Dad

In the post `The Armageddon Phone Call` I spoke of how my Mother, in a full blown Narcissistic rage, told me that I put my Father up on a pedestal, this then prompted her to say something that was the final straw in our toxic relationship, triggering a complete withdrawal from me, going grey rock and then no contact. It had been a long time coming and had I done it sooner, as in decades earlier, it may have saved my mental and physical health....but then hindsight is a wonderful thing isn`t it...

I sometimes wonder how long this whole processing process will go on for. To some extent I will admit it is rumination which is not a healthy thing to make a habit out of. Thankfully though I do far less of this now, this Blog has been instrumental in allowing that to happen. But what I have reprocessed of late is what sort of Father I had. My Mother and I do not say this often was right, I did put my Father up on a pedestal. For a very long time, long after his death in fact. Then came the revelation of my Mother`s NPD and that my Father was her enabler. That was almost a decade ago and I have been on a long journey of discovery since then. First I ticked all the enabling boxes off next to his behaviour and responses over the years. And in doing so I yet again gave him a `get out of jail free card` because he was her Enabler and that`s what enablers did, it was all rooted in his enmeshment to her. Still, at that time, I persisted in balancing him, however precariously, up on his pedestal. You see compared to my Mother...soulless, detached and seemingly unable to listen, see me or connect in any meaningful way, my Father was the one person in my day to day life that I actually managed to engage with, however fleetingly. Indeed he himself probably was able to have a real conversation with me, about everything and anything in a way that would of never have been possible with my Mother. And in those brief moments I got validation, I was seen and heard, something every young person deserves and needs to be. It felt so wonderful, it soothed all my raging, worthless thoughts and feelings that coursed through me continually. It was addictive and my need for his attention and approval caused me to conventionality forgive and forget his spontaneous abandonment, in fact at times, his savagery, as he leapt to do my Mothers bidding and prove his allegiance to her by discarding me in anyway needed to appease her. I simply refused to see the type of Father he again and again showed me he was. Perhaps because if I saw and accepted that then who, what, did I have...... 

And so I tried, on repeat, to be good enough, good enough for him to one day love me enough to not discard me instantly on her command, good enough that he may challenge her opinion of me and find a morsel of worth in me to defiantly present her with..... sad to say that day never came. 

And after all these years, 18 years after his death in fact, I can allow myself to admit he was neither good, nice or kind at his very core, despite the gentle smile, soft voice, gracious manners and twinkling blue eyes he showed the world. They were just part of the facade he acted out whilst choosing to forget he had perhaps hours earlier slapped his little girls legs so hard and repeatedly that she wet herself in fear of him and his temper or that he heard her quietly sobbing herself to sleep and stayed silent as his wife screeched for her to stop that snivelling. What heightens my un-blinkered understanding of him is having my own children. So often something crosses my mind, as is the way with all true Mothers, and I feel such empathy, care and concern for my children, knowing that it would be impossible for me to stay so utterly detached from their needs and well being. And so it is as a parent myself I can put into context what a poor uncaring Father he was to me. He really was an unfeeling bully, in fact a bit of an arsehole. Edited to add; No Amanda, he wasn`t a bit of an arsehole, he was a complete and utter arsehole, a cruel and at times violent Father and a wife beater too. He was not worthy of my love, the love he refused to acknowledge or reciprocate.  There I`ve said it. And so through my feelings for my own children I have at last faced up to the true personality of the man I called Dad. My Son is 19 nearly 20, my Daughter 16 nearly 17. I simply cannot compute how he could sit and eat his tea every evening with an 18 year old daughter across town in a shabby room and not wonder and worry if she got home safe, had some food to eat, money for the meter to have a little warmth, but then given the good hidings he readily dished out why would he? He chose to offer his arm to and escort his wife to his only Daughter`s wedding and suggested that I, his Daughter, ask the Best Man to take me. He commented that my crying at my baby Son`s funeral was for attention, ignoring that I was feeling any grief or despair at all, simply because Mother had felt over looked on the day. He remained icily aloof at all of the most distressing times of my life, during experiences that I cannot bear to comprehend my own children having to suffer whilst knowing there would be nothing I would not do for them or sacrifice, to in any way ease their pain and offer all the comfort and care I could. 

I have felt angry with myself for caring so deeply for him, trying so hard to prove myself deserving of a crumb of approval, to win his love. It was him who was not deserving of my love and attention. I see that clearly now, just as I see him, in all his blinding true colours. And I also am going to forgive myself for living in constant hope for so long, for pouring so much time and energy into a relationship that only I was striving for or thought was worth nurturing. My Father`s nurturing was reserved solely for his Wife. 

And that`s OK. I`m letting it all go now, I`m not going to feel hurt or anger over him anymore. I`m not going to feel anything regarding Him, I am spent. A while ago I found his Bingo membership card, his photo on it, smiling away with his blue eyes so like mine. I had kept it, as at the time I viewed it as something precious, it was his, a remnant of his life and something he enjoyed. But with healing and with fresh eyes I saw the man who looked out from that photo for who he really was, he was no longer on a pedestal, and so I tossed it into the bin, registering that he had never kept anything of mine nor would he have remembered anything I enjoyed doing. 

Our eyes may be the same shade of blue but I am determined to be mindful and ensure my soul never becomes as dark as his was.