When I was about eight, there was this one day that my father went into an uncontrollable rage, and started beating the fuck out of me. I escaped into my room and locked the door. My father kicked the door a couple of times and then there was a moment of quiet. After a few minutes, I heard my father's voice, very calm and soft, saying "Hey i-like-gap, I'm not angry anymore, you can open the door now. I want to say sorry." I was of course overjoyed and I opened the door. Well, my father barged in, he was holding one of those foldable stools with metal legs, and he just started smashing down on me. He was 6 feet and work in construction, I was an eight years old kid.

What really got me was not the beating, but how sincere and truly remorseful he sounded through that door when he told me he was sorry. My mom has always excused his rage as an inability to control his emotions. I always remind myself of this instance because it showed that he can control his emotions, he just chooses not to.