This week in therapy we began to delve into the world of
“Daddy Issues”. Like most girls/people,
I have unresolved issue with my father and my therapist, like the jerk that she
is (just kidding, I love her! She is
amazing!!!!), is making me face them and deal with them – the nerve!
As you may know from my profile in The Subject, I had my
first contact with my father when I was 11 years old. Up to that point, he had been a fantasy in my
mind. I thought about him constantly as
a child. He didn’t come up much, but I
knew a little about him. I knew that he
had a new family and I had three brothers.
He lived in Ontario, but not close enough to visit easily (especially
without a car). He was born in New
Brunswick and met my mother in Oshawa, where they both worked. We kept in touch with his mother and she
always sent very nice letters and Christmas cards. Though I never met her in person, she never
forgot about me and I felt such warmth and love whenever I received something
from her. I was her granddaughter and I was important to her.
In grade 2, I used to write in my journal about the
weekends I would spend at my father’s farm.
We would go horseback riding and I would play with the dogs he kept
there. One day, my second grade teacher
handed back my journal and asked me if what I wrote about was true. I responded with an emphatic “yes” and was
indignant that she had the gall to question the veracity of my entries. Now, if you are even remotely good at math,
you can probably figure that unless I was left back a number of times, I would
not be 11 years old in grade 2. All the
entries were false and looking back now, knowing what I do about teachers, she
probably would have known that I didn’t have contact with my father – which was
why she asked. But, she didn’t press me
any further and let me continue to write about my weekend adventures with my
dad – a kindness on her part.
In grade 3, we had to do a project on a Canadian
province. I picked New Brunswick. It was a place I was longing to go. My grandmother lived there and that was where
my father grew up. I can still remember
the project vividly. I wrote to the provincial
government (this was long before the internet), asking for as much information
as possible. They sent me the provincial
pin and a book filled with pictures and historical information. I can’t recall ever working so hard on a
project again.
Needless to say, I had a very romanticized image of my
father and longed for the day that he would ride in like a knight in shining
armour and take me away with him and we would live happily ever after (I have a
whole other rant on how fairy tales rot children’s minds, but I’ll save that
for another day). When I finally met him
in person, I was 12 years old. Like most
fantasies, he did not live up to expectations. I was crushed.
My mother didn’t help the matter by filling my head with stories about
my father: he was an alcoholic, - be careful about getting in a car with him;
he was a drug addict – watch out; he may try to touch you – here is a quarter
in case you need to call for help; if anyone tries anything or you feel unsafe
– run away! This would make any kid feel
super about going to spend time with a man who was a complete stranger other
than the fact that he contributed half of the DNA I carry. It didn’t help that my father also had a
thick accent that kind of made him sound like he was drunk all time. It wasn’t until years later that I realized
that he hadn’t been drinking, that was just the way he talked. I was 12, what did I know, except what my
mother told me and I was still too young to realize the true intentions behind
my mother’s words.
I think I only saw my father 5 times in my entire
life. He did struggle with drugs and
alcohol, but to a much lesser extent than my mother made out (or used herself)
– which is something that age and wisdom has brought to light, much too late to
make a difference, as is often the case.
My communication with my dad was sporadic at best. When I was 16, my mother took my father to
court to pay greater child support. A
spiteful gesture, since we were on welfare and any extra money we received from
my father was deducted from the monthly cheque my mother received from the
government, so the end result was just a greater strain on my father’s finances
and our relationship. My father’s lawyer
demanded a paternity test, claiming that there was no proof I was actually his
child. Looking back now, I have to
wonder how much adults consider the feelings of the children in cases like
this. I still remember the room where the
test took place. I secretly wished that
I might not be his daughter. I was still
very angry at this time and even angrier that he was claiming that I might not
be his. If I wasn’t his, the fantasy of
my childhood may still be true. Perhaps
there was a man out there with a farm and horses that would come take me
away. (Any wonder why Les Miserables is my favourite musical
of all time?!) But no, it was
definitively proven that I was his offspring.
A disappointing result for us both at that juncture of our relationship.
It wasn’t until I moved away to university that my father
and I began to resolve our issues and move past the anger. My father started making a greater effort to
keep in contact (at least for a while) and I was ready to forgive and let him
into my life. In my first year, he
called me to tell me how he was reforming his life and making a real effort to
be a better man. I don’t remember the
exact conversation, but I have the letter I wrote to him in response which was
filled with love, hope and forgiveness.
The day my dad received the letter, he left me a beautiful voicemail
message on my machine and I took an MP3 recording of it, for which I am
extremely thankful. It has been a
comfort to this day.
Here is my most cherished portion of the message:
Two years of sporadic contact followed that message. I was wrapped up in university life, working
and becoming an adult, but the contact we did have was happy and filled with
love. I finally had the beginnings of a
relationship with my father.
It was January 2004, I was snuggled in my room watching a
movie with my roommate when I got the call that my father had died suddenly of
a stroke in the middle of the night.
I have never fully dealt with the grief of that
loss. I didn’t think I was allowed to
feel as emotionally destroyed as I did.
I barely knew the man. It had
been 4 years since I had seen him in person when he passed and I only had
contact with him for ten. My brothers
had known and lived with him their entire lives. They should be destroyed. What right did I have? So I carried on. I pushed my feelings to the side and kept
going.
The real truth is, I had as much right as anyone else to
grieve. He was my father and he was
taken away from me before I could even really get to know him. My brother marks the day of his passing with
memories on Facebook each year. The void
left by the loss of our father has never lessened in his life. My dad wasn’t the man my mother made him out
to be; he couldn’t have been. If he had
been, my brother wouldn’t still mourn his passing as he does. There was good in him - and love. That was the part I never truly got to
know. When life had finally begun to
afford me the chance, he was torn away from me – suddenly, unexpectedly and
without apology.
Now, through the guidance of my therapist, these emotions
are being summoned to the surface to wash over me in the waves of pain and
anguish that have lain dormant since his passing. He was 54 when he died. I always expected that there was so much time
to grow and develop a relationship with him.
Life, in her cruelty, said different.
My entire life I had been dreaming of a dad who would love me and
protect me. Finally, I was beginning to
build that with my own father and let go of the anger I felt before he was
taken. As my therapist puts it, the
fight or flight survival mechanism was triggered by this event. Time was viscerally real. I could feel it slipping away and I had to
beat it. There were so many things I
wanted in life and who knows when death would come calling again. I’ve been running since that point; never
stopping to feel the loss.
In her ever so frustrating fashion, my therapist has made
me prominently and ceremoniously display a memory of my father in my apartment
(much like the word “entitlement” a couple weeks ago). I had put a picture of us up last year (I
went to visit one of my brothers out west and he had found photos from when we
were kids at Niagara Falls). I said that
I had already done that, but she insisted that I make a ceremony out of it and
put it next to the images she gave me representing the neglected child within. The thought of this nearly made me
vomit (which is a good thing in therapy evidently) – it meant that we were
touching the root of the issue.
It took me about 3 hours once I got home to actually do
it. After many bouts of the most intense
sobbing I have ever experienced, I was finally able to pull myself out of the
puddle of snot, drool and tears (terrible band name), dry off and move the
picture. I still have a hard time
looking at it. I can feel its presence
next to me as I type and the thought brings tears to my eyes. The lost little girl inside cries and begs
“why, why did you have to go and leave me all alone? I’m so scared and there is no one to protect
me.” I guess that’s the root of it. I feel so small just thinking about it.
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| Art by Angelina Wiona |
The longing to not be alone is probably the most common
theme in my life (and I think the lives of many people). Though, even when I was in a relationship I
still felt very alone. The only thing
that keeps me alone are the walls that I’ve built within me that keep the bad
feelings from rising to the surface. But
much like real walls, they may cage the bad things on the inside, but they also
prevent the good things on the outside from getting in (and the trouble with
that is that I’m on the inside). Since
starting my journey with my therapist, I have been fortunate enough that she
came with an emotional jackhammer and has been making incredible progress in
the demolition of these walls. It
doesn’t come without its price, but like any renovation, once it’s done, I’ll
have a shiny new inside to share with the world. And yes, there are bad things on the outside
that are trying to get in as well and my new vulnerability may lead to more
hurt, but as long as the walls stay down, the hurt can go out just as easily as
it came in (and being open and vulnerable is the only way to let the good in –
and who knows, maybe someone will come along and want to stay).
This week’s therapy was definitely a rough one (which
usually means we’re making progress). I
am thankful that I am taking this year off.
It is allowing me the emotional freedom to dredge up all these buried
emotions and deal with them without the complications of another relationship
in the mix.
For those readers who are also feeling alone and a little
lost, I highly recommend seeing a psychotherapist (these are the people who
don’t prescribe drugs – medicating is rarely the answer and if necessary,
should be done along with the work with a psychotherapist). Make sure you find someone you have a
connection with and who understands you when you speak. Don’t feel bad about trying a few out before
settling on the right one. It is a very personal
relationship and you should feel comfortable in it (you will be sharing your
deepest darkest secrets after all).
If you are interested in seeing my therapist, she is
taking new patients. She can be reached at alyssa.psyche@gmail.com - Alyssa Steventon .
She is truly wonderful!!
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