I wished my dad dead, and then he died.
TW: domestic violence, parental loss.
For the biggest chunk of my life, I had no qualms with wishing my biological father dead. Although my childhood memories may have been manipulated and hand woven into a narrative far beyond what was the truth, one thing was for sure, my father was a diabolical man. His passing came of no surprise; an alcoholic with a affinity for violence, he was never going to last long on this earth. I’m surprised and disgusted that he made it this far. There it is again, my inner hatred, seething out of my mouth, my body, my being. He stole my childhood, my only shot at a life free of anxiety, crippling depression, suicidal thoughts, unhealthy relationships with men, and constant worry of death.
For the biggest chunk of my life, I had no qualms with wishing my biological father dead. Although my childhood memories may have been manipulated and hand woven into a narrative far beyond what was the truth, one thing was for sure, my father was a diabolical man. His passing came of no surprise; an alcoholic with a affinity for violence, he was never going to last long on this earth. I’m surprised and disgusted that he made it this far. There it is again, my inner hatred, seething out of my mouth, my body, my being. He stole my childhood, my only shot at a life free of anxiety, crippling depression, suicidal thoughts, unhealthy relationships with men, and constant worry of death.
Although I’m not ready to talk about the psychological impact and the ins and outs of my childhood completely, neither do I feel I can do so freely without upsetting people in my life currently (maybe I’ll write a book one day), I will admit that even if my biological father was to see this from beyond the grave, I would have no issues with telling him: I’m glad you’re dead. I haven’t seen my dad since i was around 6/7 years old. I’ve wished him dead since i was able to wrap my head around my childhood trauma (11/12 years old). Even now, I think about it a lot and admit that, in order to wish another human being dead, you must have a lot of hate in your heart. I did, at one point. Until I realised that my hatred was intertwined with selfishness. I wanted to be a daddy’s girl, and he took that away from me. I wanted an overly protective dad who would reprimand me for having a boyfriend, and he took that away from me. He didn’t care about what my life would map out like, otherwise, he would have kept in touch. And believe me, he had the means to keep in touch.
When i was younger, in an attempt to keep my location and identity hidden, I wasn’t allowed to do most things a British teen would do. I wasn’t allowed in school photos, school productions, anything that was to be published, school trips, I wasn’t allowed MySpace or Facebook or any form of modern socialisation. It really did affect me mentally and socially; I was picked on at school for not being online, for not going on school trips or being allowed to participate in certain activities. It was hard keeping up with with the excuses and narratives. I was left out quite a lot, even within the people i was “friends” with, because I was bubble wrapped out of fear and uncertainty. When i was in year 11 (around 15/16 years old), I made a twitter account, under a kind of “hidden” username. My location wasn’t shared, but it wouldn’t have been difficult to decipher where my online friends were from. Within that last year of secondary school, I decided to make a blog. I was being bullied quite badly; I didn’t have any friends really, so i turned to the ones I had made on the Internet. The posts were pretty boring, to be honest. It was also the year that I got my part time job working at Claire’s, so most of my posts were about Eyelure lashes and costume jewellery. When my blog started to “take off” in 2011, which it did within months, I was a little scared of my “dad” tracking me down, and well, killing me.
It was a fear that was ingrained upon me throughout my childhood, whether that caused more damage and harm than it did good, well, that’s a discussion for the book, I guess. Over the years, I slowly, but surely, realised that if my waste-of-a-space father wanted anything to do with me, all he had to do was a simple social media search or contact his solicitor. When I hit 18, I stopped giving a fuck. I was living in a different city, at university, with a successful blog, working three jobs, a lovely relationship and a handful of friends. Geographically, I was living closer to him. The amount of times I wanted to hop on a train and knock on a door. I knew exactly which doors to knock on; like I said, social media searches provide all the information you need. The news of his remarriage, his new children, his new life, just reiterated the fact that he wanted nothing to do with his past life, children included.
All the while, I held this hatred in my heart, whether it was pushed upon me, or whether I had brewed this feeling for myself, nevertheless, it was there and it was apparent. I say this with the heaviest heart; I know a lot of people who have had parents they haven’t gotten to meet, or have had an unfair amount of life with. This is where a lot of my guilt stems from. The perfect families who don’t deserve their beautiful loved ones taken away. It fills me with such sickness that I could wish a parent dead when someone else craves another second with theirs. Some, most, parts of me hate myself for being so stubborn and hateful. If you knew me, and I mean really knew me, you’d know that I’m forgiving. You could walk all over me, shoot me in back; I’ll still hold you up like scaffolding.
I know that people make mistakes; I’m the first to hold my hands up and admit my flaws and mistakes. But I cannot forgive myself for this, no matter how justified it may seem. When you have an absent parent, you mourn their loss as a parental figure. I knew I lost my dad when i was 6 years old. When i was told we were going on holiday without him, and my relative informed me that we were never going to see him again because we had run away. I knew. I had to grow up and realise a lot of shit real fast. Although I had grieved the loss of, what was actually a dysfunctionally enjoyable relationship, I always had my questions lined up in the back of my mind for when I was brave enough to see him again. The years went on and the questions grew. It was obvious that I had missed a lot of the plot whilst growing up; having put the numbers into the formula, I kind of had a rough picture of what had happened. I think people underestimate what children can remember.
I had all of these glimpses of memories, so distinct and so prominent, yet I never got to ask the money questions that would piece it all together. I had always wanted to make him hurt and suffer for ruining my life, but when it came down to it, I could have never. I could have never been in the right headspace to ask these difficult questions. I could have never physically confronted him. I could have never been confident enough to knock on that door and ask about his truth. I would have never, ever, in a million years, no matter how much I try and convince myself so, have done that.
So here I sit, on my bed, at 2am, drunk, alone, writing into my iPhone notes app, trying to make sense of my trauma. Trying to piece together my stubbornness and guilt to make a jig saw, where the end picture is of a perfect life without any heartbreak or mental health issues. Where I envisage myself in a “perfect” life. Where I integrate into a healthy family lifestyle and forget about the rest. But life isn’t a picture perfect ending. It’s jig saw, for sure; one with jagged edges and misshapen pieces that don’t quite fit together. I don’t really have a conclusive end to this post other than little parting thought: the guilt of wishing an abusive parent dead doesn’t outweigh their abuse. Set yourself free.
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