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Oil and water! That’s me and my Dad. Ying and Yang have never been in the equation.
Maybe when I was younger when I hadn’t yet developed emotionally or matured enough to clearly see his BS, I blindly perceived him as an OK guy. Now don’t get me wrong, he has his moments. And the, HE HAS HIS MOMENTS. OY VEY and I’m not even Jewish!
My earliest recollections, I wore the badge of shame of “Hi My Name is Never Enough.”
I was never man enough.
I was never butch enough.
I was never sporty enough.
I was never motivated enough.
I was never (FILL IN THE BLANK) enough.
Sure. When I performed at my piano recitals, I was good enough for a piano playing pansy. The day I got caught streaking with my neighborhood bros, I was good enough a for proper ass whooping, which he enjoyed – me not so much. When I got drunk with my friend who also worked for my Dad, I was good enough to come to work hungover for both of us, but Brett got a hall pass because he wasn’t feeling good and because he wasn’t the boss’s son.
For the most part, everyone else was more important to my Dad than his own family, and especially his own sons – and no I’m not whining or projecting – simply stating the facts.
As I grew into my awareness, I got used to it, dealt with it, hid my emotions for the most part, and sure the hell didn’t let him see me be a fag! God forbid I was gay. That’s not what our DNA was made of for crying out loud, even though he had a gay brother. Oh no, we men from our lineage were made to screw around and chase female tail, not man butts. That was acceptable and he made that clear, over, and over, and over again to the chagrin of my mother.
Then I came out, and boy did that throw him for a loop. To my own detriment, because I was afraid of the SOB, not mature in my sexual awakening, and what we now refer to as a man in touch with his emotions, rather than shame him, I stuck my tail between my legs and pretended to be straight or fear the wrath of Dad.
That’s all water under the bridge of the ’80s when my first struggles with sexuality were at their peak. Maybe that’s why Tina Turners, Proud Mary gets to my core every time I hear it. I’ve been rolling down this river with my Dad ever since I can remember and embodying my own big black diva all along, and to come out to him just turned him into Ike Turner. Before you judge me and my internal big black diva you need to know I’m a pretty normal gay guy and my diva only comes out to play when you get me riled, or get me cocktailed…just sayin’! Ain’t that right Lemonodd-Pop (my black diva name). Enough about her, let’s get back to my dysfunctional father relationship, which by the way did not make me gay.
Let’s roll on down the river to 2018, yes, just last holiday season to be specific. It seems that everything goes just fine for a few months and then, BAM, Dad’s not feeling in control. Dad’s needing to stir up the crap. Dad’s not getting enough attention, so let’s make everyone’s life miserable. Trust me, I’ve played this game for 55 years, and an even more intense version of this game since I came out of the closet in 1999.
I’m beyond the arguments about my sexuality.
I don’t give a rat’s ass about what he thinks about how I raised my daughters.
As far as I’m concerned, he can hang onto his religion, just don’t noose me with that misguided belief system.
I’ve found a Dad coping mechanism. It came to me a few years ago when my life coach said to me, “What would happen if you just changed your reaction, your response when Dad shows up in the UGLY?”
Gosh darn it, she had a point. From that moment on, for the most part, I allowed a logical thought of “Poor Dad, he’s just a miserable, closed-minded man,” to interrupt my reaction and to keep the insanity at bay. Yes, I said insanity. While he hasn’t been diagnosed with a mental disorder, all the signs are there, and his actions speak louder than his words, even though his words are part and parcel a significant component of the wrath he wields on his world.
Just as I started becoming conscious and less provoked by him and his actions, he had to go and have a stroke, and suddenly, he was a twisted version of Mr. Rogers. No, he didn’t wear sweaters, but he became a shell of the man he had been. He was kinder. He was more understanding. He was almost a caring Father, in his own way. Then along came the tail end of 2018 and Mr. Ugly Insecure reared his head along with every other nasty piece of who he is to disrupt life and the holidays, once again.
He came at me with vitriol, and hate, drudging up the past, which is his weapon of choice. He threated to come beat the crap out of me if I didn’t do as he said. Yeah, bring it on old man. Your 72 and frail. I’m 55 and still have some life in me, plus I tower over you. Of course, I’d never engaged in physical harm as I go high when he goes low. Yet, he wouldn’t let it go, a trait unfortunately that I have inherited and fight daily to disarm myself from. I’ve been down this never letting go of crap river with him way too many times and know there is no going against his current. It’s an exhausting endeavor. So, I didn’t. I cut him off.
I feel no guilt, no shame, no remorse for saying, “The time has come for us to part ways. I respect myself to much to subject myself to your emotional abuse!”
His gaslighting has not light to shine in my life.
His narcissism has no power to belittle me.
His hypocrisy has no hold on my ability to see through the crap.
His low self-esteem is his to own, not mine.
His false bravado is a sham for him to bear.
I no longer choose to oblige my father at any level, except to oblige his love, compassion, and understanding from a distance.
My light can no longer be dimmed by his darkness.
My truth is greater than his false truth of who he thinks he is in the world.
My confidence is a brilliant reflection of me, not a target for his own self-loathing.
My trust in myself is greater than his distrust in the world he holds responsible for his misery.
My desire to be a better man than my Father is fueled by his inability to admit his own shortcomings.
For too long he has placed me on a rollercoaster of emotional battery, and I’m choosing to no longer buckle in for that ride.
I know in his soul, somewhere beneath the layers of self-loathing, bigotry, hypocrisy, gaslighting, toxic masculinity, narcissism, and closed-mindedness, lays a wounded boy. A boy who needs to feel seen, heard, and understood. I get that. I see that. I feel that.
Unfortunately, that’s all I can do – get it, see it, feel it. To go further demolishes my own ability to push beyond the generational hand-me-downs of screwed up DNA that torments my Father, and would torment me if I didn’t consciously break the pattern. Right or wrong, I’m taking a stand.
I stand knowing there is goodness somewhere in my Father – I just can’t excavate it.
I stand witnessing his version of conditional love – choosing myself to love unconditionally.
I stand observing his wounded man child – and distance my wounded man child from him to heal.
I’ve been here before. Anguished, filled with shame, and feeling like an SOB of a son for harboring these feelings toward a man who contributed to me having a human experience on this planet.
However, the one thing I learned, after hiding in the closet for 36 years of my life, is that shame is either a drug of choice, or catalyst for freedom, and that guilt can be a powerful shackle that constrains you or the key to release you from self-imposed misery.
I love my Dad for all he can be, a man who simply cannot give himself permission to be a better man. I love myself for seeing this and hopefully proving to be a better man each day than I was the day before. Trust me, I’m far from perfect, just ask my husband, and daughters, but I think I’m obliging the thoughts to do better, and actively making headway.
I’m just no longer choose to oblige the guilt and shame of having a relationship with my Father, at least for now.
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