNTS me. And short of a miracle, it will until my last breath.