In my late teens and 20’s I used to brag about my father and ignore his flaws. I would often say, “thank god for him”. “At least he cared enough to throw me out of his and my mom’s mess by pushing me out of the house to get a job”. I truly idealized him and firmly believed that I wouldn’t have made it or been alive if it weren’t for him. I would often still call myself as a Daddy’s girl. Now, it gives me the “ick” feelings. I was only his “little girl” when I could pack away my feelings and be the little boy who sucked it up and eventually became the man he wished he could have been. He eventually couldn’t face me and treated me with anger and disdain in the year or two before his death. I often reminded him of his own vulnerabilities. Not out of overt ego but simply because I became the one taking care of him as he sank lower into his pain, shame and addiction.
Here’s some backstory on how my father attempted to carry the weight of our family and what that ultimately meant for me as his daughter.
In the late 80’s and throughout the rest of my childhood, my mother betrayed, my father, other people and me with regard to money. One of the biggest situations occurring when I was under 5. She was writing bad checks, got arrested and charged with felonies. My assumption is she used the money for drugs and various other shit. According to my Dad, he chose to borrow money from his employer to bail her out and pay for the legal fees associated with the offense. We lost the apartment we lived in and ended up living in some crackhead motel on Rt 46 in South Hackensack. If you are familiar with the area, it’s not the place for anyone to be living. Let alone a 5/6 year old. However, my dad fixed the situation in order to keep our family together. He put his feelings aside and did the noble thing most father’s would be trained to do.
This set the stage for the rest of their marriage and my childhood. Her criminal activity also spawned my first recallable core memory.
My mother had taken me out one day to go shopping and she took me to Mcdonald’s and the park. She called it mommy/daughter day. I can’t fully visualize being at McDonald’s but when I recall that aspect along with my Happy Meal, I get a feeling in my body that generates happiness and immediate sadness. I was about 5 and so happy to be out with her spending time. The next I recall is her being arrested and us both being taken to the probation office in the county we lived in. I was locked in a room by myself with a one way window and my mother was brought into another room. I’m assuming it was the room on the other side of the glass. I could hear her probation officer screaming at her, “Is this what you want?” “You want her taken away from you?” She was crying. I can tell you now that I feel unbelievable sadness for myself and her that day. However, the anger and shame that took over me crippled my emotions for 35 years of my life. After much trauma work and EMDR, I have been able to realize that was the first time I experienced weakness, powerlessness, disgust, and anger at my own fear, sadness, and longing for my mom. The fear was made so much bigger because of the environment of the probation office with cops around that I immediately replaced those vulnerable feelings with whatever I heard being expressed. After all, my mom was crying and they were angry and giving her shit. I think I was angry for her too because at her core, she didnt want to harm me or anyone else. She was a lost little girl inside, too and just needed healing. I somehow could feel that then but couldn’t put it to words until after I processed the memory.
The next thing I remember is sitting on a waiting room chair near the front door of that office with my mom nearby and my father walking in the door and picking me up after having a side conversation with her. He and I left without my mom. I’m assuming she had to spend the night in jail. I don’t remember anything else. She violated her probation orders and got picked up the day she took me out. The feelings that come up when I recall this memory are gut wrenching inside of me still. My father showed up, picked me up, took me home. He fixed the situation. He was a strong man for sure but I have to wonder if he felt respected, loved or honored? Or even considered by his wife as whole person who had childhood trauma before ever meeting my mother. Was he considering himself? Looking back, I don’t think so.
Moving onto my next vivid memory. My father was beating my ass with scissor handles for lying to him. I turned my head without a tear in my eyes and said, “you think that hurts me Tommy?” He had been lied to and beaten as a kid and adult. He stopped beating me that day because he once recalled to me that he felt if he didn’t stop I was going to grow up and kick his ass for continuing the generational trauma of physical abuse. On one hand I appreciate that he could see what a badass spirit I had because he is correct, I would have gone rogue eventually but on the other, it would have been much more loving for him to consider the pain he endured both as a kid and as an adult man who’s wife repeatedly lied to him.
The next core memory have is, I took something from their bedroom and as punishment was locked in my room by myself where I could see the driveway from my bedroom windows. I was so scared of being locked away from my family. Through my tears I watched my parents walk down the driveway and my dad drive the car down the driveway out of sight. I screamed bloody murder and I also had to pee but couldn’t get out of my room to get to the bathroom. I was beyond scared. I pissed my pants that night and cried myself to sleep. The next morning, my doorknob was unlocked. I don’t remember anything else other than my mother putting me in bath after taking off my urine soaked clothes. Would have been much more loving for my dad to either just beat my ass as punishment or lovingly choose to heal his trauma triggers before disciplining me in such a horrific way. But he definitely fixed the situation. I never again too anything from him or my mother or their bedroom.
At 7, after we moved to the motel I was left outside to play in the parking lot by myself. My heroin addict uncle that periodically lived with us left to take a bus to NYC. I know now, he was going to get drugs and wouldn’t return for days at a time. That day my parents went a few doors down to visit with someone else who lived there. Bored and playing with the pebbles on the ground I found a hypodermic needle, I can remember examining it with curiosity. Eventually, I stuck myself in the thumb with it and it hurt! Immediately, I pulled it out and then started bleeding. Scared shitless, I went knocking on every door until I found my parents in room 6. (We lived in room 1) I told my dad what I did and brought him over to see the needle. He scooped me up, threw me in the backseat of the car and off we went to the hospital. I know now that he was having me checked because my uncle had just been diagnosed with HIV from intravenous drug use of heroin. I was one lucky little girl with lots of angels around me. I did not contract HIV that day. I used to think thank god my dad cared enough to fix the situation by taking me to the hospital to make sure I was OK. I’m sure you can piece together what would have been a better option, though.
Finally, at 7 we moved to Garfield after my parents managed to get an apartment. I lied to my mother about something and my father put a sign on me and walked me around K-Mart, telling me to announce that I am a liar and not to trust me. Then brought me home to walk around in a circle in out living while the neighbors watched. I recalled this memory in previous blog post. Yeah my father fixed my lying because he traumatized me into making sure I didn’t do it anymore but it would have been way healthier if he had recognized his own anger about my mother constantly lying to him instead of projecting his feelings onto me.
These are some of my earliest memories.
There were also times as a child when I stayed at my grandparents house and was scared to go to sleep alone in the upstairs spare bedroom. I can remember being so afraid probably due to that night I was locked in my bedroom. So I would cry and cry and cry. My grandfather would come up and scream at me to shut my goddamn mouth and go to sleep! All I did was cry quieter and stay afraid but eventually I just developed more anger and a thicker skin. Because there was so much other stuff going on and happening to me that nobody saw or saw but did nothing about. My grandfather wasn’t interesting in why I was crying. I would have appreciated being asked what the problem was because maybe I could have opened up about the fears I had around sleeping alone since that day I pissed my pants while locked in my room. At least he fixed the crying child upstairs, I guess..
As a young child and then again as a teen, when my heroin addict uncle wasn’t busy trying to get his life together as a step-father and husband he would end up in jail or living in my house. He would openly shoot up and pass out in front of me. Also borrowing money from me when I was older. Not ever paying it back but always bringing me a giant teddy bear or some sort of gift to make up for his mistakes. Always, “fixing” never speaking.
As I grew older I didn’t know how to speak up properly for myself or share openly about things because I was told so many times not to say anything about the things that went on in my house. Also, I think I assumed any extended family must have known but didn’t do anything so I wrote off many hurtful events as “normal”.
My father didn’t save me and he didn’t need for me to idealize him. He was the first man in my life to allow betrayal, pain and boundary violations to happen to himself and to me. Both from others and at his own hands. I needed him to heal, have some boundaries and be my father.
He was betrayed for most of his life. I’m not sure how much anyone knew about how much of my mother’s nonsense he (and eventually I) were covering for her. With that said, my father needed to take a serious look at his wounds. He needed support and love. He was once a young boy, the youngest of 4, who’s mom left him and his brothers to be raised by an alcoholic father. It makes complete sense to me from a trauma standpoint why he didn’t leave my mother. Maybe he didn’t know how and quite literally needed/wanted her love. Especially after a 20+ year marriage that included toxic patterns and drug use, I’m sure leaving just became harder and harder of an option to consider.
Despite using me as a stand-in parent he also made himself out to be my savior when I was victimized by his behavior and the behavior of others.
I do believe he paid a price for love. I know his sober self never wanted me to pay a price. He blatantly told me not to. But I did anyway because he did so by choosing control over his own vulnerability. He chose avoidance and addiction over healing and connection. His parenting was full of projections onto me that were laced with the anger he harbored toward his parents and my mother for. I deserved better than this and I’m more than a bit pissed because for as self aware as he claimed to be and apologetic as he was, he could be just as oblivious to his own patterns and self righteous for no reason at times.
In 2019, I was met with my own betrayal within my marriage. In utter shock and pain, the revelation of being lied to within my marriage cut through me like a knife. I was jobless, powerless with 2 kids, carting around uprooted unprocessed traumas from childhood and I had my father’s voice in my head telling me not to pay a price for love. The foundation of my life blown apart by the man I love, again. Just like when I was 14 and my father told me about their addictions and uprooted my life. In survivor fashion, I flung into action. I went back to work, and instead of being vulnerable I shamed and blamed my husband. Inflated my ego to hide the pain and acted better than him while supporting my household. All the while being so proud of myself and giving my dad the credit STILL for teaching me how to survive. Looking back at that, that looks and sounds exactly like my father who blamed and shamed my mother and me while taking care of our house and paying the bills. Gloating about being smart and self aware survivor I was, I made such an ass of myself and think its pretty funny now that I thought I knew better. No shame in my game. I definitely effed that all up and since learning to handle myself better our marriage has gotten better and our family has healed far more.
Trauma patterns repeat unless we stop them with conscious choice to dig deep and heal.
My father needed to care about himself more and to teach the right way to protect oneself. Not be overly responsible for the decisions of others and all the things that went wrong. All he did was set me up to be desensitized to inappropriate behavior, boundary violations, and interpersonal betrayal. HIs “survival skills” and loops of anger, shame, avoidance, and apologies were useless when it came to learning how to be a girl with feelings who’s softness was welcomed, protected and nurtured to grow.
He was sensitive at heart and traumatized early in life but was unable to carry the weight of his feelings alone. The expectations to “be a man” far outweighed his need to be seen, heard and loved. He deserved a partner with less self-shame than my mother. A partner who had healed as well. But as with most things in life, he needed to clear his own shame, feel his own feelings and stay focussed on who he was meant to become. Instead of focussing on fixing his wife and fashioning me into some life warrior that could take blow after blow without ever falling. Instead he allowed himself to be dragged down in an attempt to avoid abandonment by always fixing and molding.
I truly wish that as a collective we could see the damage done to the masculine energy around us when we tell boys to suck it up or man up instead of learn to accept their own feelings. The effects of this ripple throughout lifetimes and affect girls and women as well. It can take generations to heal it. The theme’s of this is seen in every arena of life and the patterns are covert if you aren’t aware of what you are looking for.
To the men out there, you make a huge impact on the people around you who love you and look to you for guidance. As fathers, brothers, and husbands, you matter and we all need to be shown how to lead with compassion for ourselves and empathy for those around us. In your dark moments, I hope you choose vulnerable connection with others instead of hiding your feelings and “just fixing” things all the time. It feels lonely and isolating when you are unable to connect with your feelings. It can sometimes feel like shame when we aren’t heard because you are unable to hear your own hearts. I hope that if you find yourself surrounded by women and (men) who are unable to accept their own feelings that you will consider seeking people who are more healed and able to accept your feelings. I hope you will learn to demand more love for yourselves eve if it’s at an incremental pace.
More vulnerability is needed in the world. Masculine healing and inner truth matters just as much as feminine healing matters. Idealization and pedestaling each other is counterproductive. We need to come alongside one another in order to heal and stop doing damage to one another.
My dad wasn’t a victim. He was victimized and needed to learn compassion for self in order to integrate his early life lessons and realize my mother didn’t need rescuing either. She was victimized as well and needed a beacon of hope to lead the way to her own healing. Even if that meant walking say for his own healing and my health and putting her face to face with her own pain of loss. He surely wasn’t going to fall apart if he was abandoned or left her behind because he already survived hell before becoming a husband and father. There was nothing he couldn’t handle. It was only the FEAR of abandonment that stopped him.
I wish my father could have learned this lesson for himself. Maybe I would have had an easier childhood. Maybe I wouldn’t be as self aware as I am now or been as well equipped to reach my true purpose in life. Who knows. I do know I miss the man my dad was when he was sober and in love with life. He would have been a wonderful and fun grandfather. I do miss him very much but he isn’t my idol.
Dad,
For all the traumas, shame, blame, and scapegoating that you passed on to me. I am grateful for what you gave me. Early lessons that connected me to hope and spirituality. Lessons that provided the intuitive insights I have now which led me to choosing my own healing. I am grateful for the horrors. Without them I would be without the ability to see what harms the human spirit and that love is heals it.
I accept you because I accept me. I fight for you because I fight for me. I am you, you are me. I love you because I love me, now.
-Jess.
Road To Harmony 
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