My Father and Me, An Introspection Now That He is Dying
I have some happy memories. One that comes to mind, was me singing in our old van when I was around five. It was a country song and I was making my family laugh. I remember loving to sing, dance and perform, but looking back those times were rare.
I was the teen that always smiled and made jokes either filled with dark humour or were self deprecating, which I still do to this day. But nowadays, I am unhappy with the extra 20 pounds I have put on, so no one can get me to perform or take a picture of me, even if there was a gun to my head.
My dad was a formidable character growing up. He had moved to Vancouver from rural Saskatchewan, bringing his mom with him with only $20 in his pocket. He was one of 10 siblings that grew up on a farm. His father passed away during a farm accident. He had only gone to school until he was 13 years old. He worked blue collar jobs and he met my mom in the church singing in the choir. He built our entire basement by hand all by himself. Our house was a rancher and he lifted it up and built the entire floor, making my brother’s bedroom, a rec room, a workshop, laundry room, a bathroom and a set of stairs.
His way was the only way and he ruled by his loud voice and fist as a lot of dads did in the 70s. Children were to be seen not heard and we heard the stereotypical “I will give you something to cry about” and “Just wait until you are an adult and you will know what real problems are”. The minute he came home from his job in the rubber factory, he sat in his chair which was stained from his job and the tv was his until dinner was ready. He would then take a shower and back to the tv he went.
I used to have nightmares as a small child and wanted to sleep with my parents. This was allowed for a short period of time until my dad had enough when he thought I was too old for it. When that time came, I would sleep on the couch until his alarm went off and then I would run back to my bed, hoping he wouldn’t notice as their bedroom was next to the living room.
My mother used my father as a weapon. If she felt that I had disobeyed her in some way, I heard the refrain“Just wait until your father gets home” as I am sure that a lot of children did back then. The minute he came in the door, she would tell him what I did wrong and depending on how he viewed it, he would either spank me with his hands, or use the belt. To this day, if someone snaps leather, my brain and body shivers. My ex did it a few times when I told him about this and I didn’t find it humorous. My mother actually had a wooden paddle with a poem on it about hitting children. I asked her about it once, but she claims to have forgotten about it.
Once, my dad slapped me across the face. I can’t remember why, just the slap and how it left his handprint perfectly for hours. For once, my mom ran to me afterwards, she must have thought he went too far. I, myself have two children and I can tell you that nothing my children has done has made me want to hit them that hard. In fact, I have never hit my children once.
The biggest impression I have from that house is one of heaviness. My dad seemed always angry, at the news and everyone in the house. My mom and him were always fighting and her way of coping was to cook and clean. You could eat off of her floors. My brother would fight with my dad and myself and he and my mom had too close of a relationship that has lasted to this day. I have always been the black sheep and scapegoat that took everyone’s anger and had no voice of my own and wasn’t allowed to be mad at anyone.
I remained fearful of my father for a very long time. When you are yelled at and hurt by someone who is larger and stronger than you, you cower. Someone who makes fun of your teenage body the moment you hit puberty, not only to your immediate family but to his friends and your uncles, you do nothing. Well actually, I didn’t eat for a few years which, unfortunately, is why I am now an emotional eater.
But one day, you stand up and say enough.
I had been secretly going to counselling for around six months after a repressed memory came up when a close friend revealed that her mom’s boyfriend tried something with her. While she was telling me her story, I had a flash back of something that had happened to me with my brother. After I got off the phone, I called the Kid’s Help Line, which put me in touch with a counsellor who was willing to see me for free and confidentially.
Unfortunately, the counselling wasn’t really helping as I was having suicidal thoughts that wouldn’t go away and he was going to tell my family. I knew that this was going to put my family over the edge and I had to leave. My family was big on pretending that we were perfect to outsiders and screaming and fighting behind closed doors. They would be furious that I was talking to a stranger.
The week before he told me he was going to break confidentiality and phone my parents, my dad told me that he was going to kick me down the stairs. I don’t remember why, I just remember the threat. This time, I told him to go ahead. “Do it” I said. I remember standing tall. “Do it and I will call the police. Please do it”.
He didn’t. I knew it was over. He wasn’t going to hurt me again.
I ran away the night the counsellor told me that he was going to call my parents. I told my mom that I was going to the library and I put library books in my bag with just my wallet. I never went back. My relationship has been strained every since. My mom lied to everyone except for the few people that had to know. She pretended that I still lived there until I graduated high school.
My brother who is 6 years older than me, stayed until he was 26. My mother continued to make his lunch and do his laundry. I don’t see my family that often. We don’t talk about it. It’s like it never happened.
My dad’s health slowly deteriorated after he retired. He went from someone who could do so much with his hands, to not being able to do anything with them and hasn’t been able to walk in years. He hasn’t known who I or the kids are for a long time. I know I will grieve him, but I wish he could have been the dad I needed. I wish he could have loved me for who I was not wished that I was somebody else.
