“I love my daughter so much; I couldn’t imagine not talking to her.” A client of mine said this to me a couple of months ago and since then, I couldn’t get the thought out of my head: does my father still love me?
I haven’t spoken to my father in over six years. There are a couple reasons for this. My father is the type of person who manages to ruin everything he touches. If Midas turned things into gold, my father turned things into dumpster fires. He’s the master of dragging others into his melodramas, aways turning his problems into everyone else’s. And he’s shameless—he would ask anyone and everyone for a favor or money without hesitation.
When I went to college, I realized I didn’t need him anymore. And the times when I did need him, he rarely showed up. Now, as an adult, I had the power to cut him off—so I did. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t moments when I deeply wish I still had my father in my life.
Growing up with my father, life was anything but dull. He knew how to have a good time—not in the partying with drugs and alcohol kind of way, but in a skip school to go to the movies, stay up all night playing video games, and eat ice cream for dinner while watching cartoons kind of way. In so many respects, he was every kid’s dream parent. But in just as many ways, he wasn’t.
He could be abusive. Mostly verbally, though there were a handful of times it turned physical. For years, I tried to convince myself he didn’t really physically abuse me. Now, I know better. Even being hit once as a kid can leave them traumatized. The physical abuse is buried deep in me, but what lingers in the forefront is the verbal abuse. To this day, I still shut down or cry when someone raises their voice or gets upset with me.
Beyond the abuse, he was simply unreliable—which is devastating when you’re a child and your survival depends on your parent. I couldn’t count on him to make dinner, pick me up from school, take me to birthday parties, or make sure I was okay. Good days with him were the best days ever; bad days had me hiding in my closet, trying to escape his rage.
Looking back now, I realize he was mentally ill. I remember snooping through his medicine cabinet once and finding it filled with orange pill bottles, including a bottle of viagra lol. Anyways, I can only assume he was being treated for depression and maybe a personality disorder too.
My father had everything handed to him growing up. He came from a wealthy family and was incredibly smart. But he was also lazy and never dealt with his own demons. I often think about the life he could have had. And when I do, I can’t help but think about the life my mom could have had too.
My mom didn’t grow up with much, but she was brilliant. She was also gorgeous. My dad… not so much lol, especially next to her. I believe we’re all responsible for our own destinies, but a part of me will always feel that my father ruined my mom’s life. I love my mom more than anything. We fight a lot—like most mothers and daughters do—but to me, she’s the bravest, strongest, most loving, and most forgiving woman I know. Everything I have, I owe to her, not him.
Still, there are times I miss my father. I miss the way he’d compliment my fashion sense, congratulate me on my good grades, the way we’d talk about politics, the way we’d play board games together. I plan to reach out to him eventually. But probably when I’m done being “Anna”.
Speaking of “Anna”, there’s a stereotype about girls who grow up without father figures becoming whores. I guess I fit that stereotype. Would I still be in this line of work if my father had been a better parent? Maybe. I don’t know. What I do know is that the shame associated with that stereotype shouldn’t fall on me. Why should I feel shame while my father doesn’t feel any shame for the ways he failed as a parent? Why am I the one left dealing with the consequences of his actions?
I don’t have the answers to these questions. But I think about them. And I think about him. A lot. Does my father still love me? I have no idea. But I still love him.
Thanks for reading!
Anna:)