To be loved is to be seen – but when understanding becomes a form of despair, why must we accept the burden of truth?
I spent my entire life trying to understand my father. I scurried around him, keenly aware of his every movement. The way his eyes narrowed in anger; the way he furrows his eyebrows in annoyance, and the anger in his voice at every slight–I studied that man so intently my vision blurred in his presence.
As his daughter, I had to understand him. I disparaged anyone who spoke ill of him and defended him vehemently because I thought I knew him best. I attached meaning to his actions. I rationalised his behaviours and attributed them to a place of love. It hurt much less when I could pretend he had a reason to treat me like this. That deep down, he meant well for me.
“I must have done something wrong again.”
At 11, I shouldn’t have asked to go to school when he was hungover; I deserved to be yelled at for the entire car ride and reduced to tears. At 15, I deserved to be publicly humiliated for not knowing which computer to pick. At 21…I can’t recall the last time we had a meaningful conversation.
But he wasn’t always like this. I remember when he was kind. He used to hold my hands and swing it back and forth; he had a sparkle in his eyes as he looked at me and a grin that never left his face. He played games with me, came to school events, and he nurtured my smile with time and affection.
I used to wait eagerly for my father to come home, and I barraged him with messages from my old Nokia. I hammered the keyboard daily, ‘4-4-4 5-5-5-6-6-6-8-8-8-3-3 8-8′ (I love u), I would spell out; hoping it would make him come home sooner.
A kind father, an angry father.
A father who is dependable, a father who couldn’t put a bottle down.
I didn’t know which side of him to trust, and so I resented him. I hated how he made me feel so weak, so insignificant – reduced to a woman at the mercy of a man.
I wished my father had been someone I could loathe completely. A man so unredeemable I could cast him a villain in my mind. But he wasn’t. I had felt his love in small increments that keep me stuck in this vicious cycle.
As I grow older, I wondered why I spent years of my life trying to understand my father when the answer was in his actions all along – I wasn’t his priority. Time spent with me was a hassle, so he went out instead. Talking to me must have been draining, so he chose silence; a permeating silence that envelops us to this day.
Within that silence, I could finally grieve. All those years of suppressed sadness trickled its way back into my heart and manifested itself in anger. I stopped trying to understand why my father had been so awful and instead, I let myself feel upset over what had been done to me.
Now I sit with him at the breakfast table, I can see his mouth gape open with thoughts but close in cowardice, but I no longer wish to know.
