I didn’t really intend to write this down or share it, but honestly it’s touched me so much that I feel compelled.
Most of my readers know I come from an abusive home, and my dad in particular has shown more cruelty and unnerving violence than I’ve ever seen from anyone else. Physical, emotional, mental, he had it all covered, and his favorite way to teach me lessons was either by inflicting massive amounts of pain and suffering on me, or on another person or creature that I cared about. Most of my friends know this as well, though none of them really know the whole story, you can gather enough from the bits and pieces to see just what a viscous person he was, how badly he damaged me.
I think most of us from abused homes have a touchy spot for loved ones calling our parents negative names. It used to infuriate me when my friends called my dad a jerk, or mean, or made threats against him. People never try to reason out what he’s done to me, they just abhor his actions and make that clearly known. This does me, someone who has spent her entire life questioning her father’s motives, and his hatred both of life in general and of me particularly, absolutely no good. I know he is bad. I can’t explain it, I just don’t want the pity. I don’t want the negativity. To most people in my life, my dad is a villain. I deal with this the best I can.
Years ago, I went to Tennessee and visited my lifelong neighbor, Phyllis. Phyllis had two sons, both older than me, who both died--one in a car accident, one from drug usage. She and I spent time catching up on her front porch in the humid Appalachian summer, and she asked me--had I tried talking to them? (at the time, my mother was still alive.) I could look through the treeline and see my old house, I knew my dad was standing outside listening to our conversation, but he’d made it clear that he didn’t want to see me. I told her I had tried, to no avail.