He wanted a little princess to slavishly worship him. And when he didn’t get what he wanted, he did what that kind of asshole does—humiliated or hit me. Sometimes both, but he liked to mix it up. But I learned, slowly, for the most part. It’s not easy changing your entire personality. It’s sort of ingrained. You end up always scrambling, always worried about what you forgot.

I went from a reasonably happy kid to an anxious, angry, twitchy little bastard, never sure about what would set Gabe off. The thing that was funny yesterday, the burp, the fart joke—if you’ve never met a kid, they generally adhere to the repeat-until-it’s-funny-again school of comedy—any joke was as likely to get a laugh or a “stop beating a dead horse” or a slap in the face. (For the record, and this is coming from someone familiar with a variety of belts and paddles, makeshift or otherwise, slapping is worse. A slap’s a surprise even when you see it coming. But more than that, it’s humiliating.)

   I’d rush in when he was yelling at my mom, armed with a Nerf bat, and tell him to leave her alone. He’d slap me, and I’d wish he would’ve punched me. One minute I’d be enjoying the weird sound mac and cheese makes in your mouth, because I was seven; the next, I’d get rapped on the head with his marble knuckles. Makes your eyes water. Makes you taste pennies. I’d jump off the top bunk, wearing a towel for a cape, like I always had, and end up bent over his waterbed for swats. Staying out of trouble was like trying to win at fucking Calvinball. New rules were enforced before they were even introduced.

In fairness, Gabe was twenty-three when he met and married my mom. Suddenly he had two kids and had to give up things like dirt bikes and coke. But he didn’t have to be an asshole about it.

* * *

—

I was a nervous wreck long before we rejoined the Family. The Family meant another list of ever-changing rules I had to keep track of or suffer the consequences. The Family meant it was even more important my stepdad cared what happened to me. And I still wanted him to like me.

Gabe was as charming and funny as any successful asshole, and he loved an audience. I used to watch the way he’d hold the attention of a room. Everyone laughing tears listening to one of his stories. But his stories required an idiot. Someone who never looked where they were going. Someone to trip. Someone to fall into the sewer. You didn’t want a starring role in one of Gabe’s stories.

   He dangled love and affection like a prize to be won. Worked great for him because the onus was always on us. When a record-breaking day selling Family music tapes door-to-door turned to shit because I left his boom box on the train, I knew it was my fault that he changed the plan from celebratory ramen to watching him eat McDonald’s. When a fun day selling posters at a Japanese castle ended with his slapping me around in a parking garage, I had it coming. I’d tried to sell a poster to a cop. Granted the cop was dressed like everyone else, but the Family’d handed Gabe a new reason for my fuckups: I wasn’t listening to the Spirit, who’s supposed to tell you when you ask if that guy’s a cop. (It doesn’t work. I tried.)

But if I was good, if I was perfect, Gabe could be so damn cool. Running into our Osaka apartment one time and rescuing me from a prayer meeting because he’d met an Akita in the park he wanted to show me, hiking mountains with us in Switzerland and buying us hot chocolate at the top. Sometimes on our Sundays off, if we made enough money selling the posters he’d steal from the home stash, we’d go to a swimming pool or sledding up in the mountains. Unless he critiqued the way I rode a sled, and I rolled my eyes. Then the asshole would drive us back early. And we all knew whose fault it was.

Back at the home, the commune, whichever home that was at the time, I’d have to worry about following their rules, which weren’t all that different from Gabe’s, and earning God’s love, which was just as erratic. Yeah, I know the verse, “God is love,” but he feeds children to bears for mocking bald men, drowns people and animals, and turns women to salt for missing home. At least around Gabe, you could usually laugh at something funny, but the Family called it foolishness, so I learned not to laugh. Except then Gabe thought I was being rebellious if I didn’t laugh at his jokes. The Family didn’t allow unclean meats, but Gabe thought turning down pork was my being ungrateful. They all agreed I wasn’t feminine enough, but Gabe thought I should help the boys masturbate…Actually they agreed on that. But I did what I needed to do because I’d learned not to make an enemy. Sometimes that meant not showering. Sometimes it meant befriending the boys the way you’re supposed to talk to a potential murderer, make them see you as human.

   I learned to watch adults for any hint of a mood change. I learned to keep stray words away from their hot plate tempers. I learned to anticipate their whims. I learned not to cry because crying was manipulation, crying was the demon defending itself, and demons only respond to violence. I learned to befriend those who despised me because you can’t afford to have nemeses. Most of all, because I couldn’t change who I was, I learned to subdue myself, to shut off, to hide somewhere in the dark of my mind so I didn’t anger the people who could hurt me, so it didn’t hurt so much when they did.

I didn’t accept abuse. I expected it, welcomed it. It’s the lesson not only of asshole stepdads or cults, but of evangelical Christianity. You’re nothing without “a relationship with Jesus.” You’ll take anything, from a healed flu virus to a pretty flower, as evidence your love is reciprocated. Shit luck is the devil testing you, or punishment for sin, because a loving God hits you sometimes. He hurts you because he loves you, to teach you, to make you better. (Or he had a bet with the devil. See: the entire book of Job.) You reject doubt the same way you reject your friends telling you your girlfriend’s a fucking asshole. When she tells you your friends are jealous of your relationship, it rings true, because you were taught doubts are evidence the devil is fighting for your soul. When your stepdad tells you that he only hits you because he loves you and wants you to be better, well, that tracks. (See: the entire Bible.) The pain you suffer is accepted as proof of your faith, your love. You’re supposed to welcome it.