My father is a typical renaissance man, a loving father and provider. He takes care of his wife and four children, along with the family dog. He completely renovated our house: carpets, hardwood flooring, deck, walkway, painting, new walls, new bathrooms, and the list goes on. But I wonder if he's ever happy.
There was only one time I really ever saw my father drunk, and to this day I can't figure out why it bothers me so much. My sister ran to get me, crying that my mother was trying to help me father to the bathroom. We snuck up to the bedroom door and listened in on our parents' conversation. My father was completely humiliated and wanted my mother to leave him. Not just leave him there, actually leave him. I remember him saying "Why are you still with me?" And that broke my heart.
During my high school years, my father treated me like the family outcast. We weren't close at all. I always had a boyfriend, and I never felt approval. And I always wanted approval. But I wasn't the athletic, overachieving daughter I think he wanted. I danced, and was in the school orchestra and band. I felt that he was unapproachable, and was always afraid of his towering figure.
But through all of that, I always knew he loved me. He told me all the time. But I didn't understand why he treated me that why; why I treated him the same way back. I still don't have an answer.
Once I left for school my freshman year, my father and I talked regularly on the phone. More than regularly you could say. Sometimes more than once a day. It was wonderful, and I loved having him back in my life. But it was always the same when I went home; I was the brunt of every joke. Atleast I felt that way.
I'm sure my father sees himself as the glue of the family. He's the one that's meant to keep everyone disciplined and in line. I don't know if he saw my self-harm as something he did wrong, or something that he just didn't know how to fix. Or maybe it was both?
The night before the clinic, I remembering him telling me there was "something wrong with me" and after my time there he told me I was "tearing the family apart." These words cut me harder than any knife could have ever.
But besides these comments, I don't remember having a terrible relationship with him during this time. I remember wanting to be alone most of the time, trying to fix myself. I remember wanting my parents to read books on the psychology of self-harm and they wouldn't. I'm still upset for them thinking they understood me and not trying harder. But my parents have always been set in their ways.
Now I barely speak to my father. I asked him to call me today, but am still waiting for a reply. My relationship with my mother had become very strong, but I am longing to have my father back in my life. I hate to say it, but I feel helpless without him. He is my rock and my protection.
I understand that he must feel helpless as well, not being to help his own daughter; not being able to protect her from her personal demons. But I want so bad for us to be close again.
The worst is not understanding why our relationship is so dysfunctional. I want to understand, I mean maybe I could come to some conclusion, make some sense of this mess. But for now I must wait, wait for a phone call that won't come.
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