Happy Fathers’ Day to the Estranged

Breaking a generational cycle of abuse is hardest on the holidays.

An email recommending the best restaurants to take Dad to invaded my inbox. My hands shook. Another tone-deaf marketing blast. Father’s Day. It’s impossible to forget.

Father’s Day is always tough. Screens of every type replaying advertisements and sales emails don’t help. I haven’t seen my father in four years. He’s not dead. Doesn’t live far away. Well, as far as I know. That uncomfortableness crawling under your skin? That’s exactly how this holiday feels for me. And all the rest of them, too.

Don’t feel sorry for me. If I’m writing about it, I’m way past those feelings. If you want to judge, that’s fine, too. But if you spent a minute in my head, I am certain you would understand. My whole life I chose my family. With that came silence. They never chose me. I’ve got the receipts. But it’s not about keeping score. It’s understanding your family is not good for your well-being. That’s why for the first time in my life I choose myself.

I’ve heard you shouldn’t air your family’s dirty laundry, but that’s what kept me isolated my entire life. Holding this in. Hiding the truth. Hating myself because of it. Keeping my mouth shut. Out of fear. Misguided loyalty. I protected those who harmed me the most. As a kid, I was defenseless. As a man, I can’t fathom why the adults stayed quiet.

The most tragic part? It wasn’t all bad with my father. In fact, there are a lot of good memories. Great ones. I learned a lot from him. Lessons I carry with me to this day. A smooth jump shot. Blazing speed. Competitiveness. Stubbornness. Relentlessness. My rebellious streak. My humor. He could be charming, funny, self-sacrificing, and kind. When he still lived with us, he’d pray every night. When he got down on his knees to pray, I’d rush him thinking he wanted a hug. I’d dive into his arms. He’d laugh and have to explain what he was doing. Taught me to pray. I still chased his hugs with every one of his prayers. That’s what made this decision impossible.

I’ve heard “just talk to your father” in every way imaginable. My family hasn’t had an honest conversation as long as I’ve been alive. It’s hard to understand the mess it took to go “no contact” but telling the truth is a good start.

My father wasn’t a terrible man, but he was not healed from the trauma of his past. He tried to pass this down to me. Growing up, cousins, aunts and uncles told me that my father was harsh, but fair. My friends didn’t understand why I was always grounded. Adults would comment on how well-behaved I was. My father’s strict behavior took the credit. If they only knew. It was his fist. Fear. Not love. There’s a difference.

I’d write stories with pictures of him being a normal dad until something set him off transforming into a horrific bright red beast. The Devil. Dad would scream vulgar insults at a little boy, horrific things that no man should ever say to a child, let alone his son. That’s on top of the physical, mental, and emotional abuse. Have you ever been somewhere you were unable to escape, having no resources, no one to trust and living in fear with people who were supposed to love and protect you? If Freud read those childhood stories of mine… yikes.

Fear isn’t strong enough to describe how I felt at home. Terrified I’d set him into a rage. One misstep and the Devil would appear. Screaming. Smacks to the back of the head. Insults. Spanks. His frustrations with life? Taken out on me. As a kid I didn’t understand. As a man? Here it goes.

Whenever I got a call or text from Dad, my phone would shake in my hands. Did I upset him? Do anything wrong? Disappoint him? I’d start unraveling. An anxiety attack before talking with your father? It took me over thirty years to recognize that panic. Let that sink in. Imagine being so out of touch with yourself that terrified was my natural state. A feeling I couldn’t even name. It’s why I used to constantly scan for threats when around others. Hypervigilant. Always. That’s not normal. It was my life. Identifying that panic helped me uncover who I was. I was still trapped in a generational cycle of abuse. No way I could heal. Not like this.

For years, I’d numb myself with anything that would validate me. Drugs, sex, and alcohol. The unholy trinity of pain. Trying to escape the fear. The awful feelings that replaced my repressed past. We all want to be loved and wanted, but not everyone is. The good news is that it starts with yourself. Once you do that, you’re on your way.

Through this painful consciousness expansion, I realized the words I was telling myself weren’t my own. They were the insults spewed daily by my father. Repeating in my mind. I needed that voice out of my head. A harsh reality for a son to accept.

Since I’ve gone no contact with my father, I’m finally taking care of myself. Consistently. Always struggled with that. That’s why I’m doing everything I can to make the most of my time. At least trying to. It’s not a brag or justification. I finally feel like I’m becoming the man I’m capable of. The man I always wanted to be. Sure, I may never become that man, but I’m closer than I’ve ever been. It took years of struggle, therapy, hard work, and mistakes to erase the shame that distorted my life. For decades, this affected me every day. I didn’t even know. What is unfathomable horror to most is a childhood memory of mine. I hated myself for a long time. Maybe I deserved his wrath. It was my fault.

That’s the bullshit I was force-fed my entire life.

This isn’t about forgiveness. It’s not about bitterness, hatred, or anger. I know what I’m doing is considered selfish by the masses, but it’s necessary for my own well-being. Those estranged from family understand this. Those who aren’t? Can’t fathom this feeling. They can’t accept it because they’ve never seen it. Everyone must decide for themselves what they need. And right now, this is what’s best for me.

Time doesn’t stop. The years are going by faster than ever. My father won’t be here forever. None of us will. The toughest dilemma of my life. Missed family events. Holidays alone. Right and wrong blur into confusion. All I can do is keep moving forward. So, that’s what I’ll do.