Dear father, forgive me
‘Cause in your eyes, I just never added up
In my heart I know I failed you
But you left me here alone
If I could hold back the rain
Would you numb the pain
‘Cause I remember everything
If I could help you forget
Would you take my regrets
‘Cause I remember everything
Remember Everything by Five Finger Death Punch
I find myself in the song. Which is ironic, considering I remember nothing. I’ve been told that your brain files away your memories until you’re ready to deal with them. And here I am, on the verge of opening Pandora’s box.
I don’t know what to say about my father. I was asked tonight in my latest session to describe him. His characteristics, sins, faults, weaknesses, strengths. I drew a blank. I’ve spent the last 3 years excluding my dad from any piece of my life. Let’s start with some background.
My mother took my sisters and I to Colorado because she feared him. Emotionally. Mentally. He had never physically harmed her, but the emotional abuse was too much for her to take. She feared for her life. I’ve felt the emotional abuse from him before, but never on that level. And up until a couple years ago, I thought he left us. After all, he left the house first. Packed up and moved back in with his parents at the ripe age of 49. I was 7. And that, is my first true memory.
We were forced to talk on the phone with our dad every Sunday, for at least an hour. I hated Sundays. Instead of coming home from church, reading the comics, and lounging about all day, I had to prep. Prepare for the hardest, most emotional time of my life. I would often just stop talking when that hour hit until he asked me to pass to phone on to one of my sisters. I remember bits and pieces of these conversations. Every week during school it was the same thing. Unless my grade was 100%, he would spend the next hour telling me how I failed completely because I didn’t study enough. If I had actually cared about school I would have studied to make sure I got every question right. The problem is, he was right. But I had this insane desire. A longing. Friends. I wanted friends. I wanted to be a kid. Play sports. Ride bikes. Laugh and play with other people my age.
Bruce came to live in Colorado for a while. Claimed he wanted to be near us. But when the weather didn’t clear up his “illnesses” he decided to move back to Illinois. I was 11. And this is the first time I truly saw my dad as the manipulative liar he is. He took me out to talk. Asked if I wanted big fries or small fries. I had never had fast food in my life, and I longed to try French Fries. So in my childlike innocence, I shouted with all the glee of a 3-year-old, “Big!” Enter KFC. Potato Wedges. Which leads to a new half-hour lecture about how unhealthy French Fries are and I should never eat them. Which is why he chose the ever-healthy KFC.
He then proceeds to talk about our future. Of how when he gets back to Illinois, he is going to file for divorce. Because he is tired of living alone. Because my mom won’t come to her senses and move back in with him. How he is going to file for custody of me because my mom knows nothing of how to raise a son. Unlike him. Mr. Perfect. The man with all the answers. My savior.
I then go back home, shaking. Trembling because I must prepare myself for some time in the next couple of years when I will be ripped from my family, friends, everything I know, to go live with an asshole who will raise me to be just like him. My dream of dreams. And I wait.
For years I wait. Expecting this to happen at any time. But it never comes. No divorce. No custody battle. No update. And yet I continue to talk to this wretched man every week. And then it happens.
But it’s not what you think. I grew up. I realized I didn’t have to talk to this man. I longed for a relationship with him. I longed to make him proud. I had foolishly continued to share my successes with him. I was shipped off to spend a couple weeks with him each year. Weeks filled with failed attempts to play catch. Hours spent listening to lectures on the hazards of listening to rock music. For what? Why did I continue to pour my soul out to him? So I cut back. I didn’t talk to him every week. I didn’t share my entire life. I shoved my feelings down deep. I created vague answers. Life turned from color to grey.
Life changed. I made friends. I was less angry. On the surface. When I shoved my feelings away to get through an hour with him, I learned to shut my feelings out in all my life. I became less like myself. I formed a deep-seated depression. Curse words became more prevalent in my thoughts. I let the hurt and anger fester. Bury itself deep within. My entire life became a lie. I felt no emotion.
I wore masks. I knew exactly how to fake love. Care. Happiness. I even fooled myself. I thought it was all real. But all I felt was anger. Sadness. The overwhelming urge to cry. But no. I couldn’t let myself cry. Men don’t cry. Men don’t feel sadness. Christians don’t feel sadness. Joy. Only joy.
I soon stopped talking to Bruce on Sundays. I spoke with him occasionally, typically on holidays. And not for very long. Just enough to appease my mother’s desire for us to have a relationship. I’m not sure she ever realized how dysfunctional it was. My sisters would often curl up in their beds and cry for hours after speaking with him. But I showed no emotion. I never spoke of such things. I think she actually believed we had a relationship.
Over the years I’ve tried to mend my relationship with that man. To this day I still long to have a loving relationship. To be able to call him for advice. To learn how to be a real man from him. I went to college in Missouri. Only 6 hours from him. He hadn’t come to my high school graduation. He’d come when both of my sisters had graduated. But I justified it. That had been years earlier. He went to my sister’s college graduation. The same year I graduated high school. But I justified that too. She was in Missouri after all. That is much closer than Colorado. So I traveled far away for college. I had hopes of reconciliation. I visited him on the short holidays. 3-day weekends. And each one was just as painful as those summers growing up. And then came graduation day. No dad…
He claimed he had to stay in Illinois to help mow the yard. Sure, large farm yard. Takes a full day on a riding mower. But for your son’s only college graduation? Ok, maybe he doesn’t care. But I still tried. I still believed it could change.
I had met a girl while in college. A girl from back home. I was in love. I proposed. I called my dad to tell him. I don’t remember him saying congratulations. We spent 25 minutes of that 30-minute call talking about his health and fixing the lawn mower. I remember him asking why he hadn’t met her yet. I invited him to our wedding. He couldn’t come. He didn’t think his health would allow it. 3 years later we find out we’re having a child. I call him. I joyfully, excitedly tell him. He starts talking about logistics. It’s his way of showing he cares. Of dispatching wisdom. But there is no joy in his voice. No excitement. For his first grandchild. But ok, I decide to give him time.
My sister gets engaged. She plans her wedding for September. The month before our daughter is to be born. He comes. Because it is an important life event. He wants to be there for his child. We speak. It is more pleasant than usual. I have a greater hope that things will change.
Our daughter is born. Our beautiful baby girl. I call him. With more joy than I have ever felt in my life. I want to share the most incredible and exciting news with him. We then have a conversation for the next half-hour about why our name choice is ridiculous. How she will hate us for the rest of her life because of our name choice. He gives a list of names that we should change it to. I hang up.
And that is the last time I spoke to my dad.
So now we’re back at today. There I am, sitting on a couch. Thinking of how to describe this man who has hurt me so deeply that I’m afraid of exploring who I am. I want to dive in. I’m ready to dive it. And I’m terrified.
Selfish. Caring. In his own way. Lazy. Hard-working. In his own way. Jackass. Hurtful. Arrogant. Fake. Conceited. Did I say hurtful? Sad. Lost.
I hate him. I love him. I cry for him. I long for him. I need him. But I have shut him out of my life. The moment he decided to spend his time ridiculing my daughter’s name, that is the moment I had to act. I would not allow him into my daughter’s life. I would not allow him to hurt her the way he has hurt me. To destroy the life of my wife and daughter. I would not let him touch their hearts. He can be a fun man to be around. But when you let him in, shit gets real. You see the hurt in him. You see the pain passed down from generations before him. I want desperately to have him be a part of my life. But I will not choose to put my family at risk. He has shown over and over again he will hurt us.
I have spent my life trying to not be like him. Petrified to move forward in life from the fear of being his duplicate. His disciple. Ignoring my own life, my own desires, because I’m afraid they may be similar to his. Denying myself the pleasure of knowing who I am. Of pursuing my own hopes and dreams. Of making my own decisions because they might turn out to be his decisions. No more. Tonight, it ends. Tonight, I become.
Tonight, I am.
The Therapy Sessions 