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vijaykumar's picture
on October 12, 2008 - 5:00am

I am so sad. IAs I sit here and read posts I feel the pain of many of you. The hurt, the depression and suicidal thoughts.. That was me not so long ago. I was repeatedly told by my father that I was a mistake and for years had the nickname OOPS. As a kid that really sucks. I was born with an eye condition that so far cannot be fixed with surgery so I lived my childhood being called four eyes and the poster child for coca cola. When I was 12 my dad had his first stroke and on many occasions I was left to care for him. The stroke left him meaner then ever, often times taking it out on me. Both my brother and sister were out of the house by that time, they are both quite a bit older then me. My sister is 9 years older and brother 7 years. This kind of abuse doesn't show the scars and it is hard to detect if you are not an open person. Many times a person in this situation is an introvert. And that is who I am. In 2001, just after 9/11, I couldn't take anymore and called the dr. Since then I have been able to get the help I needed to get through the depression and the scars that life put on me. At that time I found a song that made me cry a lot, but put things in perspective for me.
"Underneath The Door" ~Michael Card

My father was a doctor who would come home late at night.
With a soul so bruised and bleeding from his unending, faithful fight.
To keep a hold of kindness in a world that isn't kind.
To hold out the hope of healing to his hurting humankind.

Then he'd flee back to his study, to his bookish, quiet place. With notes and books and journals to wall in his special space. And then he'd lock the door from things that cannot be locked out and his youngest son would starve for what he would always do without.

But it was meant to make me who I am and for all these many years.
Still a little boy down on his knees, full of hope and full of fear.
Calling underneath the door 'this is me, it's who I am".
For we love the best by listening when we try to understand.
Desperate, stubby fingers pushing pictures 'neath the door and longing to be listend to by the man that I adored. Inside, someone who needed me just as much as I did him. Still unable to unlock the door that stayed closed inside of him.
And it's strange the way we tend to flee from what we need the most. That a father would lock out his son, when his heart would hold him close.
But our wounds are part of who we are and there is nothing left to chance. And pain's the pen that writes the songs. And they call us forth.... To dance

My father had an office in our house as a child and that is exactly what he did. If you get a chance to look it up and listen to it, it is a beautiful song.
Hang in there everyone. I know this is a long one.
keep your chin up and remember who YOU ARE!!

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