Go father figure
Feel nauseous. And had seven Kitkat mini’s. In that order. The headaches aren’t easing up. Feet are cold. Don’t feel so good. Strange, empty, sad. Walked outside in the dark again, two people were spooked because they didn’t see me coming. Funny, to be the one scaring someone for a change.
Don’t know what to write about. Well, actually I do know, but I don’t feel like writing. Which, naturally, is a sign that I should. I did decide during my walk that I could be even more honest than I have been, but it’s gonna get pretty scary.
I have to make sure I’m as anonymous as possible here. Not that anyone of my family is looking me up on the internet, but you know, just in case. Not that I feel I should apologize for anything I’m writing here; it’s a process and it has to be done and if someone doesn’t like it, they can (try to) kiss my ass.
Guess it’s my father’s turn. I don’t know how I’m going to manage all these heavy issues without a break in between, but here goes nothing. How much easier things would have been if my father would have been a straightforward asshole, a flat-out son of a bitch. Understanding someone makes it harder, cos the whole empathy thing comes into play and simply shutting someone out or cutting them out of your life to me feels nearly impossible if they’re not a hundred percent evil or mean-stupid. Mean-stupid like my mother’s ex; he’s a real son of a bitch and will never change and I’m grateful for that. Neither is he family and all that makes things a hell of a lot easier. Good riddens to bad rubbish. But my father is not an evil man, unfortunately. He’s damaged and a bit of a dumbass when it comes to tact, subtlety and his own children – he’s okay with other people’s kids apparently – and at times I’ve wished I wouldn’t understand him, to make it easier on myself. But how can I not? This is how families perpetuate the abuse, the emotional abandonment and all that shit. His mother died when he was ten, after which his father sent him away to boarding school, good riddens to kids’ hassle I guess. To make things worse, I’m a dead ringer for his mom, no pun intended. I have a photograph of her and it’s like looking at a picture of myself. I don’t know if that’s something that bothers him, but I’d get it if it did. He complains about his father and has the same issues with him as I have with him and he doesn’t see it. And he’s such an intelligent man, or should I say, he has a high I.Q. Because that’s something else; intelligence is something else, and as I see it also has to do with emotional maturity. Which you won’t find in my family. Not yet, anyway. He’s stunted in his emotional growth, don’t know whether I’m saying it correctly, but you get the point. Maybe the most painful thing for me is that we are so much alike. People would see us on different sides of a room full of people and know that we are related, I’m the spitting image of my father without the beard and with a little more hair on my head praise the lord. I probably inherited the sarcasm as well, his sense of humour and the mean jokes, the stabbing remarks I wrote about earlier. That’s how I know they are well-intentioned. And after the rape he was genuinely upset, I’d never heard him talk like that before (we talked on the phone). I’m not going to sum up the horrible things he did, it’s mostly the small stuff anyway, strangely enough. Him always pointing out what I do wrong, or what I don’t have and other people/women do. I think he was the main cause for my suffocating perfectionism. I’m not just a sore loser, I can’t play games. At all. I have to win every goddamn thing I participate in. So I don’t participate anymore, I don’t make drawings anymore, my creativity has effectively dried up. Cos if it isn’t perfect it isn’t good enough. I don’t want to see him for a while. I know he has a heart, cos sometimes I feel the awkwardness when we hug when saying goodbye. He does mean well, I’m (pretty) sure of it. I think he’s protecting himself this way. No attachments. Keep the disappointment alive, that’s safer. I’m just guessing here. I think it’s very hard for him to keep an open mind, even harder to just love me because I am his daughter. He has strings, so many that it’s impossible to be loved by him. He shuts himself off from me. Maybe I will never know exactly why, but I think the main theme is he needs to feel safe, as we all do. Loving isn’t safe. His mother died and now he’s afraid to say “I love you” to people because he’s still afraid they might die after. Kids’ logic. My mother’s enlightened friend told her that. When she told me, I cried for him and how horrible he must have felt when he was just a little boy. Emotionally stunted as he is, I do get it, I mean, how would he have ever learned how to express his feelings, and who would have taught him? He does to me what his father did to him. And that’s why I have no kids. That’s why I had an abortion. I was so scared I would raise a child to be as damaged as my mother or my father, or me, that the most loving thing to do was have an abortion. We both don’t know how to be in each-other’s company. He goes into that mode where he asks me painful questions or starts grilling me why I don’t do this or that, or compares me to other people’s children or to my sister, pointing out everything I do wrong, smiling and seemingly friendly with that sharp edge to it, and I fall back into the role of rejected little girl, hurting more with every word he says. He’s a dumbass when it comes to feelings. He can be thoughtlessly mean in his remarks ("pretend to be smart for a change!!"). He’s an idiot. But he isn’t mean. Just ignorant. An honest to god Human Child.
Should I go on? I don’t know if this is doing anything constructive. It is. Why? I still don’t want to see him any time soon. You might regret understanding him, but understanding him and everybody else for that matter is what’s going to save you from bitterness. Bitterness is a very effective attachment, like guilt. Ah, guilt, that’s my mother’s territory, and for another time. Is this okay? Is this enough what I’ve been writing here tonight? About him? You’re hurt, say it. It hurts me that he wanted to run away to Ibiza when my mother told him she was pregnant with me. It hurts me that he says bad things about me behind my back, what kind of childish behaviour is that? He’s the parent, or so he should be. He is no parent to me. But I am here because of him. It hurts that we’re so much alike. And I thought he was into spiritual things, but he’s into the spiritual detour things, unfortunately. Such a shame, because he does have the intelligence to see things, change things if he wanted to. Oh well. Life knows what it’s doing, right? No point in wishing things were different. This is my ‘reality’. So what else? It hurts that I could have had another sister or maybe a little brother. According to my sister, who’s very expert at snooping around, my father’s girlfriend got pregnant and he gave her a choice: him or the baby. So she chose to have the abortion and now they’ve been happy together since forever. Kind of shows how much he liked having kids. The rejection hurts the most. His rejecting me, people thinking he only has one daughter. I don’t exist. He erased me from his life. I need to erase his negative influence on me. I need to be free. I need to be free and not his daughter, not so much. I am me first. Then we’re related.
My real father in this life is the universe, Life is the one who took care of me when I felt so hurt I couldn’t deal with it anymore. Life was there for me, with it’s signs, patterns, encouragements and the stars. I could look at the stars and feel less alone. Life has been my parent and my father figure. And I’m becoming my own mother.
What else? He means well. My father is a very screwed up man who met a very screwed up woman and they had two very screwed up kids together. Two little girls. End of story.
I don’t know what else to say. I think I will leave it at that for the moment. No doubt there will be more at some later date.
Don’t know what to write about. Well, actually I do know, but I don’t feel like writing. Which, naturally, is a sign that I should. I did decide during my walk that I could be even more honest than I have been, but it’s gonna get pretty scary.
I have to make sure I’m as anonymous as possible here. Not that anyone of my family is looking me up on the internet, but you know, just in case. Not that I feel I should apologize for anything I’m writing here; it’s a process and it has to be done and if someone doesn’t like it, they can (try to) kiss my ass.
Guess it’s my father’s turn. I don’t know how I’m going to manage all these heavy issues without a break in between, but here goes nothing. How much easier things would have been if my father would have been a straightforward asshole, a flat-out son of a bitch. Understanding someone makes it harder, cos the whole empathy thing comes into play and simply shutting someone out or cutting them out of your life to me feels nearly impossible if they’re not a hundred percent evil or mean-stupid. Mean-stupid like my mother’s ex; he’s a real son of a bitch and will never change and I’m grateful for that. Neither is he family and all that makes things a hell of a lot easier. Good riddens to bad rubbish. But my father is not an evil man, unfortunately. He’s damaged and a bit of a dumbass when it comes to tact, subtlety and his own children – he’s okay with other people’s kids apparently – and at times I’ve wished I wouldn’t understand him, to make it easier on myself. But how can I not? This is how families perpetuate the abuse, the emotional abandonment and all that shit. His mother died when he was ten, after which his father sent him away to boarding school, good riddens to kids’ hassle I guess. To make things worse, I’m a dead ringer for his mom, no pun intended. I have a photograph of her and it’s like looking at a picture of myself. I don’t know if that’s something that bothers him, but I’d get it if it did. He complains about his father and has the same issues with him as I have with him and he doesn’t see it. And he’s such an intelligent man, or should I say, he has a high I.Q. Because that’s something else; intelligence is something else, and as I see it also has to do with emotional maturity. Which you won’t find in my family. Not yet, anyway. He’s stunted in his emotional growth, don’t know whether I’m saying it correctly, but you get the point. Maybe the most painful thing for me is that we are so much alike. People would see us on different sides of a room full of people and know that we are related, I’m the spitting image of my father without the beard and with a little more hair on my head praise the lord. I probably inherited the sarcasm as well, his sense of humour and the mean jokes, the stabbing remarks I wrote about earlier. That’s how I know they are well-intentioned. And after the rape he was genuinely upset, I’d never heard him talk like that before (we talked on the phone). I’m not going to sum up the horrible things he did, it’s mostly the small stuff anyway, strangely enough. Him always pointing out what I do wrong, or what I don’t have and other people/women do. I think he was the main cause for my suffocating perfectionism. I’m not just a sore loser, I can’t play games. At all. I have to win every goddamn thing I participate in. So I don’t participate anymore, I don’t make drawings anymore, my creativity has effectively dried up. Cos if it isn’t perfect it isn’t good enough. I don’t want to see him for a while. I know he has a heart, cos sometimes I feel the awkwardness when we hug when saying goodbye. He does mean well, I’m (pretty) sure of it. I think he’s protecting himself this way. No attachments. Keep the disappointment alive, that’s safer. I’m just guessing here. I think it’s very hard for him to keep an open mind, even harder to just love me because I am his daughter. He has strings, so many that it’s impossible to be loved by him. He shuts himself off from me. Maybe I will never know exactly why, but I think the main theme is he needs to feel safe, as we all do. Loving isn’t safe. His mother died and now he’s afraid to say “I love you” to people because he’s still afraid they might die after. Kids’ logic. My mother’s enlightened friend told her that. When she told me, I cried for him and how horrible he must have felt when he was just a little boy. Emotionally stunted as he is, I do get it, I mean, how would he have ever learned how to express his feelings, and who would have taught him? He does to me what his father did to him. And that’s why I have no kids. That’s why I had an abortion. I was so scared I would raise a child to be as damaged as my mother or my father, or me, that the most loving thing to do was have an abortion. We both don’t know how to be in each-other’s company. He goes into that mode where he asks me painful questions or starts grilling me why I don’t do this or that, or compares me to other people’s children or to my sister, pointing out everything I do wrong, smiling and seemingly friendly with that sharp edge to it, and I fall back into the role of rejected little girl, hurting more with every word he says. He’s a dumbass when it comes to feelings. He can be thoughtlessly mean in his remarks ("pretend to be smart for a change!!"). He’s an idiot. But he isn’t mean. Just ignorant. An honest to god Human Child.
Should I go on? I don’t know if this is doing anything constructive. It is. Why? I still don’t want to see him any time soon. You might regret understanding him, but understanding him and everybody else for that matter is what’s going to save you from bitterness. Bitterness is a very effective attachment, like guilt. Ah, guilt, that’s my mother’s territory, and for another time. Is this okay? Is this enough what I’ve been writing here tonight? About him? You’re hurt, say it. It hurts me that he wanted to run away to Ibiza when my mother told him she was pregnant with me. It hurts me that he says bad things about me behind my back, what kind of childish behaviour is that? He’s the parent, or so he should be. He is no parent to me. But I am here because of him. It hurts that we’re so much alike. And I thought he was into spiritual things, but he’s into the spiritual detour things, unfortunately. Such a shame, because he does have the intelligence to see things, change things if he wanted to. Oh well. Life knows what it’s doing, right? No point in wishing things were different. This is my ‘reality’. So what else? It hurts that I could have had another sister or maybe a little brother. According to my sister, who’s very expert at snooping around, my father’s girlfriend got pregnant and he gave her a choice: him or the baby. So she chose to have the abortion and now they’ve been happy together since forever. Kind of shows how much he liked having kids. The rejection hurts the most. His rejecting me, people thinking he only has one daughter. I don’t exist. He erased me from his life. I need to erase his negative influence on me. I need to be free. I need to be free and not his daughter, not so much. I am me first. Then we’re related.
My real father in this life is the universe, Life is the one who took care of me when I felt so hurt I couldn’t deal with it anymore. Life was there for me, with it’s signs, patterns, encouragements and the stars. I could look at the stars and feel less alone. Life has been my parent and my father figure. And I’m becoming my own mother.
What else? He means well. My father is a very screwed up man who met a very screwed up woman and they had two very screwed up kids together. Two little girls. End of story.
I don’t know what else to say. I think I will leave it at that for the moment. No doubt there will be more at some later date.
posted by M. at 1:17 AM
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