Devoid of an essential ingredient

He's yelling at me with the simplest tears running down his face. Mouth agape - terribly. The passion of his voice could possibly shake the room. And yet I can not hear one sound.  I'm looking into his face, see his mouth moving, gather from his brightened red skin that he is over the edge with emotion. And yet I still can not relate. He's angry, bitter, sad and yet - hopeful? Somewhere in the dry space of time between his cries of despair and the stillness of my silence, I sense that he hasn't given up. If that were the case, he could simply walk away. That isn't the case. So, I begin to form the words to the phrase, "I'm sorry," but...

I wake up.

It wasn't until this morning that this dream's reflection in my mind's eye depicted me as a father being chastised by a son who's emotional stability was never satiated by the ripened fruit of a well-rounded, emotionally balanced paternal figure. Not too far fetched a reality. I, indeed, still cower at the thought of genuine hugs from others or kissing - the most immature of emotional expressions. My father never gave this to me, therefore, the receipt of such expression makes me infinitely uncomfortable - or at least it did. I've realized (held on to hope) that my socialization is always reversible, my synapses can always make new, more creative connections that allow me to grow, change, evolve.

Then it hit me: I was never the father in my dream.

I had been the son all along. Not as some excuse to lay back with some satisfaction because I was indeed the victim instead of the culprit now. But what was crucial to my understanding of the dream was that I realized my potential to stand on both sides of that emotional divide. I was the son looking at myself become a dispassionate father to myself. For so long, I've blamed my father's emotional absence for my current treatment of others. I have given him 100% of the responsibility in feeling that he could have stepped outside of himself and become vulnerable for me, his son, his pride. And yet, I type with tears in my eyes. I can't change him. The little boy whose hope I could sense in my dream was telling me that all along, as his soul bellowed out the softest songs of hope caught in the innocence of that glare. I was never hopeful for changing my father - but, it's not too late for me.

One of my fears has been my ability to destroy those things that I build up. Specifically, relationships. Because of my periodic emotional vacancy, I have sought fulfillment in temporary solutions like sex, drinking, riotous activity. But what happens in the long run? When I have to sustain emotional stability for the good of my own flesh, my offspring. I refuse to be a father like mine in this regard. I need that essential ingredient that will prove the masses wrong - "the sins of the father befall the son." I'm ready to break this curse. And I am not exactly worried about where to start or how to start it. I just know that I can't stare at myself in dreams any longer, playing both roles.

Victim and Culprit. I choose neither.