Wrestling With My Father’s Misogyny

Should I let go of the last person I speak to from my family of origin?

photo of the author (smiling) and her father (sticking his tongue out)

“I want to have a healthy relationship with my father,” I said, concluding a summary of how toxic our dynamic currently is. I stopped pacing and looked to my therapist who had listened attentively to my latest rant.

As usual, L honed right in on the crux of the matter. “Do you really believe he’s capable of change, though?” Initially, I started doing my mental gymnastics — the last remnants of the pernicious programming from my family of origin — twisting reality to make my father and his toxic tendencies seem harmless.

“Do you really believe he’s capable of change, though?”

L’s questions challenge me — Were any of those changes lasting? What happened when you stopped devoting your energy to shoring up the boundaries he wouldn’t stop pummeling?

After wrestling with my resistance for some time the truth was undeniable. He doesn’t change. He’s basically the same man with the same beliefs and preferences that he was when I was a small child. He complains incessantly to me about how he doesn’t have anyone anymore. He blames it on living on the outskirts of our city. Of the six children he’s had in this life, I am the only one who speaks to him at present. If you asked any one of the other five why they don’t have a relationship with him, his zip code is the last answer they would give.

Microdoses of misogyny

We all know that oppressed classes deal daily with microaggressions, microinsults, and microinvalidations to name a few. I became accustomed to microdoses of misogyny being spoon fed to me by my father long before I was old enough to know what any of these things were.

It’s poison.

My father was teaching me to hate and devalue my own gender. In essence, myself.

He doesn’t see me as a person

A few days after my session with L I called my dad to check in and see how he was doing. I didn’t do this because I was genuinely concerned about him — I was fairly certain that he was fine. He had, after all, called my daughter the day before, which Alice is still a little salty about and I can’t blame her.

It’s the first time he’s ever used her phone number. We gave it to him years ago when she was finally old enough to have a cell phone (mid-teens was my rule). He’s never used it. He calls my phone every year on her birthday to sing to her and tell her the story of how he found out he was a grandpa. He doesn’t text or call her, his favorite, first grandbaby. Until this June, when he called to ask her if she would reach out to her cousin and find out if his son is okay. Apparently, my estranged brother isn’t talking to our dad again. If the first time my grandfather called me was to ask me to play phone tree so he could stalk my uncle I’d be salty too.

Alice told me he was making passive aggressive comments about why he reached out, implying that it was because I should have called him but haven’t. (There’s no reason for him to have this expectation apart from his own stubborn narcissism — he called me last time, so it’s my turn. Nevermind that I’m often the only one reaching out for months at a time.)

I didn’t want to deal with a mantrum so I called the next day rather than wait. Phone calls with my dad can be quite noxious. I have to be on guard the whole time, defending my boundaries. Dad likes to reminisce about how the women of his past have ruined his life. This usually starts with a rant about my mother I’ve heard so many times I could recite it in my sleep (though lately he’s been chatty about his third wife).

This phone call took a pivot I probably should have seen coming. He does occasionally say the quiet part out loud, after all.

He was spouting off about how it’s my mother’s fault my brother isn’t talking to him (it’s never my brother’s choice or fault, according to Dad) when he called me “Sweetpea.” I didn’t say anything. I don’t agree with my father’s deranged ideas about Ian but there’s no use debating it with him — he doesn’t listen. I spent years trying before I realized there was no point.

When I didn’t respond he assumed it was because of what he called me. He’s been deadnaming me on a regular basis this year (a response to me making my name change legal, I think) and I’ve been calling him out on it. Every time. He does it a lot and I have limits to my energy (and how much of it I’m willing to spend on him) so I usually just say, “that’s not my name” and move on.

I didn’t say anything in this moment. I have no objection to him using that nickname and I told him so years ago when I told him about my new name. He assumed that’s why I wasn’t responding, though, and launched into a new rant.

He hates my new name and will never use it.
He can’t understand why I felt the need to do this.
I am incredibly disrespectful — that’s not my husband’s name I’m throwing away like so much garbage, it’s his.
How could I dare do this?
Those were the names ‘he gave me’ and I had no right to replace them…

And just like that I lost my infamous patience.

“I’m being disrespectful to you? By changing my name for my own sake? So, it’s fine and completely acceptable if I’m adopting another man’s name, but not my own? You were extremely supportive as well as proud when Desiree took the last name Martin when she married Travis, and again, when she married Chris and changed her name to Rivette. So, it’s fine if I’m some man’s property but not if I want to be my own person?!”

“I have to go; your Aunt Marian needs to give me my T-shot. I’ll call you back.” Click.

I was left to stew in my own righteous fury.

Because I forgot the rules, you see. He’s not to be held accountable for how he treats women. And I’m not allowed to point out how his misogyny affects me — that’s selfish and mean. I clearly needed a time out so I could get myself under control and, you know, stop being so emotional.

He did call me back after roughly the same amount of time I would have been forced to stare at a corner as a punishment when I was a child — well, the same amount of time when he didn’t forget about me entirely, which was often. He did exactly what I suspected he would, though — he completely ignored where and how we left off. I thought the worst was behind me. I grossly underestimated my father’s capacity for sexist behavior.

I made the mistake of asking why he’s getting the testosterone shots. I thought this would pivot the conversation to his health. As the only child who has regular contact with him, I’m his medical contact and, according to him, his medical power of attorney when/if incapacitated. I was hoping for an update on his prostate cancer.

Instead, I was treated to a monologue about his girlfriend, the sentiments of which are so entitled and toxic that when I summarized the conversation for Alice later I learned the definition of the word ‘fuckboy’.

A girl has no name

I called him again this week because it was his birthday. Alice and I sang to him and wished him well. Some dirty jokes followed as he’s turning 69 this year. All in good fun. Then came the moment when he referred to Alice by her name and, instead of using mine, he was silent. I thought for a moment he was actually going to use my chosen name for the first time. I even held my breath. I should have known better.

“…and Daughter #2 over there…”

I laughed. (What else could I do?) Alice bristled. (She hates the way he treats me.)

“Number Two? Desiree gets first place ranking? Seriously?!” Alice demanded.

“It’s birth order,” Dad said, “Nothing I can do to change that. She’ll always be Number Two.”

I shared a look with Alice. “He makes me sound like shit.”

Back at the therapist’s office…

Two days after his birthday call, I saw L again. I was in the final throws of an internal struggle: why can’t I make him understand he’s poisoning me?

And then the Ah-ha! moment finally struck…

It’s not that he doesn’t know he’s poisoning me.

It’s simply that his desire for his entitlements outweighs any illusion that he loves me.

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