I hated my dad. Loathed him. Anyone who knew me well knew this. And I grew up with 100% certainty that he hated me,too. During my early teen years I would cry to my mother that I knew I was an awful person because I didn't just hate him...I wished he would die. What kind of horrible child wishes that? Clearly, his hatred was warranted-even well deserved. Clearly, I was somehow defective and undeserving of love. At least love from a father because my mother and grandmother loved me and I knew it. I felt it. But my biological father, whom I never met-wanted nothing to do with me. The only dad I knew didn't want or love me either. So, it had to be me.
This could be incredibly long and drawn out, filled with many details and memories of fights, hurtful words and hateful thoughts. But there's no need. Suffice it to say that I was NOT my father's daughter, I knew I wasn't and I was thankful. Because I hated him.
Through the years I found ways to "cope" with the lack of fatherly love, affection, approval, interest, etc. Things that have actually become almost comical now. For instance my favorite sports teams across the board have always been the ones my father hated. And anything he loved I vowed to loathe for all eternity. Golf? I would rather poke my eyes out. The Redskins? Gag. The Reds? Hell no. My favorite was probably our Celtics/Lakers battle. He ADORED the Celtics. So it stands to reason I was REQUIRED to hate them and adore the Lakers- who he hated more than anything. To this day many of my choices stand.
Other ways of coping were much less healthy. Again, no real need to go into great detail because it just doesn't matter anymore nor is it necessary for the point of this blog post. What actually is the point? I'm glad you asked......
The relationship (or lack thereof) with my dad came to a head the year my baby sister got married. We were having some get together at my parents' house and for whatever reason my dad and I started exchanging words. It continued to his sitting on the couch, smirking and seeming to enjoy my pain as usual. Suddenly, I was standing in front of him in real physical pain letting 30 plus years of never being "enough" and of feeling "less than" just pour out through heated tears. I can't even remember most of what I said. But it was raw and it was real and it was necessary. When I was done, as I walked away I saw tears well up in his eyes and he had no expression on his face. It was the first time I saw my dad as a person with emotions. It was the first time I can ever recall seeing his eyes well with tears. Had I possibly gotten to him?
That day ended with my telling him that he was dead to me. He was not to include me in ANY conversation when asked about his family because he was not now, had never been and would NEVER be my father and I was certainly (thank God) NOT his daughter.
We didn't speak or acknowledge each other for at least 2 or 3 years after that. And it was fine with me. I was content with that. I thought.
In December of 2004 my family and I drove to Ohio for Christmas with my parents, siblings and children. It was crazy and chaotic as all my family functions are and I loved it. And my dad was actually pleasant. Which was definitely new. He's never been super social and typically ends up grouchy and not really participating in family things for long. This was different. He socialized a bit with all of us, interacted some with all the kids and seemed overall in a good mood. When it was time for us to head back to Maryland something pushed me to be "the bigger person" and go speak to him. So, I walked into his room in the basement and told him we were going. I thanked him for the gifts for my family and everything and said we would see him when we made it home next time. He replied accordingly to each, stood when I came in and we hugged goodbye. I'm not sure why but I heard myself saying "love you,dad". And this voice said "I love you,too Jean. Be careful going home".
This man.....this person who I had blamed for nearly every single pain of my existence....this person who had NEVER EVER - not once EVER in my life uttered those words or anything resembling them to me.....just said he loved me. WHAT?!!
From that point on our relationship was different. No, I wasn't suddenly "daddy's little girl". But we spoke. The underlying anger and hatred didn't permeate our every meeting. The hard feelings didn't weigh down my shoulders when I walked in the door. Now it was two adults who were able to be human to each other. It was a nice change. I still didn't "feel" affection or real daughterly love toward him but I didn't hate him either.
In June of 2017 my mom called. That call literally changed everything. My dad was not well. He had been hearing voices, become depressed and was having thoughts of harming himself and my mom. I was scared and sobbing and feeling all the feelings all at once. Somehow I managed to drive the 8 hours to their home without really knowing I was driving at all. (Scary) The short version is we got my dad to the ER, fully evaluated and then admitted to a care facility for two weeks for treatment. For the next two plus years we watched him improve and come out of the fog of the severe depression and mental break he had gone through. It was scary. It was hard. And man was it inconvenient.
Something I said then has resonated with me lately........I told my mom and sisters that it was pretty inconvenient to suddenly be slapped in the face with the reality that not only do I not hate my father but it's likely I never TRULY hated him to begin with. It was just a little bit of an interference in my life to suddenly have these feelings overwhelm me and realize that I actually love the jerk.
Our relationship changed again after that and we became closer. We had conversations. He listened to things I talked about. And he asked my advice about his diabetes. (He was diagnosed and I have had it for years.) One day, we sat at the dining room table...just my dad and I. And we spent about two hours looking through photo albums of his childhood, his family, etc. It was the first time I had ever heard him really talk about his childhood and what life was like then. And it was the first time I think I truly SAW him.
You see, years before I had realized that my dad did the best he could do with the tools he was given. And he wasn't given much. Don't get me wrong, my grandparents were not hateful people. They weren't physically abusive. They just weren't loving and affectionate "huggy feely" parents. They were affectionate toward each other in the photos. There are letters written by my grandmother that reflect her love and personality. When it came to my dad and his brother though.....love was shown to your children by providing for them. If you spent money on things for them (even if it was just socks and underwear) that was showing love. The hugs, the words, the human touch....weren't necessary. In all honesty my father wasn't given ANY tools and should never have been a parent. BUT-having said that......my father did his best. He provided. For ALL of us. We had a roof. We had food. We had what we needed to live and grow. The love (at least outwardly) wasn't there but in his way, the only way he knew- he was showing us he loved us.
So-here we are. My dad is currently in a nursing home. Thanks to my own winter illnesses and COVID I haven't seen him since late January. He hasn't been home since he left Christmas Eve for the ER after suffering a massive stroke. Once again-I found myself "inconvenienced" by all the feelings. I was scared. Would he recover? Did he lose memories? Does he know....anything/anyone? Will he still be DAD?! And I prayed. Hard.
Prayer is a funny thing. My prayers consist of a conversation with God. I talk to Him often,about much (everything) in a casual way. It's not formal. I don't kneel at my bedside, close my eyes and fold my hands. I don't think God minds. I just talk to Him. Wherever I am. Whenever I need to. For years I prayed for the relationship with my father. My mom would tell me that all we can do is pray that God soften his heart because He is the only one who can. So I asked. Repeatedly. Ironic that through all those years praying for God to soften the heart of the man I "hated" He was actually softening mine.
