I Hated My Dad
I hated my dad. Hated him. H-A-T-E-D him. I’d scream it on the regular.
To him:
“Go away. I hate you.”
To my mother:
“Why don’t you make him leave me alone?”
To the Universe:
“ARRGHHHH!!!! I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.”
That relationship was fraught from a very early age.
My dad wasn’t a physically abusive man. He was emotionally abusive. He was a teaser. He liked to tease. That’s it. Teasing. Still, it was tough. Never-ending. He pushed and pushed and pushed me to tears. He pushed me until I’d beg, “Leave me alone.” He pushed me until I screamed, “I hate you.” And then he’d push me some more.
My dad worked two jobs my entire young life; from the day I was born until I was in my mid-twenties. One job was from 7am-3pm, Monday through Friday, at Kelvinator’s – a factory. He was on the line. I think he was a foreman for a while but didn’t like it. The second job was 4pm-11pm, Sunday through Saturday, 7 days a week, at Granny’s Kitchen – a restaurant. There he was a maître d' and a manager. At least that’s how I remembered it – the work schedule. That left about, what, 16 hours of time each week that we’d be together? Saturday mornings and Sunday mornings and occasional run-ins throughout the week. I think he went in to work at 2pm on the weekends. He’d get time off occasionally, but the point is he worked… a lot. Still, in those off hours there was plenty of time to interact and that interaction was all too often painful.
Here’s the thing… the teasing was silly. Mostly childish. Sometimes inappropriate. Always relentless.
“Hey Teresa! Cousin Robbie called. He has a crush on you,” he’d say.
“You’re lying. He didn’t call.” I’d reply, praying that the conversation would end there.
“Oh yes he did. He thinks you’re cute.” He’d say this in a sing-song way to make sure there was a better chance to get under my skin.
“No, he doesn’t. Stop saying that.”
Singing again, “Someone has a crush on Teresa.”
“Stop it. He does not!”
“And Teresa has a crush on Robbie.”
“STOP IT! I do not.”
“Teresa and Robbie sitting in a tree…”
“Shut up!”
“K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
“Leave. Me. Alone.” By now the tears were flowing.
“First comes love. Then comes marriage…”
“Stop it! I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
I’d scream, running to my bedroom.
As I ran I’d occasionally hear Imelda (my mother) pipe in, “Dammit Bob, Leave the girl alone.” But it was never enough. I couldn’t stop him. She couldn’t stop him. Or wouldn’t. That’s what the little girl in me decided. “If you loved me, you’d divorce him,” I’d cry to her. She never did.
Usually two days later, after the worst of the exchanges, he’d come home with a stuffed animal from Meijer or a bicentennial coin from Old Kent or a ham hoagie from Granny’s. I loved ham hoagies. He wouldn’t say sorry, but he’d give me a gift of some sort.
Only a few days would pass before things would start again. Maybe this time he’d ask me what time it was. I didn’t know how to tell time. Clocks confused me. It took me awhile to understand how to read a clock. I knew I was late to it. I was embarrassed. He knew this was difficult for me. I’d not answer and pray he wouldn’t ask me again. He would. And when I couldn’t answer, he’d laugh and tell me that everyone I knew could tell time and I had better figure it out because I didn’t want to be late for everything my whole life. “Teresa can’t tell the time! Hey everyone, Teresa can’t tell the time.” He’d share to the household. No one really paying attention, I’m sure. Still, again, I’d cry.
The pattern repeated itself over and over again. Tease. Cry. Buy. Repeat.
Occasionally, he’d take me (all of us kids) to a Museum, the zoo, the beach or the Meijer store. I vividly recall our drives to get groceries. He’d ask me to bring a book so I could read to him or he’d quiz me on my address and phone number (in case we ever got split up.) He’d give us quality experiences. I loved these times with my dad. I loved THIS man. And I thought this man loved me. The other dad, the one that was teasing non-stop, he didn’t love me. How could he? How could someone be so cruel to someone you love? I never understood why he couldn’t be this man all the time. If he loved me, he’d stop teasing me. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. I know that now.
My dad was a mess.
As I got older and the teasing diminished and the therapy began, I’d try to make sense of it all. I knew I couldn’t figure him out on my own. I knew this had to be a joint effort. Finally, in my late twenties, I made a decision to heal this dysfunctional relationship. At 28, I wrote him a letter, several pages long and decided I would read it to him.
I vividly recall that day. I found him sitting in his bedroom where he and his Lazy-Boy knock off with its food stains and worn armrests had been banished. My mother had him put it there, too embarrassed to have anyone see they owned such a “piece of garbage.” He was saying his rosary, like he always did. “Hypocrite,” I always thought. Sometimes I’d say it to him too... especially when he’d tease me as we left church. We’d exit the doors after 11am Mass and by the time I’d gotten home I’d be sobbing. I hated him for pretending to Love God in one moment and hate me in another.
I took a breath and asked him if I could read a letter to him. I asked if he would be open to hearing what I had to say about our relationship. At that time, I had been learning a great deal about reincarnation, so I explained to him that I wanted to be sure we cleared up everything in this lifetime so I didn’t have to come back and deal with him all over again. My very Catholic father quietly said, “Okay, go on.”
I read the letter aloud. I asked why my pleas to stop the teasing went unheeded. I asked why he was so cruel. I asked why he never hugged me. (He was not a hugger.) I asked why he never intervened when I was in relationship with a major abusive alcoholic. I asked why he didn’t love me the way I needed to be loved. I asked about so many things – some too painful to share now. I apologized for how much I told him I hated him and that I only said it louder and louder because that was the only way I thought he would stop. And when I was done reading the letter, we both sat there in tears.
After a few minutes of silence, my dad spoke. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry.” He added, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know.” How could he not? I thought. But I didn’t want to fight. I wanted to understand. We talked. Really talked. He said he didn’t know how to stop. He told me my mom did ask him to stop. He told me he thought that someday I would stop crying and that I would learn not react. He thought that was a good thing. He told me some other things I can’t share with you. He told me he didn’t intervene with the boyfriend because he knew I’d make a choice and that he was certain the boyfriend would win and he didn’t want to lose me. He told me that he saw the way that man treated me and that he prayed to God I would leave the guy. He told me that he’d cry himself to sleep at night in pain for me. He said that to me. I cried harder. The tears were good. So good. Healing. For the first time my dad made me cry for all the right reasons and my heart was so full of love it almost exploded.
We talked for probably another three hours that day. When I left the room, I knew that our relationship was forever changed. I knew that my dad heard me. And I knew that if reincarnation was a thing, I wasn’t going to have to deal with him again. We worked it out. Or were working it out. I still didn’t understand him. I still didn’t understand why he did the things he did, but I knew I didn’t need to know. It didn’t matter. What mattered is that we had a new beginning. A father-daughter do over. I understood how rare that was and I was grateful.
Over the next 15 plus years, he’d “check-in” with me. Occasionally, he’d ask, “Hey there, how you doing T-bunk (his nickname for me)? Are we okay? You’re not holding on to anything are you?” And I’d say no. Sometimes I’d ask him questions about his life and the conversations would get deep. He would share with me the emotional trauma of his youth and the challenges he faced as a husband. And sometimes when he’d start to tease, I’d randomly yell, “$75!” “What the hell is $75?” he’d ask. “That’s the money you’re going to owe me for a therapy session if you don’t behave.” And he’d laugh. His big belly would shake and my heart would get that – I’m-gonna-explode – feeling again.
My dad was a rare breed. He was an old dog who wanted to learn new tricks. He wanted to be a better person. He tried and he failed over and over again, but he never stopped trying. He bought me so many things as a kid but my favorite was the one he didn't purchase. It was him. He showed me what it means to be broken and whole at the same time.
I had this vintage glass bottle. I loved it. It was that soft green, like honeydew, not pine. I used it for bouquets. At some point I dropped it and it got three different cracks, but it didn’t break. None of the cracks were strong enough to shatter the bottle. And, it still held water. It was broken and whole. It was damaged but kept on giving. I loved it even more. Just like my dad. Once I saw his cracks his Light shown brighter than I had ever known. He showed me that becoming a better person is hard and that it’s something you do for yourself and in doing for yourself you can help others. He showed me that the work is not perfect and the result is not perfect and that’s okay – even with the cracks you can still be whole. Broken and whole.
I loved my dad. Truly loved my dad. L-O-V-E-D him.
