I answer a question published in Workplace Mental and Health Resources, X (formerly Twitter). Who has been your worst bully – First part

 

My father was my worst bully, but he was not the only one

For years, I have been following an X (formerly Twitter) account on violence at workplaces. Its name used to be “Stop Workplace Bullies”, which was changed to “Workplace Mental Health Resources”. I consider that a very good resource, for this kind of violence is a very serious problem, and —talking about myself—, I have been target of such. I avoid the use of the word ‘victim’ because I would not want to be perceived as manipulative, which I am not.

Today I answered a question written on this X account:

Who has been your worst bully?

My response was:

My father. 14 August 1937 - 14 December 2007. I saw him for the last time two years and four months before he died. I did not attend his funeral. I threw his ashes... I'll skip that. I have not been able to stop hating him, malignant narcissist. Psychopath

I believe this is a very serious subject, because for centuries (maybe for thousands of years), people have been taught that they must love their parents. In fact, it has been mandatory, both by religious and secular traditions.

This is preposterous

Love and gratitude are felt naturally. We human beings do not have a switch in our anatomies that can be turned on or off. Were this the case, we could turn off the Suffering Switch, and/or turn on the Happiness Switch.

Loving someone who has hurt us badly equals to become severely masochistic.

When I was born (with a twin sister), my father was 26 years and nine months old. His mother had died 14 years before. He blamed his father for that, accused him of having been a brutal husband, very violent with her and their six children, all males. My father was forth in birth order.

Four and eight years after my twin sister and me came to this world, two more sisters were born. I was the only male of four children, just like my paternal grandfather. Maybe that increased the hatred my father felt against me, for he blamed me for everything that was wrong in his life, even if I couldn’t have possibly hurt him because such violence was perpetrated years (even decades) before I was born. Being still a child, he made me responsible for everything that was wrong in the world, for the entire history of humanity.

A malignant narcissist (a psychopath) my father was. He was not psychotic (mad), he knew that considering me the worst criminal who ever lived didn’t make sense at all. He couldn’t have cared less.

He was the kind of man who stabs someone and then asks why they bleed. Psychological torture; gaslighting?

Being a (fraternal) twin, my health was fragile. I was born unable to see much with a left eye. Thirty-five percent peripheral vision, unable to focus. Besides that, I was neurodivergent and suffered from Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), never diagnosed and therefore, never attended.

I learnt to read and write in a very short time, but everything that involved numbers (beginning with basic arithmetic) seemed extremely difficult. I needed a special education, a tutor who three days a week taught me in my home or somewhere else. My mother didn’t take care of me, my father considered me the worst criminal who ever existed. He considered himself a martyr.

Being neurodivergent, I fell very often, I tripped with my own feet. I never washed my teeth, which were not visible because a layer of tartar covered it. I couldn’t tie my shoelaces the way most people do, so I taught myself to do that, and eventually, I learnt to do a lot of things teaching myself.

When I was nine or 10 years old, I wanted to play with my sisters, but they refused to do that because they wouldn’t want to play with “men”. There weren’t boys, males, around (in the neighborhood where I lived), so I took a piece of rope and began to jump. I liked that. It became a frequent activity and that helped me to overcome movement and coordination problems.

Being 16, I watched Olympic Games on TV. I decided that in four or eight years, I would become an Olympic champion, and began to run every morning, Monday to Sunday. About five miles in 40 minutes. Six or eight years later, in my early 20s, I realized that I wouldn’t ever become a high performance sportsman, for they are gifted and I wasn’t such, but an ordinary man. I didn’t care much, anymore.

After 10 years being a runner, at 26, I was forced to quit because I injured my Achilles tendons (I had run on hard surfaces), and I switched to bicycling. Having failed miserably as a student (electronics engineering), I began to teach myself mathematics, physics and other engineering subjects. I succeeded in overcoming my very bad academic deficiencies, but I couldn’t complete an undergraduate degree. Anyway, I do not consider myself a failure.

I am not condescending with myself. I believe failure doesn’t exist, or I must say that he who has tried, cannot fail, if he has made their best effort. He who avoids doing that, —doesn’t even try— is a failure.

I also taught myself a foreign language, English. My mother tongue is Spanish, which I had learnt well because I had spent many years reading books bought by my parents when I began primary education.

I thought that reading (unabridged) books and all kind of written material in English would be useful. I believe I have done that well, although I must study the grammar of this foreign language, which is not easy, as many people believe.