Forgiveness, The Afterthoughts.

Yesterday I wrote about forgiveness and how to do it, almost after I had posted it and replies came in, it occurred to me that perhaps it isn’t my father or even my mother that I have to forgive. Perhaps it is the little boy himself that needs the forgiveness. 

I’ve hated him for a very long time, to the point if anyone asked me I would say, I would happily push him down the stairs and hope it hurt for the things he did.  But I have to ask myself, if he were a real child stood in front of me, if he was anyone but me, would I do that to him and no of course I wouldn’t  I would never hurt a child.

In a way it is like I am on the side of my mother and father, I help them to abuse him even more because I blame him. I get asked many times if I think I could confront him about the things he has done and I can’t, not that I am afraid of him, but if I confront him, then he will know that he abused me and I don’t want to hurt him. How strange is that? But it’s what I feel and I think, points to I actually have to accept that what my parents did was abuse, because I don’t, and I only call it that for the sake of here. When I was in therapy I could never say it out loud, it felt like I was lying, not about the events, but about the label.

I found myself nodding a lot to the replies I received yesterday; one of them was from someone named Lil, her words were so very true. Especially about my recent issues. I have a very hard time right now sticking to the decision of having my father out of my life. He doesn’t make it easy because he keeps emailing me and messaging me, of course none of them are nasty, in fact most of them are so nice its heartbreaking, because he is teasing me with exactly what Lil mentioned the answer to my craving for a parent.  He’s showing me what I have longed for my entire life, but part of me knows that if I go back, he’ll snatch it right back again.

And here I am, full circle in my thoughts, I don’t accept that what they did was abuse, I don’t accept it because it’s my parents., I can’t let go of the belief and hope for the parental love back. I blame the little boy for what he did and making me who I am today, because if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have been abused and would have the relationship I so clearly want.

I need to forgive that child. I need to forgive myself.

Truth in Anger.

I haven’t written for a couple of days, I guess I can feel it and it’s probably that, that feels like its weighing on me somehow. I always feel better when I have written, so far now I am doing it here and saying whatever comes to mind and hoping that somehow I can lift this silence I feel right now.

It would seem that my father has actually got the message to stay out of my life, funny really, I thought he would be upset and hurt, but he’s quite the opposite, he’s angry and telling anyone that will listen how bad I am, and what awful things I said to him, which I didn’t of course. I simply told him that I was tired of being hurt and because of that I didn’t want him to contact me anymore.

My brother has just moved house, just over a month ago into his first home. My father has told him that he isn’t allowed to invite me to the house warming party. I’m not to be there as part of his family and at Christmas myself and the children can get lost and they get nothing because he washes his hands of me. He has told people that it is him that made this choice not me.

I thought I would be bothered about him doing something like this, but in truth, it’s just made me angry at him. I’m angry that he would dare to tell my brother he has to stay away from me. I’m angry that he thinks he still has some control. But I am happy to be angry, it gives me focus. It removes the guilt that I felt about walking away. He makes me see him properly.

Thank you father, for letting me see the real you.

The End Perhaps.

Maybe now it is time for the end.Image

Maybe now I have to say, it’s done.

Too many times I have tried. I have waited but it’s always the same. I get crushed.

I realise I am waiting for something that won’t come. It would be far easier to touch the stars than it would to reach out to you and for you to understand what it is you have done.

I have never harmed you; I have never hit you or beat you. I have done everything you ever wanted me to do and always you deny me the one thing I wanted. A family and a father that would love and not hate me.

But you don’t. You beat me down every chance you get. You call me names and let me know my place in your family.

I ask you why? Why am I still here? Why did you keep me? What was the point? You deny it and tell me I’m imagining things; that if you didn’t want me, I would have been put up for adoption. I wonder what it is that you thought you gave me in life.

I’m done now. It’s over. I hurt too bad. It breaks my heart to walk away, but what else can I do? There isn’t anything like I hoped. You are cold and there is nothing. I will always be an enemy in your eyes. I realise this.

I could call you names and give you my anger, but what would be the point? You wouldn’t listen. You would turn it back on me and tell me how it was my fault.

I feel sorry for you. Your life is sad and you miss out on so much because of your hatred. Your grandchildren, your family, and children that would love you and be there when you needed. But that isn’t enough for you. I’m sorry your life is so poor that you have to bring me down.

You may look at me walking away as nothing. You may call me names, swear at me, even try and hit me for it. I have no doubt all you will feel is anger. But I can’t stay. Not with you. I can’t be here.

I feel so bad to walk away. It hurts so much. But it hurts more to stay with hope, and listen to you. I can’t do it any more, I’m sorry.

I feel guilty to leave you alone when you don’t have anyone. I wish you could see why it is that you are alone, but you are too blind to notice that you got rid of everyone.

Maybe I’ll be back, I don’t know.

Maybe I’ll pick up the phone the next time you call. Maybe you won’t even care that I’m not here any more.

But, I have to do this for me. I hope I have the strength. I hope I can stand alone and do what is right for me. I hope I will be better than you. I hope one day you’ll be able to live your life without all this hatred.

I am your flesh and blood. Your son. You tore me apart once more. I am broken.

I’m sorry you’re my father.

Goodbye.

Turmoil.

Some days, I wish I could confront my father.

Not with the past; even as much as I want to beat him with the question of why until he is down on the floor, and because I want him to be sorry for what he’s done.

What I wish is that I could take hold of him and not say look what you did to me as a child, but rather, look what you’ve done to me in my life now. Today; when everyday is a constant battle. I wish I could give him a day of it.

Most days, I think I have gone somewhere in my mind. Apart from writing, my voice is still missing. I still cannot bear to look in a mirror any more than I have to. I hate the face that stares back at me. It is not mine. I wish I could cut it away.

My father was very nice to me this weekend. He had to have his cat put down. She was actually mine and he came to my house to drop her things off. He was concerned I was okay with her passing.

She had not been my cat for years, but this side of my father is the hard one to deal with. He’s nice and caring and I’m walking over a pit on a broken plank waiting for it to give way.

I have to remind myself of the reason he had my cat. I had to leave everything behind to enable myself to recover from drug abuse, and the reason I was doing that was the because of the life he had given me.

He has thrown me into turmoil once more.

Goodbyes.

 

It’s been two days since my brother died. Two days of feeling something strange. I made it to Monday and he didn’t. He stopped walking.

 

I never know how to handle grief, I’ve never been taught. The only thing I know about things that hurt, is to not feel them. I was stood in the queue at Starbucks in Manchester when my father called me. He could barely get his words out as he told me. It’s been a long time since I have heard my father cry, at least I think I have heard him, I am not really sure.

 

I realised as he was talking that I really felt nothing for his grief I detached. I was listening to his words, and my mouth was saying all the right things to him, but I had stepped out of myself. Each sentence that came from his mouth, my mind took it and pointed at his behaviour. When I asked how he was doing, he told me he felt sick and couldn’t believe it. Then he went on to tell me about my other brother and sister being upset by it all. His words were, ‘we are all in a state of shock about it, and we have been just sat all morning,”

 

I got clarity. I saw it right there. I am not a part of that family. He has never allowed me to be. I keep trying and keep getting the door slammed. Maybe it is natural to him to do that now.  Perhaps he has made it natural for me too. I felt nothing for him. Not even pity, he had just lost a son, but he might as well have been a stranger telling me. Perhaps my emotions decided to take their own line of revenge on him. I remember when my daughter passed, she was still born and I understand that it is not the same, my father didn’t attend her funeral, because in his words, “what did it matter, she was never alive.” Those were the words that struck me this Saturday.

 

He’s grieving to the world for a son he had with another woman, a son he denied was his so many times. It leaves me somewhat torn I think. A battle within me, which side of me is going to win out. The man who just lost a brother or the son that feels anger towards his father.

 

I didn’t sleep so well on Saturday night, not because I was upset with my brothers passing, though I am, but because my mind was on the fact, would my father even tell me when the funeral is. Would he allow me to go? Would this be just another event when I am not allowed to be part of the family? When his own father passed away, I did not get told. He was dead and buried and I never heard a word about it.

 

Today I see clear.

 

To my brother. I wish we’d got around to that beer. I’m glad I knew you.

A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing.

Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing.

I have a picture of a man, laid in bed with his baby son sleeping on his chest. He is reading the paper. I look at it, and I wonder what happened to make that man hurt that child.

My abuser – My father.

I hate to call him that. I hate to label him.

He is my dad. The person that helped to create me. The person whose genes I carry. Whose reflection stares out at me whenever I look in the mirror.

Yet he is the one who took from me. The one that beat me. Starved me. Committed countless assaults on me for over a decade. Sold me. The one who broke me. The one that made me a mess and left me with all these shattered pieces to pick up.

I should walk away but I can’t. I think maybe that is hard for people to understand. Perhaps those that are fortunate enough to have real parents. We see child abuse in the paper, on the television. Hear about it on the radio and each time often peoples thoughts and even my own sometimes. Is why didn’t someone take the child away and do something?

Why didn’t the child leave?

Why do I still keep my father in my life?

I was asked once by a teacher if everything was okay. She had put up with me for months coming into the classroom and sitting at my desk and just crying. Of course I tried to hide it, but I could never stop it. It would just happen. I don’t really know why. Maybe it was because I was safe and I could.

I’d cry because I was hungry, because I had a new bruise or it hurt just to move.  I’d cry because I was tired and hadn’t slept or I was sick because my mother had given me more medicine and still I wasn’t good enough. Sometimes I’d cry because I was alone in my world. I was ten.

My teacher saw me crying again one morning and took my hand. She walked me down to the library. Gave me a drink and a tissue and sat with me. She held me when I cried and then she asked me ‘is something bad happening at home?’

I froze. I stared. I stuttered. I had no idea what to say because I realised in that moment I had given it away. I had shown my secrets.

I lied to her. I said no. She asked me why I cried and I lied and told her that I was upset because my brother had more toys than me and didn’t share. It was partly true, but a lame ten year olds reason.

I lied because I didn’t want my mum and dad to get into trouble. I didn’t want them to go to prison. I didn’t want to be taken away. I didn’t want to live somewhere safe. I just wanted my mum and dad to stop what they did to me and love me like they did my brother. It was that simple for me.

After that day I never let what was going on at home show to the outside world. I had to protect my parents. People wouldn’t understand. People would think they were bad. They would think they were evil and they weren’t.  People didn’t know my parents like I did.

I realise that I still hold that same hope. That’s what keeps me from walking away. Nothing has changed. He called me a week ago, and within twenty minutes had sunk me. Not with anything malicious, just the gentle hints of manipulation that remind me I am nothing to him. I am nothing more than the scrapings of a child he helped to make.

Yesterday he called me again. He was happy and excited. He talked to me about his grandchildren like a real father and grandfather. He gave me a glimpse of the dad I wish I had.  I held onto that. I fed it to my guilt. I told myself I was wrong for being upset with him. I was wrong for even having Dear Teddy out. It was saying bad things about him and he doesn’t know of its existence. I felt so guilty for the way I have treated him. The no father’s day card. Everything bad that I had done towards him came crashing down in my mind, because for a few minutes he gave me hope.

A friend of mine whom I talked to. She told me to look at it. See it for what it is, because if he was the father I was wishing for. The one I was waiting for then he would show remorse too. He would apologise. He would feel bad for the things he did.

He doesn’t.

Maybe the wolf dressed as the sheep and I believed it.

Fathers Day

Fathers Day.

I know it’s been and gone now, but I’m sure I’m not the only one this day feels like something forced upon us with no choice and yet another way of having no voice.

I stare at my fireplace. There’s three cards on there and for fathers day I got made cake. I don’t need anything else.

Yet, in my inbox is an email from my father. This is the first year I didn’t send him a card. After writing my book, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bring myself to send a card that bore a lie on the front. Unfortunately hallmark do not have a section of cards for the narcissistic parent. Maybe there’s an idea.

He emailed me each day with some reminder, including today that I have not taken him a card. I’m sure I’ll have to cave and give him one, but it grates deeply to know that even now, so many years later my voice is still silent.