My Dad

My dad has a lot of narcissistic qualities.  But he's not a narcissist.  He can be quite the asshole.  But he can also be really, really tender hearted.  He's the poster child for the damaged human being, who has wrapped himself in barbed wire.  He's depressed, chronically.  He's grouchy, anal retentive, and can be mean.  However, he encouraged me as a child.  Demanded (sometimes harshly, but not always) that I stand on my own two feet.  He expected me to succeed.  He forced me to be a better person.

When I was little, my family was always divided: me and my dad, and my mom and my sister.  It wasn't a natural division.  It was like when you pair up for the science project and the two BFF grasp hands and laugh, and the rejects are left over and have to pair up.  My mother and sister were joined at the hip from the beginning.  It filtered down to the most ridiculous things.  My sister, always, always had to sit by my mother. That included at any restaurant we were at, behind my mother's seat in the car, and next to her on the couch when we watched TV.  It was always this way.  It never ever changed.   I occasionally asked to sit by my mom.  It never ended well.  My sister would through the HUGEST FIT and she would end up with my mother.  I didn't always mind.  But I did a lot.  I always felt cast off.  I always felt like the left overs.  I never understood why it wasn't more equal.

Not that I didn't spend time with my mom, but it was always with my sister.  My mother and I never spent time alone.  Ever.  In fact, it often was my sister, my mom, and me.  We were always her companions, like those little dogs you see crazy women carrying around everywhere these days. I can only recall one or two "mother-daugher" moments.  She didn't discuss my friends with me, or have heart-to-hearts about boys.  She didn't ask about school or my theater or what I was reading or watching on TV.   The only moment I remember with her was when I told her my body was "changing".  She laughed and said she didn't believe me and demanded to "see".  Apparantly, I didn't impress her much by her reaction.  The other moment revolved around my period.  When it came to puberty and periods, my mother solved the problem by buying me a book.  She tossed it to me and told me to read it.  She didn't answer any questions, she didn't talk to me about it.  Nothing.  When I got my period, she immediately informed my dad.  I was mortified.  Anyway, the moment came when I was struggling to understand how exactly a tampon was to be used before a friend's big pool party.  She again handed me a diagram and left me to my devices.  Hmmm.  (I apologize for the personal nature of this paragraph).  When I couldn't figure it out, she offered to do it for me.  I sat on the side of the pool at the party.

Anyway, much of my time I was with my dad.  Actually, much of my time I spent alone or with my sister.   But my "assigned" parent was my dad.  So, I wandered out to the garage at times.  I learned to fish.  I tried to be interested in him.  I was never daddy's little girl.  Ever.  Once I made the mistake of calling him "daddy"  (I'd heard my friends call their dads that).  He raged against me for calling him such a childish nick name and demanded that I never call him that again.

We were not close, but I was closer to him than anyone else.  He did teach me things.  He wanted me to be self sufficient.  He didn't want me to depend on anyone and made sure I could handle my own.   I thought he was hard on me.   He sometimes helped me with homework (my mother never did).  He sometimes asked how I was doing.  In fact, through the horribleness of my parents' divorce, he was the only one who asked how I as doing.

As I wrote in my last post, he was an abusive disciplinarian.  He would strike me with a  belt and leave welts.   This punishment was handed out for many minor offenses.  I feared him.  He was explosive. More so towards my sister than me, but that almost was worse.   He was angry.  He never smiled.  He was grouchy.  He was sad.  He was bitter.  He was mean.  He liked to tease.  He told me to toughen up.  He told me to quit crying.  He told me to be stronger.

My dad had a good childhood, from what I'm told and can see.  I loved my grandparents.  My grandmother, while opinionated and stubborn, always seemed loving.  And in fact, I often found her to be one of the most loving people in my life.  She and I had a lot in common and she taught me a lot.  My grandfather was one of the sweetest people I knew, from what I remember.  But there was an incident in my dad's childhood that scarred him forever.  This is not an incident that I wish to share on this blog, as it is not mine to share, but it damaged him beyond belief.  Grandma says dad was always a very sad, unhappy boy.  That he was always a stubborn and sad person.  But I know that this incident changed him forever (and for the record, I don't believe that my grandmother knew about this incident.  Of course, we've never talked about the specifics.  My dad just told me that it happened, as way of explaining why he was such an ass.  This was during my parents' divorce and I really didn't need to handle this bomb shell too).  I believe, he felt my grandmother should have protected him and he harbors resentment to this day, but I could be wrong.  I believe it was this incident that pushed him into a life-long depression that he has never, and most likely will never, come out of.  A self-hating, angry, irritable depression that has made him difficult to love and be around.

But I do love my dad.  I also live in fear of upsetting him.  I never, ever feel comfortable speaking my mind to him.  I'm guarded around him.  I've only recently stood up to him, and my stomach almost loses it's contents every time I do.  It's almost exhilarating  in the risk when I say something to him, but more often, paralyzing.   He is the only person in my family who understands me in the least bit, not that he really gets me at all.  I know that he was not present through a lot of my childhood and just let my mother run the show.  I know that he needed to step up, help me, and reach out.  But he was too busy swimming in his own shit to save me.