Dear Anita,

Your insight is quite amazing to me. It’s funny that I always think I’m maintaining a solid, confident veneer, yet the real me still shows through in ways that a perceptive person like yourself cannot help but see. I admire you for having this skill. It’s as mystical as a superpower to me. ☺

I think I understand what you’re getting at and it’s been a long time since I even thought about it, but on reflection there may be something in my past that could be a factor. My father was a strict disciplinarian. He could be loving, but mostly he seemed stern. I can remember as a little girl running out to greet him when he came home from work and carrying his lunchbox into the house. We seemed like a happy average family, my father, mother, brother and myself, but I joke about him now when I tell people, “I believed my father could kill me and get away with it.” He was just a larger-than-life (6’4”) bully of a person, and I was afraid of him.

To be clear, my father never beat me. He spanked us as children, but I only remember it being when we’d genuinely been “bad” – not because he was out of control. It was very ritualistic, if you could call it that. You know, he put us over his lap and smacked us with a belt, then sent us to our room. Once when I was seventeen I mouthed off to him and he slapped me across the face. That is the only time I can remember him giving me any “knee-jerk” discipline.

However, he LOVED to yell, and when he did he shook the windows in the house. It seemed like he was always angry about something. I can remember sometimes hearing him whistle when he was in a good mood and how buoyant it would make me feel because dad wasn’t in a bad mood for a change!

When I was 15 my father suffered a massive heart attack while at work one day. The damage to his heart was so extensive that he barely survived. He lived another 8 years after that, and those were the really dark years. He was permanently disabled, so his only entertainment in life was to sit and scrutinize us. I have to admit my brother got the brunt of my father’s boredom and displeasure. I can remember crying out of pity for him because he couldn’t seem to do anything right and he desperately wanted to please my dad, just once.

I was dating age by this time and my dad scared anyone who dared to stop by for a visit. LOL He was thoughtless with his words. He often criticized me in ways that took my breath away. He said worse things to my brother. My mother rarely intervened on our behalf I’m not sure if this was out of a sense of self-preservation or a desire to show a united front with my father, but there were times I begged her to do something to stop my dad from picking on my brother.

Here’s the strange thing: After all of this, I still wanted to believe my father was good deep down, and it was only his circumstances that made him mean. I was shrewd enough to see he was grossly unhappy, in ill health, unable to provide for his family, bored, and his own upbringing in poverty and ignorance probably gave him ZERO skills as a parent. I tried hard to repair our relationship and be the best daughter I could be.

I met my future husband and got engaged while my father was still alive. My father actually liked my husband and when we announced our engagement my dad was genuinely happy. I had a few months where I saw my relationship with him turning a corner finally. He seemed less disappointed with me and began treating me like an adult. We had conversations that didn’t involve me being in trouble for doing something stupid, or him yelling.

And then he died. He suffered another heart attack while we were all at work, and died alone. My father died a week before my brother’s wedding. We had his funeral and the following weekend my brother got married. The weekend after that I had to put my dog to sleep. We went from being a family of four (five with the dog) to just two in a matter of two weeks. And I think in my grief I conveniently forgot so many of the bad times and chose only to remember the good.

It’s been 26 years since his death and I mostly only remember him fondly. Your questions to me here made me think about the bad times for the first time in years and, in truth, I feel bad even typing it out – as if saying it aloud (or putting it in writing) makes it real and I don’t want to believe it. So what say you to that? 😉

Dear Anita.

Thank you for your response and for giving me permission to acknowledge what I’ve denied for so long. I know that sounds silly, but I feel that’s what you did in your response. I can remember prepping my husband to meet my father for the first time. It was the only time I think I ever categorized my father as an abuser. It hurt even then to say it, but I felt I had to warn him what he was potentially getting in to.

I have more of the story to share – the part wherein my mother ends up looking really bad – which is going to be even harder for me to write than the first part, but first I’d love to hear something about your own experiences.

Hope your walk was refreshing. I too took one during lunch today and I feel better. Write when you can, no pressure. Have a wonderful night. 🙂

Dear Anita,

I find myself almost at a loss for words – and that’s weird for me – as I normally just trust what’s in my heart and say it, sometimes in really awkward ways like: What you said to me made my heart feel puffy Anita! LOL

Normally I would be afraid of wearing the label of “gentle soul”, as it has come to be known to me as a label of weakness when said by others, and yet you made it feel okay. Thank you! So often I hear it used in terms of ‘you need to change’ or ‘toughen up’ when in fact I consider myself actually a very strong person.

But yes, I do fear. I can tell you that I’ve developed a chronic sense of perfectionism because I fear criticism so much that I just don’t ever put myself in a position where I need to be reprimanded. Luckily this is something that, just in the past few years, I’ve started letting go of a bit, but for a while it was exhausting. I feel I’m now able to say, “Hey, I dropped the ball. Sorry.” And move on. Well, sometimes I move on. LOL

As for sharing the story of my mother, OMG yes, it is painful, and I’m not sure why it is so hard for me to tell the facts as they happened – after all I didn’t make them happen – these are HER actions. But I’ve always considered my mother a paragon of perfect motherhood. I patterned myself after her. I wanted to be just like her, and when she behaved out of character, I couldn’t assign the responsibility to her – much as I couldn’t with my father. I had to come up with a plausible reason why she did what she did – something out of her control.

Of course, in the back of my brain I know the truth, but if I don’t say it I can go on pretending it isn’t real.

And I go back and read what I just wrote and think, “these are the words of someone who is completely broken,” but I don’t feel broken. I smile every day. I have a great life. I do get down now and then, but when I do I always ask myself, “Who can I help? Instead of sitting here dwelling on my sorrows, there must be someone out there hurting more than me. Who can I help?” and I’ll text a friend to wish them a good day or take someone to lunch just to perk them up.

Just last night I called my mother to check in on her and she told me how much she loves talking to me. How can you not WANT to hear that? How can you not be moved by that and want to forgive her for everything she did and let go of the past? How can you not say, “I’ve done bad things for which I would like to be forgiven. I’d like to have the chance to outrun my past. Why shouldn’t she?”

So yes, in answer to your question, I completely agree with you that sharing can be painful, and I think, in just acknowledging that you’ve told me what I need to know about your past – at least for now. I think we understand each other. ☺

More in a bit. I have a few work things I have to get done. I hope you’re having a wonderful Friday!!!