Releasing the past in order to find myself

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

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.

7 comments:

  1. Wow. You are one awesome daughter.

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    1. Well, I try to be. I would guess my parents would feel differently.

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  2. My father wouldn't tell me anything about his life. I only got snippets. He didn't want to share his life with his kid (and presumably step-kids but I have no idea). I know that he witnessed his father beat his mother on at least one occasion and he was abused in more ways than one. That's it, that's as far as it got with my dad, he didn't go into anything about how it was living in the home he did, how he felt, nothing. I know my father is severely broken, and he never got help for it. He said that since I was abused and since I had both a step father and actual father, I came out on top. Oh and also, I owe him for my existence.

    Abuse manifests itself in many ways, but my father only saw physical abuse. Here's the thing: I think he did the best he could at the time, however he didn't bother to look for better, nor did he accept responsibility of his shortcomings that shunted my emotional growth. I told him what he needed to do, but he decided not to do it because “he knew better”. An adult child telling his parent what he needs from the parent to feel loved and the parent brushes it off. Yeah, Dad, you know better than me.

    I remember several times when I was at my father’s place of business when I was small, waiting for him to be finished with work. He would try to show me what he was doing, and sometimes I was genuinely interested but it never felt like he wanted me there or wanted me to really know what he was doing – just that he should be talking to his son while he works. I didn’t learn much about his profession, I just drank some soda, and walked around watching the other employees, sometimes we spoke, sometimes we didn’t. I was LSV Jr. to them (I have my father’s name, but not his middle name, so not technically a Jr.) and maybe my father didn’t like that, I don’t know. I could feel that there was nothing for me there, with my dad I mean. Years later he would try to convince me that his home (new one with his wife and her kids) was also my home too and I should think of it that way. I didn’t, I never did. He knew that, on some level, but I’m pretty sure he either didn’t think about it or didn’t care. Or both. He had emotionally adopted his wife’s kids as his own and I was an obligation to him. I felt it.

    The sad part is that I’ve always wanted to be close with my Dad, and made that known especially in the last couple years. My father expressed (feigned) regret at not being a better father to me but did nothing about it. He spoke the words and in doing so, would make everything better. Never acted on it. Maybe he thought that if he spoke the words, he would be absolved from his prior behaviors, and he expected me to then put in the effort. We cried about that. Then – nothing. No changes. Some regret he had, huh?

    He lost a son. He pushed me away, but incidentally, he thinks I’m bad one, the wrong one, the unruly and disrespectful bastard. What a load.

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    1. "I told him what he needed to do, but he decided not to do it because “he knew better”. An adult child telling his parent what he needs from the parent to feel loved and the parent brushes it off."
      Yup, been there.
      My dad never went through the emotions of what he thought a dad should do. He is to arrogant in that respect to think he had to do what anyone else thought was appropriate.
      My dad never put up false pretense that his new home with his new wife should be like my home. Hell, I doubt that HE even felt like it was his home, as his wife always made him feel like an outsider or a renter. It was HER home with HER kids and he lived there too.
      My NM used to play the "I want you to feel like this is your home" crap with her new husband. She was delusional. She always used to press me to tell her how good it felt for me to be home. To make her feel good for providing me a "home" when I took breaks from college. It's never felt like a home either.
      I spent many, many years as a vagabond, floating around in temporary places. It was a HUGE deal to me to get my first apartment with my husband and finally have a clean, safe place to come home to.

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  3. "he was too busy swimming in his own shit to save me." This says so much. I am sorry this happened. Generation to generation pain is passed. Good description of why my father didn't help me.

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  4. You know guys what you're saying is really interesting because my father is very similar to what you all describe -in terms of emotional unavailability, not sharing anything about his past or his current everyday life- however he has no history of abuse of any kind, has always done what he wanted, and has always had everything his way. He has never been depressed and never feels bad about himself in any way. (He's one of those who thinks that depression is something you cause yourself by the way you think :P ) So I am now wondering whether there is more to the way they are than what they went through in their past. I need to ponder on this one.

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