I blame my therapist for this new thing that’s been happening… I think it’s called…. feeling.
(Just kidding. I don’t blame her- I thank her. But last night I was definitely giving feelings the middle finger.)
I cried for a good 3 hours plus last night about my dad. It was one of those curl-up-in-a-ball-and-pray-the-ceiling-doesn’t-collapse kind of wailing fits.It felt as if I had just found out he had died.
Perhaps I never appropriately grieved his death, or there was still some left over sadness.
About two hours into this explosion, I realized what had been hurting me the most: I felt betrayed by my father for leaving me and for not protecting me from abuse. I romanticize it a lot in my mind- being my dad’s sunshine, him protecting me fiercely, threatening boys (or girls) that I would bring home, taking me on father-daughter field trips…. etc.
But mostly, I was angry at him.
It also hurts to know that even if he WERE alive, he probably wouldn’t even be my protector. Both my brother and sister have suffered severe trauma from our dad growing up. He was a physically and emotionally abusive drug addict and alcoholic. My brother is saturated with pain from the years of torment. Drugs took over our dad’s life and turned him into a monster.
In my mind, he’s strong, funny, loving and handsome.
I feel like a broken record because the theme of my depression for a good 2 months seems to always point back to my daddy issues. The more I remember about my childhood abuse, the more anger I find towards my dad- along with feeling betrayal, abandonment, and neglect. Was I not worth living for?
It wasn’t just my dad that left. My mother did as well. I think her abandonment was even worse. My father took his life and was lost in heroin and untreated manic depression. But at least he visited me and brought me multitudes of stuffies. At least he was there for the 3 birthdays that I had. At least he hugged me and carried me around.
My mother LEFT me. Vanished. Even after her time in prison and rehab, even after she was clean from drugs and had moved back home to the south, even after she got her life together, she STILL was gone. No birthday cards, no letters, no calls. As a child I was told that it was MY fault my father was dead. I couldn’t help but wonder if I killed my mother, too.
I really don’t know if anyone understood how often I thought of this as a kid. Which brings me back to the question: Was I not worth living for? Not even my mother wanted me- her only child. If my own parents didn’t want me, who would?
I can’t even fucking turn off the receptors in my brain. I am hurting and I am angry.