Read Online Angry Conversations with God by Susan E. Isaacs - Free Book Online

father, third row center,
     refusing to stand, seething with contempt.
    Dad should have learned his lesson with Rob. Dad crowbarred him into med school, and Rob hated it. He stopped speaking to
     Dad. It devastated my father—he adored Rob. But Dad’s love was the jealous, parasitic kind that demanded, “Do what I do; think
     what I think; love what I love. Get your own life and I’ll destroy you.”
    My childhood nightmare about the cesspool became visible in my waking life. Dad came home every night, turned on the TV, and
     cursed under his breath until way past midnight. The drone of the TV and curses oozed down the hall and through my bedroom
     door like sewage. I couldn’t sleep. I hated the noise. I hated my father.
    I didn’t consciously ascribe that same malice to God, but my idea of God the Father grew more murky and distant. And now I
     really had something to feel guilty about: loving John more than Jesus. The Nice Jesus hung on the wall of my mind, morose
     and pleading. Was he pleading to God not to destroy me? Or was he pleading to me to come back?
    I spent as much time away from home as possible. Sometimes I went to Julianne’s; sometimes we snuck over to Doug’s house.
     Doug’s mom let us stay up as late as we wanted. Some of the guys drank and smoked. I just hung out, listened to the Beatles,
     and then went home. Late.
    My parents knew. I knew they knew. For months they ignored it like they ignored everything else. Then one night they decided
     to notice. I was sneaking in the back door after midnight and there they were: Mom with a wad of used Kleenex, Dad with his
     contemptuous scowl.
    “Where have you been?!” Mother cried.
    “I was at Doug’s watching
Roots.
You can call his mom right now!” It was true. Doug’s mom was there; she was just too drunk to pick up the phone.
    “We never should have let you skip half-day kindergarten,” Dad rasped. “You’re immature; you’re irresponsible; you will never
     amount to anything.”
    “Really? Mrs. Van Holt says I can do whatever I put my mind to.”
    “Your drama teacher is a hippie pothead.”
    “A
what
?!” I scoffed. “How would you know? You never come to my plays.”
    “Susie,” Mom intervened, “why don’t you invite your friends to come here?”
    “Isn’t it obvious?!” I stomped off to my room. For the first time in my life my parents enacted some discipline. They grounded
     me for an entire month. Three days later they dropped it. They didn’t say, “You’re no longer grounded.” They just went back
     to ignoring me.
    I hated my father for saying I wouldn’t amount to anything. But I also feared it was true. I had no idea what I was going
     to do after graduation. Doug’s and Julianne’s parents took them to visit college counselors. But their parents lived in houses
     on the golf course; their parents went to our plays. I was graduating at the top of my class and the only thing Dad had to
     say was, “No child of mine is going to Berkeley.” Once again, I was on my own. I started to feel something I would come to
     know very well: a paralyzing dread that left me unable to speak or move, like I was headed over Niagara Falls and I could
     do nothing to stop it.

    I had felt that dread before, only with guys. Once at a school dance a boy grabbed and kissed me. I was too afraid to stop
     him or say anything. After that I avoided guys altogether. Well, except Doug. Doug was funny and Baptist and gay. Gay guys
     and geeks didn’t scare me. I could blow them off and we’d still be friends. But guys with cojones? No way. They were too much
     like men. They wanted to suck your soul out of you. Yes, John Lennon had cojones, but I only hung out with him in my dreams.
    Then a new kid showed up in Production Drama: braces, frizzy hair, know-it-all—a total geek. If he’d given me any inkling
     of bad-boy energy I would have steered clear of him. But he was a geek so he was safe. He was also the funniest, smartest
     guy