I’m not altogether sure where this feeling has come from, but today I am really missing my Dad. There doesn’t seem to be any programming – I’m not feeling any urge to call him and I’m as aware as ever that to call him and re-kindle contact would be dangerous and damaging.
But I miss him, and it makes no sense. He hurt me, and stood by as others hurt me even more….and then tried to convince me I was going crazy when I started remembering stuff – that nothing had happened except I had gone mad.
So why am I missing him? An abuser and a man who did nothing to protect me, and then tried to warp my own reality to suit himself? What is there to miss?
Okay so there are a few vague memories with him which were okay. But we never particularly enjoyed each other’s company. I laughed more when my stepmother was with us, and sparked my father’s very buried sense of humour. In actual fact I have more memories of laughing with my grandparents than I do with him, even though my grandparents were by far much worse.
So what do I miss? I remember standing in the doorframe and watching him sadly, as he stared blankly at the television and didn’t hear me. Hours and hours he’d stare at the television. His life one sad, dull routine. Go to work at 5am or 6am, or 10am, or whatever point he woke up really….work until 9pm, come home, lie on the sofa, demand his dinner, eat half of it, and stare at the television until the early hours. Perhaps a 2 hour nap. A huge amount of red bull. And then off to work again.
His life seemed somehow more sad and lost than my own. I spent my life being raped and went to his at alternate weekends (and looked forward to it! The weekends with my dad and step-mother felt like respite in comparison to living with my grandparents. The idea seems utter madness now). He spent/spends his life as a zombie. Shut off from the world with no hope of being found. I tried, several times. The result was some horrific row/punishment where he *totally* lost it and started abusing me. Afterwards, he’d switch back to Zombie Man. Somehow I craved his abuse, in some mad and twisted manner. I hated what he did. But at least it meant I had his full attention for a short while. At least there was some kind of relationship…
Other times, he’d turn into a little lost boy somehow, and moan at me about his life and how his parents annoy him and we drive him crazy. It was as though he forgot I was his daughter; he sat there moaning about the cost of having children and how much of his life it’s taken, without any glimmer of how it might be affecting me. I was just a sounding block. The only one with enough patience to sit there whilst he moaned. Then he’d lie back onto the sofa, open another can of red bull, and stare at the telly.
He was responsible for a lot of harm to myself and others, and yet I don’t feel as angry towards him as I do my grandparents, for example. I pity him. And I feel sorry for him. Because if he allowed the door to open, he might see the light. He’d be blinded temporarily – having been lost in darkness for 40 years any level of light would be painful. But after a while, he’d settle. He’d recover.
He’s an abuser but I pity him. Is that right?
I know I can’t help him. I tried endlessly, at great cost to myself. The biggest way I can help him is by continuing to cut him off and living my own life – to show him escape is in fact possible. I think that’s the only thing I can do. Actions speak louder than words…
But still…why do I miss him? What is there to miss? Watching him staring at the television, or indeed watching him and my brother both lost in ghost-land staring silently at the television? It was eerie. I watched with a heavy heart. He was a lost man.
In a split second he’d switch – either very grumpy and whiny, or terrifying and violent. Sometimes he would laugh, and be in a fairly okay mood. But mostly that was if other people were around. When it was just me, or just me and the kids, he was silent and moody or withdrawn, or nasty.
Something about sleep he didn’t like – he found every way in which to avoid it. I can only imagine what his dreams haunted him with at night…memories of his own abuse? Or memories of the abuse he’d inflicted?
Am I in fact missing his ability to switch off? I remember also being envious at times of his ability to stare at the television and hear nothing happening around him, in the real world. His own form of dissociation. Emotions are staggeringly difficult lately. Am I missing the ability to dissociate into numbness, and remembering him having done so…and therefore getting mixed up over what I miss?
Or am I in fact missing him? Am I missing him simply because of the fact that he is my father, and there is therefore a deep low-level bond which cannot be removed with ease, and right now it’s just flaring up more? Is it because everything feels raw and new at the moment, and so I’m instinctively looking for a parent-figure to hide behind; like a child looking for protection? Is it that? Even though I know he wouldn’t protect me, my innate instincts to look for a parent when in distress and frightened have not died. Even in the heat of the abuse I’d sometimes cry for my mum or dad, even if it was him in fact abusing me. I’d still cry. I felt some relief just from having cried for their protection, even if it never came.
Perhaps this feeling of missing him is in fact coming from one of the younger alters who hasn’t fully accepted the fact their Daddy was an abuser too. 😦
I don’t know. It’s weird.
But I miss him. I don’t know what I miss or why. But today, I miss him. I feel very sad and tired somehow.
Everything’s so intense lately… 😦