The Reoccurring Father's Day Wound
on Father's Day -
It is better than I used to be -
Whenever I heard any advertisement of Mother’s Day, or Father’s Day, approaching, some sale or deal or whatever -
Something would stir within me -
Grief ? Anger? Dread - Loneliness? Ache - Heart-broken?
Mother’s Day is hard because I loved my mother so and I miss her so very much.
Father’s Day is hard because I didn’t really know or connect with my father - until the very end of his life, for the brief time that he was sober. Before, of course, he started drinking again, which contributed to his suicide.
But -
Father’s day, to me, is not only a reminder that he is dead and that he died by suicide -
It’s also a reminder of everything he was not -
Everything that our relationship was not -
Because he was simultaneously dulled and volatile and incensed from his steady stream of alcohol.
Emotionally, he was a brick wall, in terms of wanting of any substantial relationship or connection.
Because of his own unresolved trauma and disease -
But, he was also quick to fly off - to rage - as we know it’s the only emotion that men believe/are taught/internalize that it is safe to feel and demonstrate -
Even if in excess quantities.
But my father - like my brother - he, too, was a man in pain.
I told my first psychotherapist that my mother had depression, that my father was in alcoholic.
He was the first one to pose the question, Do you also not think your father is depressed?
I had never really thought about it, at that point -
Depressed yes, but in deep depression , like major depressive disorder, like my mother - no.
I had thought that title and category reserved for her, and her alone.
Both my parents numbed themselves, in different ways, to survive -
All their lives, they never uncovered their wounds and had help and support to truly heal themselves from their deep hurt and pain and trauma, that life had caused them. Then, they exacerbated, to further harm themselves.
It’s rather heartbreaking to think about and to reflect upon.
I know that both my brother and I carried around some rather large father wounds -
We didn’t feel protected from abuse, we didn’t stand up for ourselves, like we should -
We learn that from fathers. At least, we are supposed to.
When this doesn’t happen, many mental health experts refer to this as ‘the father wound’.
Living with my father, growing up, was like walking on eggshells.
It was very volatile, very unstable.
You knew he would rage and fly off the handle at the smallest thing, several times a week.
It was inevitable.
There would be screaming and swearing and slamming -
The next day, he would act like nothing had happened.
It was not peaceful.
So, it was not a pleasant way to live. I couldn’t wait to get out.
Between that, and the small town politics, and our cluttered home, that was not well maintained, I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Panama and go to college far *enough* away.
I know I didn’t have it the worse - I still had my money and many benefits and advantages that others did not.
Still, I never felt safe at home.
A large of part of this was my father’s alcoholism and my parents’ financial stressors and anxiety and worry about that.
It is also true that part of it also was my mother’s untreated mental illness, trauma, abandonment issues.
I have learned since all this therapy and healing and sobriety -
That I can finally calm my nervous system down to a new low, calm point — more than I ever did while growing up. As such, I’m moving slower these days. I don’t rush to get out or to be around others.
I feel at home with myself, by myself, and in my own home -
And again, that was not ever something I quite felt growing up.
And I know it is intense tied to my mother’s own emotional inheritance - that she - the child of a mother who abandoned her and became a foster kid - often had not home and felt like she had no home.
When home is chaos or volatile or messy and cluttered and people aren’t well -
There is no safe space.
There is no harbor.
I am almost 42 years old. I have finally learned to be my own safe harbor. To be at home with myself and have my own home - happily, in solitude.
I stand up for myself when abused or some sexist remark is made - when the man’s ego tries to the biggest thing in the room - even if it’s just in the work place - or, if I cannot, I extricate myself from that situation.
That is no small thing.
And I see all of these as my healing -
From both my mother wound AND my father wound.