About my father. Part One: Early childhood

Initially I was going to begin the discussion around my dad in a single large post, but then I realized that it made more sense to break it down into parts. Because he's had so many different personas, not just to me, but to the other people in our lives. And even though each of those personas served pretty much the same purpose, I still find it interesting how they changed over the years as I grew up, and also how my perspective on them has changed when I looked back at them through the lens of therapy.

So let's start way back at the beginning.

After I was born, my dad was my primary caretaker. My mum went back to work as a bookkeeper for a large moving company, which given that this was the 80's and long before the internet and databases, meant she often had to travel to the rural branches of the company and manually balance their books. Meaning she'd be away for days at a time. My dad worked as a tutor for a company that did vocational training specifically a course on how to use computers which were just starting to be a thing. According to him, he'd bring me to class and teach with me in a carrier and during breaks he'd have all the ladies in the class cooing over me. I was apparently a 'great baby' and slept through most of the classes.

When I was three, we moved countries to the one we live in now. At this point my mum was pregnant with my younger brother, so when we moved into our new house in the largest city in the country, she stopped working and my dad got a job as a programmer.

All this context is necessary because it feeds into my earliest memories of my parents. I don't think my mother was totally happy as a stay at home parent, because I remember her being really angry and yelling all the time. I felt like asking her for anything was a major inconvenience and so I became really withdrawn and spent a lot of time alone in my room playing with my toys or reading. Once my brother's learning disability was discovered and he needed more attention, I was definitely encouraged to fend for myself, because I 'could' and so therefore shouldn't ask for things to be done for me.

My dad was the emotionally available parent. And I adored him. Like a puppy I would wait by the door for him to get home from work, squealing with happiness when he arrived and flinging myself into his arms. I lived for that moment when he would hug me tightly and I would be enveloped in warmth and the scent of his cologne. It was my moment of safety in an otherwise unsafe environment. I was his shadow on the weekends and loved going grocery shopping with him - that was our special time.

As I got older, I began to look for ways to get more acknowledgment and approval from my parents (my dad more than mum, but I still wanted her love too). I learned to make cups of tea and toast. I helped take care of my younger brother, and then my younger sister. All for scraps of affection and sporadic 'thank yous'. Not realizing that by doing so, I was setting myself up to believe that I only had worth and value when I was 'useful'. That my needs were never a priority, and if I tried to get them met, I was 'selfish' (this also comes up later).

My dad also loved the fact that I was a reader. Especially since I was so good at reading that at school, I had to go to a class with kids several years older than me for reading time, because the stuff my peers were reading just wasn't challenging. I enjoyed the books and plays I got to study, but yeah, kinda awkward being the only 6 year old in a class of 10 year olds. But my dad was SO proud that I was SO gifted at reading and reading comprehension. So that was another way for me to get love and affection from him.

Then there's also the other side of the doting proud dad coin. The angry, disappointed disciplinarian. When we were little, his way of disciplining us was, of course, spanking. He will maintain that he went 'easier' on us kids than his dad did on him, because he only used his hands on our backsides, where his mother was fond of using a thin apple branch as a switch and his dad would use his fists. But if you held a gun to my head and asked me to name ONE thing that I got spanked for, I honestly couldn't say. All I remember is the pain and humiliation, and (perhaps the worst part) the crushing guilt of disappointing my dad.

Outside the home, he was seen as this amazing guy. He was a hard worker who got along really well with his colleagues, he was on the Board of Trustees at my school, volunteered to help with school events, took me to Saturday morning sport etc. He loved having the other parents at sport especially telling him how great a dad he was for giving up his mornings to watch me play and he ate it up.

And that was my reality when I was young. As long as dad was happy, then everyone else was happy. So I dedicated myself to making sure he was happy as much as possible.

Then, when I was 10, he had his first heart attack. That, I feel, marked the transition into the next phase of my relationship with him. Which I will discuss in my next post: Part Two: The tween years, parentification and my first bully.

Until next time.

Setting the stage and meeting the players.

You know how they say that hindsight is 20/20 (and also a bitch)? It has taken me over 5 years in therapy to understand that the things I experienced growing up were not normal. Were not my fault. That they were, in fact, abuse. Abuse that thrived because none of us knew that it wasn't okay. Because none of us had the words to describe what was happening and how it made us feel. So we stayed quiet, and suffered in silence, because we didn't have a voice.

I'm now at a point in my healing journey where I am ready to break that silence. To let my voice be heard so that others who have been through similar things know that they aren't alone and they don't need to keep quiet either. To hopefully help others also put words to what they endured, and to find solidarity and comfort and support.

This is the part where I add in the caveat that I am not a therapist, nor a medical professional of any sort, I am just a survivor sharing my story.

Let me introduce you to the cast of my life story:

Me: I am a 40 year old woman, who fancies myself a semi-decent writer. As trite and cliche as it sounds, I am on a journey to heal from the abuse I experienced in my childhood (and to a lesser extent my adulthood) and find my true self. I suffer from C-PTSD, chronic anxiety and depression, and migraines. I also strongly suspect I'm somewhere on the autism spectrum and may also have undiagnosed ADHD. So yeah, a few steps above 'hot mess' and into 'spicy disaster' territory, but I'm working on it.

Dad: A baby boomer in his early 70's. Grew up in rural Northern Ireland, moved to our country when he was around 11. Lost his (physically abusive) father when he was around 15. Racist, misogynistic, 'just pull yourself up by your bootstraps' mentality. I strongly suspect he has an undiagnosed personality disorder, but of course, not a therapist so it remains alleged. Major martyr/superiority complex.

Mum: (deceased). Grew up in rural Australia. Was an oopsie 'change of life' baby, so was much younger than her older siblings. I believe that the gap between her and the next youngest was like 10+ years. Her mother was emotionally checked out of raising her and her father died when she was 14. She married my father young (she was 20) and I'm not entirely certain she wanted kids and only had them because dad wanted us. I had a really terrible relationship with her when I was a kid/teen/young adult. It was only when I got married and had a child of my own that our relationship shifted and we were able to relate to each other better. She also had an autoimmune disease that destroyed the nerves in her spine, causing her to be unable to walk and need a wheelchair, as well as struggling to use her hands. My dad was her full-time caregiver.

Brother: Middle child 3 years younger than me. Learning disability so needed more time and attention from my parents, but especially my mother. An incredibly gentle soul with a dark sense of humour. Very much a 'don't rock the boat' person who tries to avoid conflict, he just likes to do his own thing and not get involved in drama if he can help it.

Sister: Youngest child, 5 years younger than me. One of the strongest, bravest, amazing people I know. It's not my story to tell, but the TL;DR is that she was in an abusive relationship with the father of her child, and after he left her, she picked herself up, worked hard, and now she has a successful career, owns her own house, and is generally thriving. Like me she has begun to see our dad's behaviour for what it is and is currently low-contact with him.

Hubby: The best thing to happen to me. Has supported me through all my therapy and my bad migraine days. Is an amazing partner and father. Despite the fact that his parents divorced when he was young, they co-parented extremely well and so he is a pretty well-adjusted individual who sometimes has trouble understanding the complexities (and dysfunction) of my own family dynamics. Although he does also have anxiety, so he does lean on me sometimes (as he should).

Daughter: A sassy, wonderful human being who is on the autism spectrum. Has the same learning disability as her uncle. Loves all kinds of usual kid things, minecraft, pokemon, video games etc.

Niece: My sister's child who is also on the autism spectrum but is higher-needs than my daughter. Very artistic and creative. Loves dresses and unicorns and the colour pink.

There you have the main cast. There may be supporting characters here and there, but the majority of stories will revolve around myself and the immediate family.

In the next post I'll give a general overview of what the dynamic in our family was like growing up. I'll likely do a more in-depth post about each parent and my memories/experiences/opinions. Plus I'll also end up talking about my current relationship (or rather non-relationship) with my father and how I got to this point.

Thanks for joining me on my journey. I'll see you when I take the next step.