The Pain of Father’s Day

 

Milestones. Painful anniversaries. Poignant hauntings.

Nineteen Father’s Days ago, I spoke with my dad for the last time. I didn’t know then it would be that. Hindsight only later visited me, to “rub it in.”

I should mention, before I go any further, my dad was abusive. I did not have the loving, warm, father-daughter relationship with him. It was not for lack of trying on my part. Never experiencing the unconditional love and approval of my dad, I learned I had to “earn” it. Even though I never did. Even though I was set up to never achieve earning it. Years of focusing on pleasing, on being a “good girl,” on winning trophies, ribbons, scholarships, and awards, on making Straight A’s, years of gradually, but thoroughly, developing eating disorders, plummeting to an emaciated two-digit weight only created a disinterested, criticizing, “not good enough” response.

“Under his roof,” throughout my childhood, I was at the mercy of an abuser. Rages culminated with him hunting and chasing me from room to room, to scream at me, to threaten who and what I loved, to destroy, all because his anger released such endorphins of pleasure in him. He felt all-powerful. Look at how he reigned; look at how he wielded his authority over a frightened child!

I managed to survive my childhood and become an adult. I was doing my best, dealing with my past in therapy.

Nineteen years ago, I was at a point in my life where I had become more connected with my faith. In fact, “inspired” by the Father’s Day Sunday church sermon that morning, I decided to call my dad and wish him a happy Father’s Day. This was big. I had not seen or spoken to him in years. My husband and I had relocated to the West Coast; my parents remained on the Minnesota farm. I thought there was now enough distance, emotionally and geographically, to safely make the call; and surely, enough time had passed.

I called my eighty- year- old dad. My mother answered and was surprised to hear my voice. She gave the phone to him and, right away, I heard his irritated confusion. I knew he had a series of mini-strokes over the past ten years, for which he didn’t seek any medical attention. I also knew he had difficulty hearing. And again, we hadn’t been in contact with one another for years. I thought I was braced for the realistic possibilities.

Yeah, sure, braced.

“Happy Father’s Day!”  A few beats of awkward silence followed.

He growled, “Ain’t you doing anything?”

 I shouldn’t have been surprised at the hostile question. There wasn’t any loving relationship. What part of abusive, toxic, unhealthy communicator did I not remember in this person, known as my male parent?

I quickly repeated my greeting and hung up. I didn’t cry. I was too stunned to cry. Why did I expect anything other than this? It was par for the abusive course. There was never going to be anything that I could do that would constitute “doing anything...”

Doing anything worthy, anyway.

I wasn’t sure what to do with this exchange, except feel horrible and regret making this phone call. Life moved on. The next month, my dad had a large stroke, hospitalizing him. By August, he was dead. I did not get to him before that happened.

And cue complicated grief and devastation. Oh, and processing up the wazoo.

I still think about his last words. They really were the perfect ones to define who he was, a taskmaster workaholic who was obsessed with making money. And I was not the male heir who would inherit the family farm and legacy. I was the unwanted daughter and an only child. Right from the start, when he learned of my arrival on the planet, he was disappointed and angry with the news. He was not passing out “It’s a girl!” cigars to his farmer buddies. My dad stated he deserved more. Me, being this girl, was the insulting slap to his face. Retaliation, of course, therefore, must be his response to me. He took care of his financial obligations concerning me, but that was it. Don’t expect connection, love, approval. Just don’t. I’m the failure in his eyes.

And I’ve also been trying to undo my faulty belief I’m the failure in my eyes. With therapy, Inner Child work, a loving husband, a more compassionate faith and, well, time, I’m getting better.

But, make no mistake, I hear those echoed words on a daily basis. Recovering from them. Doing my best, whatever that means.

Nineteen years later, oddly, or appropriately enough, my cancer diagnosis has become a large part of my healing arsenal to those words. I’m taking care of myself now in a way I never had pre- “C-word.”

Why am I writing this? Numerous reasons. Personal, healing reasons, yes.

But I write this as the cautionary tale of marks made. They have a way of lasting, no matter how well-treated and healed.

I go back and forth about the regret I feel for making that phone call that day. If I hadn’t called, could I have spared myself pain? Probably not, because I had decades of trauma, representing the two of us. And the recriminations I hurled at myself when he died were also there; I didn’t get “closure.”

But, in calling, in experiencing these “last words,” did I get that closure?

No. I got a last zinger of trauma from him.

Overall, I suppose, I console myself. I took the initiative; I was responsible for my actions. I wished him a sincere, happy day. And that will stand the test of time.

But it’s unfortunate that I have to strain to reach these conclusions, “making sense of pain,” even after all these years. I wish I knew who said it, but this sentiment has helped me accept painful relationship reality, bit by bit: “Forgiveness is accepting the past could never have been any different than what it was.”

There was no way I could have had a different father-daughter experience.

Fathers, I ask that you work to create a reality of you and your children that they don’t need to recover from. Don’t abuse them. Love them. Accept them. Be involved with them.

Children of abusive and dysfunctional fathers, release yourself from the condemnation.

“The past could never have been any different than what it was.”

You did not deserve the abuse/mistreatment from a pain-inflicting parent. It’s not your fault. And there was nothing you, as a child, could have done at the time. Now, as an adult, however, you can take steps to heal, regardless of that parent. You are worth healing.

Copyright © 2022 by Sheryle Cruse