Probably fortunately, I only ever had one father—so I assumed all fathers were like mine. I didn’t understand why Father’s Day was such a big deal.
He passed away long ago at the ripe age of 87. From the outside, he looked like a “good enough” father. He provided for us and supported my brother and me through much higher education than he ever had. And yet—I hated him. As far as I know, my younger brother felt the same.
He never hit us. But he was emotionally and verbally abusive, especially toward my mother and me. When I visited my parents, I stopped talking to him. My brother wouldn’t even set foot in the house. Later, when Alzheimer’s took hold, he was admitted to a nursing home. I didn’t love him, but as a “good enough” daughter, I visited him every day while I was in town. He didn’t recognize me. I sat beside him, spoke gently, massaged his shoulders. He wasn’t as nasty as before—maybe because he no longer knew I was his daughter. Still, from time to time, he shouted cruel things at the other residents. The staff would smile and say, “That’s the dementia talking, not him.”
But I turned to my mom and said, “That’s exactly how he always was.”
Since childhood, I’d been the main target of his emotional outbursts. In a nutshell, having a daughter was, to him, a waste. He made it clear he wished I hadn’t been born a girl. He told me I was too ugly to be loved by anyone. That became the foundation of my identity.
I grew up believing I wasn’t lovable as I was. That I would never be good enough for anyone. I didn’t trust men. I hated him.
Still, I did what I could out of duty. He died alone. I made it to his wake and funeral. No one cried.
I have a friend I’ve known for 30 years. Her worldview is completely different. She loves her parents deeply, and they love her. Her father lives in assisted living and is adored by the staff. He always told his three daughters they were cute and pretty, just as they were. Being his daughter was reason enough to be loved. Her older sister treats her own daughters and granddaughters the same way. My friend says love flows naturally in her family. She believes in love. She knows she is beautiful, and she knows she deserves love from men.
I once told her, “I don’t understand love.” She didn’t understand what I meant—until we shared our stories.
Not all fathers are the same. Not all families are the same. Not everyone’s idea of love is the same.
I can understand, at least partly, what made my father the way he was. I can feel compassion for him. But I still don’t love him. I never felt loved by him. That kind of feeling, I reserve only for my dogs.
So on Father’s Day, while many people celebrate, please remember:
Some of us can’t.
Somatic Awareness 