A Daughter's Love for Her Father

When we begin a new friendship or other relationship, we enter into a period of discovery of one another. There are certainly times when this discovery is nothing more than idle chit-chat, merely scratching the surface about likes and dislikes, where we grew up, and the number of siblings we may have.

At other times we might find ourselves deeply engrossed in discussions about religious and political viewpoints, past experiences, and what makes sense to us, as we view the world around us.

Regardless of the depth or method we use when we communicate, there is one thing that is certain--our opinions, values, and feelings have been shaped by the family and experiences with which we grew up as children, and the subsequent choices we make in early adulthood are based upon those belief systems. Some people even come to believe that these feelings make them who they are.

As we mature through life, we are given opportunities to challenge what has been taught to us, thus able to make different choices, change our opinions, define our own values, and make decisions based on our own discovery of new information.

Not everyone is willing to do so, and may end up staying stuck in an emotional rut, choosing to wallow in troubles for a lifetime. Trouble and dysfunctional relationships of every kind seem to lurk around every corner, waiting to pounce at any given moment.

For those who choose to face into the past to use it as a baseline of understanding on a path toward maturity and personal growth, and not content to become emotionally stagnant, find that the friendships and relationships into which they enter become more meaningful, based upon honest communication, vulnerability, and compassion.

Several years ago, I was in one of those periods of discovery with a new friend. As we progressed through the surface conversation and began to learn more about one another, the subject of family was brought up.

Over the years, I have often avoided the pain of lengthy discussions or specific questions of any kind where my family upbringing was concerned, because I believed that my early experiences determined my value, my existence, and my future.

As well, I had been shamed and "guilted" into keeping my mouth shut, and learned well the 11th Commandment passed on to so many children in dysfunctional families of the 1950s and 1960s: "Thou shalt NOT air your dirty laundry, especially outside of the family!" Perhaps that is a commandment that spans all generations.

Convinced at that time that my younger siblings were better off not being influenced by the guilt-ridden, damaged version of me, I insulated myself and them by joining the military and leaving my family behind. I suppose I escaped from what I felt was a lack of anything I could control.

I isolated myself from people much of the time, subscribing to the notions that "home is where I hang my hat" and "friends are the family we choose for ourselves." I kept people at a distance emotionally-speaking. I became what my mother called me-a gypsy...a vagabond...not content to stay in one place too long. The military lifestyle made that possible for me. And I didn't have to deal with people becoming too close or getting to know me too well.

But it also was the beginning of my personal journey toward self-discovery, and my challenge of everything I knew and had been taught up to that point.

With this particular new friendship, I decided that I had nothing to lose by sharing with this new friend some of what my childhood had to offer from both family and extended family and friends. I was able to talk about what I learned about myself from growing through it. Though it was uncomfortable to do so, I was willing to risk his knowing the truth, and shared a bit about how I grew up.

I talked about the situation, almost clinically, sharing a few details about a family suffering from what I termed, "emotional anorexia," and all that I have worked through to thwart the legacy which seems to be passed along in families throughout the generations. I also spoke briefly and generically about the physical abuse at the hand of my father.

Without warning, I was asked a simple question: "But do you love him?"

It caught me off-guard. Instantly, I felt hot tears welling up in my eyes. My throat threatened to choke me in an attempt to ward off the answer.

"No, I do not love HIM" I replied.

He was shocked to hear that answer, but not nearly as much as I was to hear myself utter the words. I felt overwhelmingly sad at that moment. Not only had I given the answer, but I was very aware that I did not feel guilt over saying so.

Coming to terms with that realization was difficult, because I have lived so much of life with guilt-ridden devotion. That has not only been in regard to my father, but also to what I felt that I owed employers, teachers, friends, and society. I became intensely aware of how much of my life I spent acting out of feelings of obligation or beholdeness.

Growing up in a dysfunctional environment, and making the poorest of choices until we grow into emotional maturity, seems to be more prevalent than we may think it is. Keeping those details hidden from others only serves to continue the belief that we are alone in our experiences. By being willing to share our experiences, we realize that every family has their share of "dirty laundry." We learn from those before us who have begun their process toward emotional healthiness. Our own shame, guilt, and isolation seems to start to drop away.

What I experienced with my answer to my friend's question was honesty in its rawest and rarest of forms...truly being honest with myself and with others.

If it had not been for the title of "Father," I might not have thought twice about my answer. Yet, because of the label placed on him and me as a daughter, I lived with expectations of what I "should" feel or how I am supposed to behave, without regard to the circumstances.

But what is my reality?

I love my father as a human being, for being part of the union which gave me life. I love what his title might have represented, what I wished we could have been to one another. I hold out the glimmer of hope that someday we can sit down together and hear one another, awkwardly perhaps but sincerely, say to one another the words, "I love you"...years of pain and seperateness fading quickly away.

And, what do I FEEL?

I feel grateful.

I am grateful that my Father was critical. His scrutiny of me helped me want to strive for excellence.

I am grateful that his often being distant or being gone from the family as he made his living taught me the value of hard work and the rewards received when done so.

I am grateful for his unkindness to me and to others in his life so that I know better how to treat people with compassion, dignity, and respect.

I'm grateful for the fact that I have lived through the abuse, for it taught me that it is a legacy which I never want to pass along to my children and grandchildren.

I am grateful that I have the ability and wherewithall to be honest enough to talk about my experiences more openly with others, so that they can feel less isolated in their own hellish worlds.

I am grateful that by this experience I have grown into a stronger, more capable woman, able to be grateful for all of the experiences I have been given in my life.

I still have feelings of tremendous sadness sometimes, because I would rather be able to write about the Hallmark-card-love described by a daughter for her father. I never wanted to realize that my fantasy flew out the door. I feel sadness because I let go of the guilt, which had become my old friend.

But I also feel joy. I am joyful that I can be vulnerable with my friends and my sisters.

I feel joy that I can share who I am, and not be quite as concerned with what others will think of me.

Being able to be grateful and joyful, I owe to my father. Without him, and what we went through together, I wouldn't be the person I am today.

...And I LOVE HIM for helping me to learn these things.