Dear Future Self,
There inevitably comes a time in our lives when we do or say something that doesn’t align with our natural way of being.
I think this happens to all of us. We are human, after all.
When this happens to me, I dwell on it for days, weeks, months, sometimes years.
Yes, years.
I have nights when I lie in bed thinking about the time in high school when I called this one kid a horrible name.
I don’t even want to repeat it, it’s THAT bad.
I think about him often, and I hope the shitty thing that came out of my mouth didn’t cause too much heartache.
Maybe it did, maybe it didn’t. I don’t think I will ever know.
Where is he now, I wonder.
Did me calling him that shitty name cause irrefutable damage?
I hope not. I really hope not.
The most recent BIG thing I can think of, the thing that eats at my soul, is one sentence I wish I could take back — or, at the very least, wish I would have spoken my truth in a less harmful, sadistic way.
I wake up in the morning thinking of what a horrible human being I am. I preach love and kindness for hell’s sake … what got a hold of me to say something so horrid?
I mean, in the moment I meant it with all the passion of a mama bear protecting her cubs — with no thought given to any consequence.
Eight seemingly innocent words.
Eight words,
put together in a sentence,
a sentence I said out loud to another human being —
eat me alive.
This sentence was the biproduct of 38 years of living with pent-up anger, feelings of abandonment, neglect, and emotional and physical abuse.
“I hope you die a slow, miserable death.”
Yup.
I said that.
To whom, you ask?
My father.
He lives in Thailand. He moved there three years ago. Ten years prior to moving, he drove a truck across the country, earning enough money to build a house in Thailand — paying cash. Props to him. I’m thrilled he gets to live his dream.
Even though he accomplished his goal, he is still unhappy.
I have learned that wherever you go, that is where you are.
You cannot run from yourself.
I’m guessing he will live out his last days in Thailand sad, miserable, alone, watching Fox News and belittling his Thai wife. I feel like he abandoned me, my sisters, and all of his grandchildren. He didn’t care enough to stick around, but he still feels like we should respect him and give him all the props in the world for doing an amazing job at fathering.
Did he help me financially when he could? You bet. For this I am grateful. However, his help always comes with strings attached, a life sentence of sorts. I am now forever indebted to him — for doing what any loving, caring parent would do for their child.
How dare I not demonstrate complete and utter gratitude at all times, in all places, no matter what.
Because he gave me money … he gets a pass. Forever and always, I now have to bow down and kiss his feet until the end of time. If I want to be in his good graces, that is.
I now have an adult son who is living on his own. Over the years I have given him plenty of financial support in his times of need. I have never and will never expect anything in return.
I do not need a gold star or a pat on the back.
I do this out of pure love — no conditions.
He is not my puppet and I am not his master.
I feel like my childhood was rough. My father expected too much while giving too little. He was hooked on painkillers, stole my mother’s migraine medication when he was out of said pills, and yelled at us girls if we didn’t do everything JUST right. We walked on eggshells around him ever since I can remember.
We had a gravel patch in front of our house. At about 5:20 every night, when we heard his car pull onto the gravel, the three of us girls — and sometimes even my mother — would stop doing whatever we were doing and rush to do something productive … dusting, dishes, cleaning, whatever we could find. Sometimes we would even run to the backyard in a hurry to pull weeds in our garden.
Regardless of what we were doing, we MADE sure we were busy when he walked through the doors, because if we didn’t — one of us was going to get it.
Mental, emotional, and/or physical abuse would erupt in our household.
We were a good Mormon family who went to church every Sunday and prayed together often. When I say WE went to church, I mean my mom and the three of us girls. He would go to sacrament and pick at his nails the whole time with fingernail clippers. Once a month he would get up during fast and testimony meeting to apologize for all his wrongdoings, without making any real change. The art of publicly confessing his transgressions made him think he had the upper hand. Like he had done something honorable. However, he didn’t do much to rectify his behavior. Most of the time he would leave after sacrament meeting and then come back to get us later.
The appearance of being a “good Mormon family” was important to him.
We, or rather HE, had to make sure we were living up to the expectations … out in public, at least.
I never knew which version of my father was going to come home from work.
Dad having pills meant he was going to sleep in his Lazy Boy recliner and wasn’t much of a threat. As long as I was quiet and did what he said, I could successfully avoid him until bedtime.
Dad without pills meant I had to find a safe place to hide, be completely agreeable, complete all the household chores, and not do anything at all to disrupt the pretend peace in our home.
Dad without pills was the one I encountered more often than not. All the local doctors caught on to his drug abuse and eventually stopped giving him meds. This is when he started stealing from my mother. At first, she had pain pills for her migraines. Migraines she had because of the house of fear we were managing to survive in. After he started stealing her pills, the doctors prescribed her injections, thinking that would keep him at bay.
Nope. Not even a needle would deter him.
I use the term “home” loosely. It didn’t feel like home to anyone. It felt like a prison ruled by venomous fear.
My dad broke my sister’s arm.
He blamed her.
Come to think of it, he has carried the same blame tune for as long as I remember caring to listen. Eventually, after hearing him repeat his stories of being abused, I didn’t give two flying shits if his parents were abusive.
I had an abusive parent as well, and you know what I have done?
I broke the cycle. I didn’t use my upbringing as an excuse to abuse my own children.
He once told me, “If one person thinks you are an asshole, they are probably wrong. If many people think you are an asshole, you probably are an asshole.”
I mean, that holds some logic, right?
I live by this.
I’m confused as to why he doesn’t live by the words he, himself, taught.
Do as I say, not as I do, I guess.
I could go on and on.
Our home wasn’t a pleasant place to be. I rarely brought home friends because I never knew what might happen.
One day, when I was 15, I had to get in between my mother and father while he was 2 inches away from her face, screaming at her. This happened often. I knew I needed to protect her — because of her own trauma and upbringing she lacked the courage to do this for herself.
I stepped between them — 2 inches from his face — and dared him to hit me.
“Go ahead and hit me,” is what I said. “You will go to jail so fast you won’t know what happened to you.”
He didn’t hit me. I don’t recall what happened after that. I must have blacked it out. Honestly, I wish he would have hit me.
On my baptism day, he spanked me so hard that I flew across the room and peed my pants. All because I was crying over the dress I was forced to wear. Seems like a logical thing for a Mormon father to do. I could be wrong. Maybe it was just my pretend Mormon father who acted this way.
When I was 9, my two sisters, my mother, and I had to run down the street to our Bishop’s house after my father broke down the door in a fit of rage.
We locked him out for a reason.
Reasons he blamed us for later.
I remember hiding in my parents’ room, calling the Bishop on the phone and begging for help while my father was screaming in the next room. I was terrified. I remember staying in a hotel. The three of us girls had to go to therapy. After our hotel stay, my mom went back to him like nothing had ever happened.
As young as 12 years old, I begged my mom to leave him.
We all begged her to leave at some point.
I’m the youngest of “his” three children. My mom had two children from a previous marriage. He adopted them but treated them like shit. He beat my brother too many times to count.
There was always a reason for his abuse. He justified his actions based on what we did to make him act that way.
Classic narcissist.
My sisters got married and moved out. I was the last one standing. I was left alone in the house with an abusive father and scared mother I had to protect, fending for my own well-being.
I developed a thick skin.
I shut people out —
I learned to take care of myself on my own.
I constructed walls that are not easily destructible.
My mother caught him having an affair when I was 16. At that point, she finally kicked him out. He bought a brand-new fifth-wheel and a truck, lived in a KOA campground, and fought my mom about paying child support. I was the last child at home and, essentially, he was fighting about whether or not I should be taken care of. That stung, to say the least.
As an adult, I’m trying to heal my trauma surrounding my father and other abuse I endured as well.
It’s going … slowly.
Future self, can you tell me if we ever climb out of this deep, dark black hole that is suffocating me?
I feel so lost and helpless.
Best,
Daddy Issues
