What follows is a letter to my father, written at the suggestion of my therapist. It is a way to confront him, even in death, with what he did and how it has affected me.
Dear (father’s name),
I don’t want to call you Dad because you never really were a ‘Dad’. You were a provider and nothing more. You made sure that we had a roof over our heads, food on the table, and clothes on our back, but completely ignored our emotional growth and well-being.
My friend, L., says it’s because you were a narcissist who never had his emotional needs met as a child. Well I have news for you – Mom endured far worse things as a child than you ever could have and yet instead of perpetuating the cycle she was brave enough to try to break it. You, on the other hand, took a ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’ approach to things. Your rod wasn’t physical, though, it was mental and emotional. I don’t remember one time in my whole life where you told me you were proud of me or that I did a good job or that I measured up to your standards. All I ever wanted was to know that you were proud of me and that you loved me unconditionally.
I heard from your colleagues at your funeral that you were proud of all of us kids -funny how none of us ever knew it and only heard it after your death. Would it have hurt you to tell us once in a while that you were proud of your children? There was such a void left in my life, which I have spent almost 46 years seeking the approval of anyone who holds any power over me. Kids need to know that they are good and worthwhile and worth loving – we aren’t born with this sense of self-worth. It’s up to our parents to instill this in us. I’m sorry your parents never did that for you and I’m angry that you weren’t strong enough to avoid making the same mistakes they did. Your emotional negligence and verbal abuse have left me doubting my worth as a human being and feeling undeserving of other people’s love and admiration. What is really sick is that almost everyone who meets me is impressed with how smart I am or how sweet I am and I have a hard time accepting their approval when it is what I crave the most.
Another lovely lesson I learned from you is to fear failure to such an extent that it paralyzes me. I will never forget as a child how when I got a 95% on a test all you could do was to ask me why it wasn’t 100%. You made me a perfectionist to such an extent that I won’t attempt something – even something I might really enjoy – if I think I can’t do it perfectly. I start projects and never finish them because even if I do, it will never be perfect enough to gain your approval. You taught me to criticize myself more harshly than anyone else could ever do, even more harshly than you did. I take everything much too seriously and don’t remember how to have fun because I’m so afraid of failing. You never taught me that failure is good; you just taught me that no matter how hard I tried I could never be good enough. You’ve left me a fearful, anxious woman who is as afraid of success almost as much as she is afraid of failure.
There’s a lot of my childhood that I don’t really remember. I remember you drinking and how the only time you could ever show affection to us or to Mom was when you were drunk. Maybe that’s how you really felt and could only let it show when you were under the influence of alcohol, but it’s hard to take a drunk seriously. Why should I believe that the drunk one was the true one when logic told me that the sober one should have been the true one.
I remember you fighting viciously with (sister’s name) and nearly putting her through the wall in your anger. Even though I was older than she was, this rage terrified me. I was scared for her and I was too scared to intervene on her behalf because I didn’t want that rage turned on me. I wish I was strong enough to protect her from you, but she was the strong one, not me.
I remember feeling like I was just so much of an annoyance to you – in the way when you wanted to watch TV, for example. I remember you yelling at me, although I can’t remember what you ever yelled about. It took me almost 40 years to get to a point where I wouldn’t burst into tears when someone raises their voice at me, and yet a voice raised in anger still sets me on edge.
I remember working at the plastic factory one summer in college and how every day you would make a point of reminding me that I should be so grateful to you for putting me through college so I wouldn’t have to work there for the rest of my life. I always was and still am grateful for what you did for me regarding my college education. You didn’t have to hold it over my head at every opportunity. Did you think I was undeserving of what you did for me or did you just want a medal for doing what any normal parent should be thrilled to be able to do for their child?
I remember you never letting me be right about anything we would discuss when I got old enough to have an ‘adult’ conversation with you. You always had to get the last word in. To this day I still bear the scars from that little lesson. Nothing makes me feel more helpless than when people either don’t listen to me or tell me I’m wrong when I know I’m right. It brings me right back to my childhood and you. As a matter of fact, it’s that very thing that has kicked off this most recent depressive episode.
You taught me that men were something to be feared. It has taken me a lifetime to overcome this irrational fear. I was married a couple of months ago to the kindest, most loving man I have ever met in my life. He is proud of me and loves me just for who I am, in spite of all my imperfections. The happiest day of my life was the day I could legally take his name because I consider it an honor to be his wife. I can throw your name away – there is no pride or honor in it for me, just bad memories and worse feelings. He is a million times more of a man than you ever were and I am so lucky that all your perverse life lessons didn’t keep me from meeting him and falling in love.
Despite all the years of emotional and verbal abuse, there is still a part of me that wants to love you. This part understands that you never had a good role model for how to be a loving parent, so how could you possibly know what we kids needed most from you. This part pities you and makes excuses that you did the best you could, given your upbringing, and that at least you took care of our physical needs.
But there is a little child inside of me who hates you to her very core for neglecting her and not loving her in the unconditional way a father should love his daughter. This child isn’t ready to forgive you and doesn’t care that you didn’t know any better – she thinks that you were a child once, too, and if nothing else, your own wants and needs as a child should have guided your hand as a parent. She is filled with anger and rage for what you did to her and what you didn’t do for her and right now I don’t even know how to calm her down and help her understand that she is wonderful and worth loving even if her father didn’t know how to show her that.
Wherever you are now, I hope you have had a good long time to reflect on the mistakes you made in this life. I hope you feel a fraction of the anguish you have caused me all these years. I believe you will be born again and I pray to God that you learned something from this life. I pray that the next time around you will be the loving, kind, and gentle parent that I always wanted you to be. I don’t want you to hurt any more souls like you hurt mine.
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