Noology by Alanna Markey

either respect myself enough to walk away or believe the awful things
being said about me. Any little thing can set him off, even in the midst of a
pleasant conversation. It’s a mistake to try and discuss anything at length
when he is in an inebriated state, even though a lot of times that is the only
opportunity you have to talk about critical issues. There will be nights when
my mom attempts to ask him about work, and suddenly a mumbled sentence will
launch a tirade of expletives about how she can’t communicate properly. It
makes me sick, and yet I am powerless to stop the barrage of insults.
    “And the nights when he doesn’t abuse us
with his sharp tongue and animalistic temper, he stumbles through the house
like a drunkard, leaving chaos and destruction in his wake. Many of my mother’s
priceless heirlooms and our finest dishes have been shattered because of his
clumsiness in this intoxicated state.
    “He threatens to leave us on a daily
basis, but these hollow words are entirely empty and devoid of any real
meaning. If I am being brutally honest, sometimes I wish he would leave. At
least then we would have peace and quiet, and I wouldn’t have to worry about
what the future holds for my poor mother.
    “The worst part is he never apologizes,
because when the high wears off he no longer remembers the hurtful slurs he
hurled at us. Each morning, we awake in uncertainty, unsure whether he will
begrudge us the supposed transgressions of the previous night. He never does.
It’s like a slate is wiped clean, and we begin yet another day in this vicious
cycle of normality and violence.  
    “I know you have wondered why we never
visited my house as children. Well, in truth I can’t risk having anyone over
because I never know which personality will be home: the genial lug, or the
malicious ogre. Instead, I live a concealed existence where no one can know the
secrets that lie behind closed doors.
    “I worry about word getting out. He has a
respectable job at the hospital, and somehow he still manages to do an
excellent job despite this crippling handicap. I don’t know what would happen
to him or to us if anyone found out about the compulsions that haunt him.”
    Tate takes a deep, shuttering breath and
I extend my right hand towards his quivering fingers. He grasps it firmly,
giving it a squeeze. My left hand is hovering over my mouth as I fight to
suppress my expression of shock and horror. I had no idea Tate was so tortured
by the actions of his father, and I feel impotent as I try to find a way to
comfort my distressed companion.
    “It’s part of the reason I crack so many
jokes and work so hard to be funny all the time. I put on this mask of
joviality in a desperate attempt to conceal the private anguish that I
experience when I am around my parents. It’s as if I can convince myself that I
am a carefree and happy person by behaving like one. I just want to postitvely
impact other peoples’ lives even if all I can do is offer a witty quip or a sly
grin. I know the power a smile or grimace can hold, so why not be positive?”
    How can he be thinking so selflessly in
such a sorrowful environment? I ponder. If this is the case, do I even know the
real Tate? Beneath the façade?
    “The worst part is I know how depressed
he is and he is driving himself into an early grave, but there is nothing I can
do to stop him.” Here Tate’s voice cracks, and I feel him begin to waver for
the first time. After a moment’s hesitation, he continues but with less resolve
than before. “I feel like I should be able to do something, be something, that
will motivate him to change. I just can’t figure out who. I don’t want to see
him sullen and unhappy, turning to vicodin as a temporary escape. The hardest
thing is realizing that there is nothing I can do to help him; he has to want to
change and get the necessary help to improve his own situation. Thus, my
response has been to separate myself and shut him out. Anything