Reckoning With The Two Sides of My Father

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Abstract

h the memories of times he blamed me for the faults of others. I remember the many times I’ve been blamed for him not seeing his children enough during my parent’s eight (plus) year-long custody battle. If my mom stepped out of line, it was somehow linked to my inaction. I remember the times he made their custody battle worse.</p><p id="0abb">And I can remember how he apologized for a particularly toxic Christmas he caused. I was happy for him, proud of his self-reflection and willingness to apologize, a rarity for him. But now, I resent the acceptance I gave him, the pity I felt. I regret later defending him to my siblings.</p><p id="1122">I love my dad’s fire and passion. He is brilliant and intelligent, especially when it comes to education. A large portion of my drive and love for school is attributed to him. But I walked on eggshells over the same fire and passion that turned towards my mother, my brother, and me. The brilliance that resulted in well-enough argued points or the intelligence that could pinpoint your insecurities and attack them with precision. I remember a time at the kitchen table where I tried to explain my pain but he just battled me with “facts” in an effort to diminish my words and I was too scared to fight back. So I froze and left the room when I could muster the strength to cry in the comfort of my room.</p><p id="7bc5">I discovered my favorite band from my dad’s archive of CDs. Music I love deeply is tied to our relationship. But I can’t listen to one of my once favorite songs because he tainted it. I remember excitedly sharing a new single with him when we weren’t seeing each other. He thought it was an attack, I silently hyperventilated in the car trying to explain my innocence as angry texts flooded my phone. I was 15 and only trying to breach the 600-mile distance. Trying to make <i>him</i> feel less lonely.</p><p id="97c9">My dad has always been good at selectively listening and offering advice. If his sense of self wasn’t threatened, he would listen adamantly and offer good-enough advice. But I also remember the time he manipulated me into journaling something about my mom and then took it to use in court. I remember the moments he used my confidence against me or harmed other people with my misconstrued words. The sense of betrayal I shoved down because I didn’t want to see his actions for what they were. Because I was used to it. Because I was a child and what child wants to feel betrayed by their parent?</p><p id="ccc3">All these contradictions occupy my brain and consume my heart. I think of these beautiful pictures of me and him when I was a baby, his goofy smile. I couldn't watch <i>Love Actually </i>this year like I always do

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because it was a movie we watched together. But I also can’t even think about reaching out to him without a paralyzing black cloud engulfing me.</p><p id="9c8c">I <i>know </i>my father loves his children. But I don’t like what his love feels like. I don’t like the scars I live with and need to cope with. I wish I could just piece together all those beautiful parts of his soul, I wish his faults weren’t so destructive. But I don’t have any more stones to rebuild my walls. I wish I didn’t wake up crying because his hurtful actions plagued my dreams. I wish…a lot.</p><p id="bc3e">I am not the person to mend this rift because sometimes the best course of action is no action. His toxicity has crippled me and fixing him would destroy me. He has to do that all by himself and I wish him all the strength to channel his brilliance inward. But I cannot sacrifice myself for <i>his</i> journey.</p><p id="be48">Now I have to do the difficult work of compartmentalizing. Cherishing those parts of him I love, letting those aspects of my past exist. But I can’t let those memories distort the truth, or convince me to endure more pain.</p><p id="45d5">So I will remind myself to cherish <i>myself</i> and look out for my health. I will cry when I’m sad and reach out to friends when I need reassurance. The New York Times articles I would have shared with him, I’ll send to my partner instead. And when I’m doubting my course of action, I will reread past journal entries where my pain is glaring. I will exercise the empathy I have <i>always</i> given him towards myself. I will devote energy to loved ones who return my energy. I will mourn the relationship that could have been and the one that isn’t possible at this moment. And then I’ll probably cry some more.</p><p id="d95a"><i>Thanks for reading! Please consider supporting my writing by<a href="https://faithann.substack.com/"><b> signing up for my free email list</b></a> and following me here on <a href="https://twitter.com/FaithAnnWrites"><b>Twitter</b></a><b>.</b></i></p><div id="98ae" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/i-wrote-about-my-toxic-family-then-my-toxic-family-found-out-a73295b6fe8e"> <div> <div> <h2>I Wrote About My Toxic Family, Then My Toxic Family Found Out</h2> <div><h3>So I stopped writing with my source of comfort swept out from under me.</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*GKfv6VrkHOyU1tH8)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

It’s hard to recognize the good without losing sight of the bad.

It’s been a few months since I last had a conversation with my father. I’m not sure when I’ll have a conversation with him again. Part of me wants to write I’m not sure if I’ll have a conversation with him again. All I know is right now and for the foreseeable future, there is not a healthy or beneficial relationship to be had, which breaks my heart.

But what breaks my heart, even more, is reckoning with two very divergent sides of my dad. There’s the part that I love and cherish. Then there’s the part that haunts my nightmares and causes me to sob uncontrollably. Those two parts of my dad are at odds in my head.

I am grateful for the father who chose to abandon (or redefine) his goals at 19 to raise a family. The man who made countless sacrifices in that pursuit, many I’m sure I’ll never know. I love that my father was a very active parent, always made an effort to attend my school events. But I’m hurt by the same man who started throwing those sacrifices in my face when I stopped acting how he thought I should. Apparently, 9 out of 10 fathers in his situation would have chosen abortion.

I love how my father instilled the beauty that is traveling and exploration at a young age. I’m eternally grateful for the camping trips and the hiking expeditions. I can’t help but also remember the fights he started with various family members moments before. I still love to travel and hike, but no longer with him.

I felt elated when my father treated me as an adult as young as I can remember. What eight-year-old doesn’t want to watch adult movies or engage in adult debates? But now I yearn for a childhood I dearly missed. I wish Hotel Rwanda was replaced with Spongebob. I wish he treated me less as an equal and more like the child I was.

I can still vividly remember this moment in a courthouse elevator where my father broke down with apologies about my parent’s divorce. Confessed how sorry he was, seeking reassurance from me. I remember a moment in our SUV where he did the same. In those moments, I felt such love and compassion for him. But I also live with the memories of times he blamed me for the faults of others. I remember the many times I’ve been blamed for him not seeing his children enough during my parent’s eight (plus) year-long custody battle. If my mom stepped out of line, it was somehow linked to my inaction. I remember the times he made their custody battle worse.

And I can remember how he apologized for a particularly toxic Christmas he caused. I was happy for him, proud of his self-reflection and willingness to apologize, a rarity for him. But now, I resent the acceptance I gave him, the pity I felt. I regret later defending him to my siblings.

I love my dad’s fire and passion. He is brilliant and intelligent, especially when it comes to education. A large portion of my drive and love for school is attributed to him. But I walked on eggshells over the same fire and passion that turned towards my mother, my brother, and me. The brilliance that resulted in well-enough argued points or the intelligence that could pinpoint your insecurities and attack them with precision. I remember a time at the kitchen table where I tried to explain my pain but he just battled me with “facts” in an effort to diminish my words and I was too scared to fight back. So I froze and left the room when I could muster the strength to cry in the comfort of my room.

I discovered my favorite band from my dad’s archive of CDs. Music I love deeply is tied to our relationship. But I can’t listen to one of my once favorite songs because he tainted it. I remember excitedly sharing a new single with him when we weren’t seeing each other. He thought it was an attack, I silently hyperventilated in the car trying to explain my innocence as angry texts flooded my phone. I was 15 and only trying to breach the 600-mile distance. Trying to make him feel less lonely.

My dad has always been good at selectively listening and offering advice. If his sense of self wasn’t threatened, he would listen adamantly and offer good-enough advice. But I also remember the time he manipulated me into journaling something about my mom and then took it to use in court. I remember the moments he used my confidence against me or harmed other people with my misconstrued words. The sense of betrayal I shoved down because I didn’t want to see his actions for what they were. Because I was used to it. Because I was a child and what child wants to feel betrayed by their parent?

All these contradictions occupy my brain and consume my heart. I think of these beautiful pictures of me and him when I was a baby, his goofy smile. I couldn't watch Love Actually this year like I always do because it was a movie we watched together. But I also can’t even think about reaching out to him without a paralyzing black cloud engulfing me.

I know my father loves his children. But I don’t like what his love feels like. I don’t like the scars I live with and need to cope with. I wish I could just piece together all those beautiful parts of his soul, I wish his faults weren’t so destructive. But I don’t have any more stones to rebuild my walls. I wish I didn’t wake up crying because his hurtful actions plagued my dreams. I wish…a lot.

I am not the person to mend this rift because sometimes the best course of action is no action. His toxicity has crippled me and fixing him would destroy me. He has to do that all by himself and I wish him all the strength to channel his brilliance inward. But I cannot sacrifice myself for his journey.

Now I have to do the difficult work of compartmentalizing. Cherishing those parts of him I love, letting those aspects of my past exist. But I can’t let those memories distort the truth, or convince me to endure more pain.

So I will remind myself to cherish myself and look out for my health. I will cry when I’m sad and reach out to friends when I need reassurance. The New York Times articles I would have shared with him, I’ll send to my partner instead. And when I’m doubting my course of action, I will reread past journal entries where my pain is glaring. I will exercise the empathy I have always given him towards myself. I will devote energy to loved ones who return my energy. I will mourn the relationship that could have been and the one that isn’t possible at this moment. And then I’ll probably cry some more.

Thanks for reading! Please consider supporting my writing by signing up for my free email list and following me here on Twitter.