Yesterday, I touched on something that I feel needs a bit more attention. I said that I am co-dependent because of the fact that my father was an alcoholic - and because I'm afraid that one day you all will see who I "really" am.
I spent the better part of last night thinking about that. Who am I really? Like, if you saw me naked and vulnerable, what would you see? What am I so afraid of you finding?
Honestly? I'm afraid of you finding out that I'm the person that my father always said that I was.
A few short tales of my father, me, and his drinking:
- My earliest memory of my father is when I was three years old. He had passed out in the kitchen chair and toppled onto the floor. My four-year-old brother and I were trying to get him up before Mom saw him because we knew she'd be mad. My dad slapped me and told me to get off him. My brother, on the other hand, was allowed to help him up.
- It's 1:00 am and my brother, sister, and I are sitting at the top of the stairs, listening to my mom and dad fight. He's drunk and angry. My brother is helping my sister get her shoes on, so she would have been three, him eight, and me six or seven. When Dad hits Mom a second time, she calls us down to leave. We head over to my godparents' house and stay there for a week with Mom. Dad goes into rehab. Again.
- When I'm 10 and my sister is seven, we're arguing about doing the dishes. Typical kid stuff, you know? "You wash this time! I did it last time!" My dad, drunk of course, comes raging into the kitchen at us. My sister and I cowered in a corner. My dad took every dish on the counter and smashed them at our feet. Then he opened every cupboard and smashed them at our feet, too. All the while, he's raging about what a worthless little bitch I am, how I need to just learn to shut the fuck up, how I'm one of the worst things to ever happen to him. He then storms out of the house, gets in his truck, and heads to the bar. My mom cleans up the mess while my sister cries and goes to our godmother's house. I sit there at the table, stoic, because really, why cry?
- Thanksgiving Day when I'm 13. Dad, the cook in the house, is drunk (it's almost noon) and angry that the turkey didn't brown the way he wanted it to. All of the other food is sitting on the counter, waiting to go into the oven. Dad pulled the turkey out of the oven and throws it out the kitchen window ... without opening the window. It's Thanksgiving Day, November in Des Moines, IA, and all of the stores are closed, and we now have no turkey and a huge gaping hole in the window. Dad raged for a few minutes then went and passed out while Mom, my brother, my sister, and I cleaned up the mess. For the record, cardboard isn't an effective insulator.
- At 15, my best friend is over at the house. We're getting ready to go out for the night when my dad comes into the kitchen in a full-on rage. I don't even remember what it was about, but I do remember the vitriol and hatred in his face. He grabbed one of his multiple pill bottles and empties the contents into his hand. He holds them up to me, furious, and says, "I'm doing this because of you, you dirty little bitch." And he downs all of the pills. Then he throws the bottle at my feet and goes to lie down on the couch. My mom tells me to call an ambulance while she tries to get him to stand up and walk around. I do, but it took an effort to dial the three necessary numbers.
- It's a Saturday when I'm 17, getting ready to leave the house. Dad and I are the only two home since my mom and brother are both at work and my sister is out at a friend's. He gets pissed at me for God-only-knows what, again. I finally snap. I'd had enough of this bullshit, the constant belittling, the never-ending complaints about what a horrible human being I am. I yell at him, tell him to just shut the fuck up and go sleep it off. He hauls off and slaps me. I slap him back. He looks stunned, then he screws up his fist and punches me in the face. I leave and go to a friend's house. I'm there for two weeks before my mom convinces me to come home. He never apologizes, and in fact, doesn't acknowledge my existence for another couple of weeks.
- Another Saturday, when I'm 23, single, pregnant with twins. I'd just had a conversation with my baby-daddy about marriage, to which he said that he didn't think he was ready. I was devastated because I was very much in love with him. My dad, drunk per the norm, and I are in the kitchen, and he asks me when I'm going to get married. I tell him that we'd decided to wait to make sure it was the right thing for us. He then spend 15 minutes telling me what a whore I am, how I'm bringing two little bastards into the world. That he's ashamed of me, of what I've done. He can't even look at me, he says, and he leaves the room.
He died when I was 37 years old. That kind of shit? Never stopped. When he was drunk, I was "thunder thighs", "that little bitch", "that whore", etc. I don't remember a single time that my father told me he was proud of me. Not when I graduated from college. Not when I produced amazing grandchildren for him to dote on. Not when I was a fantastic single mother to those children.
When he was sober? Mostly, he just kind of ignored me, which was preferred. Sometimes he was kind, like when my friend committed suicide when we were 14. We watched a lot of old TV together, quietly sitting in the living room together, just the two of us. When he was sober, he wasn't a good dad, but he wasn't a bad one, either.
But yeah... drunk? Heh.
Despite all of this, I don't hate my dad. He started drinking when he was nine years old. He was beaten and abused by his parents his entire childhood. He was remarkably intelligent, and only had a ninth-grade education. He loved my mom more than anything, despite the way he treated her. And when I really needed him - like when my friend died - he was the one who sunk on the kitchen floor and cried with me while my mom stood at the sink completely at a loss of what to do.
In my family, we regularly say that Dad was an awful father and a worse husband, but he was a good man and a great grandfather. He, like most of us, failed in very fundamental ways while succeeding in others.
My fear, however, is that one day, someone will look inside me and see the ugly, horrible person that my father saw. They'll see a monster where my soul lives, and they'll find me as repugnant as my dad did. I am co-dependent so that I can protect all of you from the person I believed myself to be for a very, very long time.
A college friend posted yesterday that she'd seen a small bit of my life then, and she totally understood why I was co-dependent. I had to be to survive. I responded that I no longer get to hide behind my childhood for my issues. I've been an adult longer than I was a child, and it's time to take responsibility for who I am.
This includes how I see myself.
My dad was wrong. He is the one who never really saw me. He is the one who saw a monster instead of a good soul with a strong sense of right and wrong.
The true irony is that the person that I am today is who he would have been had he not been an alcoholic. I believe firmly in supporting the weak, just like he did. I believe that everyone has a right to be whomever they want, just like he did (except that I include women). I would give my last dollar to help someone else, going hungry so someone else won't. My dad was the same, and I saw that happen more than once. I love with all of my heart, just like he did. I can empathize with most anyone, as he did.
The monster my father raged against in me wasn't a monster at all. It was a reflection of what he could never be.
I spent the better part of last night thinking about that. Who am I really? Like, if you saw me naked and vulnerable, what would you see? What am I so afraid of you finding?
Honestly? I'm afraid of you finding out that I'm the person that my father always said that I was.
A few short tales of my father, me, and his drinking:
- My earliest memory of my father is when I was three years old. He had passed out in the kitchen chair and toppled onto the floor. My four-year-old brother and I were trying to get him up before Mom saw him because we knew she'd be mad. My dad slapped me and told me to get off him. My brother, on the other hand, was allowed to help him up.
- It's 1:00 am and my brother, sister, and I are sitting at the top of the stairs, listening to my mom and dad fight. He's drunk and angry. My brother is helping my sister get her shoes on, so she would have been three, him eight, and me six or seven. When Dad hits Mom a second time, she calls us down to leave. We head over to my godparents' house and stay there for a week with Mom. Dad goes into rehab. Again.
- When I'm 10 and my sister is seven, we're arguing about doing the dishes. Typical kid stuff, you know? "You wash this time! I did it last time!" My dad, drunk of course, comes raging into the kitchen at us. My sister and I cowered in a corner. My dad took every dish on the counter and smashed them at our feet. Then he opened every cupboard and smashed them at our feet, too. All the while, he's raging about what a worthless little bitch I am, how I need to just learn to shut the fuck up, how I'm one of the worst things to ever happen to him. He then storms out of the house, gets in his truck, and heads to the bar. My mom cleans up the mess while my sister cries and goes to our godmother's house. I sit there at the table, stoic, because really, why cry?
- Thanksgiving Day when I'm 13. Dad, the cook in the house, is drunk (it's almost noon) and angry that the turkey didn't brown the way he wanted it to. All of the other food is sitting on the counter, waiting to go into the oven. Dad pulled the turkey out of the oven and throws it out the kitchen window ... without opening the window. It's Thanksgiving Day, November in Des Moines, IA, and all of the stores are closed, and we now have no turkey and a huge gaping hole in the window. Dad raged for a few minutes then went and passed out while Mom, my brother, my sister, and I cleaned up the mess. For the record, cardboard isn't an effective insulator.
- At 15, my best friend is over at the house. We're getting ready to go out for the night when my dad comes into the kitchen in a full-on rage. I don't even remember what it was about, but I do remember the vitriol and hatred in his face. He grabbed one of his multiple pill bottles and empties the contents into his hand. He holds them up to me, furious, and says, "I'm doing this because of you, you dirty little bitch." And he downs all of the pills. Then he throws the bottle at my feet and goes to lie down on the couch. My mom tells me to call an ambulance while she tries to get him to stand up and walk around. I do, but it took an effort to dial the three necessary numbers.
- It's a Saturday when I'm 17, getting ready to leave the house. Dad and I are the only two home since my mom and brother are both at work and my sister is out at a friend's. He gets pissed at me for God-only-knows what, again. I finally snap. I'd had enough of this bullshit, the constant belittling, the never-ending complaints about what a horrible human being I am. I yell at him, tell him to just shut the fuck up and go sleep it off. He hauls off and slaps me. I slap him back. He looks stunned, then he screws up his fist and punches me in the face. I leave and go to a friend's house. I'm there for two weeks before my mom convinces me to come home. He never apologizes, and in fact, doesn't acknowledge my existence for another couple of weeks.
- Another Saturday, when I'm 23, single, pregnant with twins. I'd just had a conversation with my baby-daddy about marriage, to which he said that he didn't think he was ready. I was devastated because I was very much in love with him. My dad, drunk per the norm, and I are in the kitchen, and he asks me when I'm going to get married. I tell him that we'd decided to wait to make sure it was the right thing for us. He then spend 15 minutes telling me what a whore I am, how I'm bringing two little bastards into the world. That he's ashamed of me, of what I've done. He can't even look at me, he says, and he leaves the room.
He died when I was 37 years old. That kind of shit? Never stopped. When he was drunk, I was "thunder thighs", "that little bitch", "that whore", etc. I don't remember a single time that my father told me he was proud of me. Not when I graduated from college. Not when I produced amazing grandchildren for him to dote on. Not when I was a fantastic single mother to those children.
When he was sober? Mostly, he just kind of ignored me, which was preferred. Sometimes he was kind, like when my friend committed suicide when we were 14. We watched a lot of old TV together, quietly sitting in the living room together, just the two of us. When he was sober, he wasn't a good dad, but he wasn't a bad one, either.
But yeah... drunk? Heh.
Despite all of this, I don't hate my dad. He started drinking when he was nine years old. He was beaten and abused by his parents his entire childhood. He was remarkably intelligent, and only had a ninth-grade education. He loved my mom more than anything, despite the way he treated her. And when I really needed him - like when my friend died - he was the one who sunk on the kitchen floor and cried with me while my mom stood at the sink completely at a loss of what to do.
In my family, we regularly say that Dad was an awful father and a worse husband, but he was a good man and a great grandfather. He, like most of us, failed in very fundamental ways while succeeding in others.
My fear, however, is that one day, someone will look inside me and see the ugly, horrible person that my father saw. They'll see a monster where my soul lives, and they'll find me as repugnant as my dad did. I am co-dependent so that I can protect all of you from the person I believed myself to be for a very, very long time.
A college friend posted yesterday that she'd seen a small bit of my life then, and she totally understood why I was co-dependent. I had to be to survive. I responded that I no longer get to hide behind my childhood for my issues. I've been an adult longer than I was a child, and it's time to take responsibility for who I am.
This includes how I see myself.
My dad was wrong. He is the one who never really saw me. He is the one who saw a monster instead of a good soul with a strong sense of right and wrong.
The true irony is that the person that I am today is who he would have been had he not been an alcoholic. I believe firmly in supporting the weak, just like he did. I believe that everyone has a right to be whomever they want, just like he did (except that I include women). I would give my last dollar to help someone else, going hungry so someone else won't. My dad was the same, and I saw that happen more than once. I love with all of my heart, just like he did. I can empathize with most anyone, as he did.
The monster my father raged against in me wasn't a monster at all. It was a reflection of what he could never be.
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