Apparently, we are our father's daughters
Growing up, my dad and I weren’t incredibly close. We butted heads more than we agreed. He had a very rough personality with very narrow and high expectations and, generally, wasn’t a very kind person. It doesn’t mean he didn’t love me; it just came down to how he grew up and how his life experiences formed how he treated me and others. Some never saw that side of my dad. They saw the helpful, religious, passionate man he could be or chose to ignore his worst personality traits. He was a functioning alcoholic who, when I was young, was rarely around due to work, travel, and whatnot. When he was home, it was better to be out of the room than in it by mid-afternoon. I remember when I was 9 or 10, I made a journal that held every name he’d ever called me. I knew not to walk in front of the TV during football. I knew not to drink the orange juice past the morning. I knew it was easier to spend the night at my friend’s house than ever having them over to mine. He was a yeller and verbal/emotional abuser, but fortunately, not physically abusive to me. By the time he was home more after having lost or changed jobs, he fought hard to parent, which only led to more conflict over time.
I’m significantly grateful to my mom and my grandparents. They balanced me and gave me the reprieves I needed growing up. They helped, in a positive way, to create space when and where required. I spent the formative part of my teenage years working very hard not to be him. Today I recognize I got two things from him — my ability to cook and his temper. My sisters, all older and from a marriage before his marriage to my mom, got various traits from him as well. Our family line, my father’s side specifically, struggled with substance abuse in varying fashions. I, fortunately, did not.
The effort I put in trying to not be like him created a significant separation between him and me that never fully shrunk. He had grandchildren far ahead of when I had my daughter, yet he never really knew them or got to know them. I did see his heart melt when my daughter was born; he loved her deeply. The vast canyon, though, between us didn’t really allow him to spend time with her. Unfortunately, the way I parented didn’t align with his views of how one should parent, so the separation continued in new ways.
My daughter never really knew him. She was around 11 when he passed, and I essentially put him out of my mind; as much as was possible. I focused the next years, continuing to manage my temper, trying to raise my daughter.
In other stories I’ve posted, I have shared the journey of our daughter’s challenges with self-harm and other behaviors that led us down a path of putting her into a long-term treatment program when she was 14. It wasn’t until I started writing about it though that one of my sisters said something that shook me to my core.
I’ve been reading your medium posts and they hit home, especially the one on conversation. Wow! {My son} is 13 years “restored” and to this day we still talk about our experiences as a family. Keep up the communication, it keeps us all healthier, happier and a good reminder of who we are and how we got to where we are.
Such kind and amazing words; however, since she sent that, I’ve been sitting on this idea:
No matter what I’ve done or how I’ve spent my time trying to avoid it — we are our father’s daughters. And our daughters, and sons, are his grandchildren.
I have spent nearly eighteen years trying to make sure that I was not like my dad. That I didn’t raise our daughter like he ‘raised’ me. That when all and said was done, my daughter wouldn’t look at me like I looked at him, or that she wouldn’t think of me as someone who had only negative feelings about me. Ultimately, I have lived in spite of my father. And, after all of that, she still ended up struggling with addiction. It completely missed my attention that it didn’t stop the demons that have plagued my family from rolling on down to her for everything I had done to not be him.
What my sister’s comment reminded me of was that her child struggled too. My other sister’s children have struggled as well. Why, on earth, did I think mine would be safe from it, and why didn’t I do more to ready myself for that fact? I spent so much time ‘protecting’ her from everything I protected myself from that I didn’t even connect what was happening to her to my parental lineage.
I can’t change any of that now. All I can do is start to have an open and honest conversation with my daughter about who my dad was, who her grandfather was. To be mindful of not leaving out the good parts, but to be transparent about the things we have to be conscious of at all times. Like worrying about the idea we’ve been drinking a little too much or the things we say to her.
All of this to say — I’ve learned we spend so much time trying to not be like our parents, in some cases but especially when those relationships are toxic. In attempting to avoid repeating those mistakes, we become blind to the fact that genetics don’t care about our emotions or our efforts to not replicate. Be mindful of your past, no matter what you’re trying to get away from, as history can repeat itself in more ways than one if you’re not paying attention.
Maybe, had I not been trying so hard to not be him, but instead been aware and intentional about watching what could have happened, it would have given me the ability to get in front of everything that has happened to her — at least a little bit. In any case, by continuing our open dialog with her, we can help her be better by learning from this.
I’m proud of who I became. I am proud of who my daughter is. I am proud of who my sisters are, and who their children are. I am slowly acknowledging the good things I got from my dad and continuing to be mindful of the not-so-good things. What I take away from all of this is now helping my daughter see all the same for herself and, one day, her children.
Photo by Andrea Piacquadio from Pexels
