A Child's Fear

The year was 1977. I was born the daughter of John (an abusive alcoholic) and Diane (a mentally fragile woman). My dad had mentioned he did not want any children, yet—my mom decided to get off the pill anyhow. So, when I came around, my dad was not impressed to say the least. He had already had a son with whom he abandoned and disowned who was already in his late teens by the time I was born. Because my dad did not want me, I suffered through tremendous neglect. Whenever I had cried as an infant I was placed inside closets to cry it out. Soiled, hungry, scared—it didn't matter. My mom was not allowed to pick me up. I was isolated and alone and I was not even a month old yet.

As I mentioned above... my dad was an alcoholic—he would drink almost daily and have people over at our house all the time to drink along side him. He was controlling and manipulative towards my mom. He'd drag her to bars with him and if someone tried to talk with her, he'd pinch her so hard he'd draw blood. So, instead of talking back, she held her head down.

He'd yell at her for going a block away to the mailbox to mail a letter—sighting she was looking to run away and tell someone he abused her.

When I was 3, we all sat at the kitchen table for dinner and he had been drinking at the time. When I said, "Daddy?" he knocked me unconscious. Around that same age I had been confronted by a bully who lived on our block who liked to pick on kids who were younger than he was. He swung a tree branch at me that sliced just below my left eye. Running home, I remember bleeding everywhere profusely... My mom screaming in terror. She called my dad at work to have him bring me to the hospital—his reply? "Let her bleed out."

From an early age I knew I was not wanted—I was verbally abused daily—"You'll never amount to anything." "You're fat, ugly and no one will ever love you." "No one will ever hire you." "I'm embarrassed to be called your father." "Oink, oink." This happened on a daily basis. I have photos of him pointing to my chubby little tummy making fun of me for being overweight. He'd make me shave my head or get a perm that was much too big for my head to make me look uglier than I was.

It was when I turned 13, I had braced myself to fight back. I was no longer going to stand for him treating me or my mom like that anymore. The abuse was going to stop and NOW. I started to talk back and stand tall and tell him that I was better than what he said I was and that he was the one who was the failure at life. Not me, not my mom.

He kicked me out of the house. He told my mom that I should learn to defend myself if I think I'm so grown and opinionated. As I was upstairs packing my things—cause I was 100 % ready to leave—he called the police telling them that I was a run away. That I intended on running away and that they should come pick me up.

I kept packing the entire time he was on the phone with the police and when they finally arrived, I was shocked. My mom told them it was all a lie. That my dad had planned to kick me out of the house and I was simply complying with his wishes. I was scared to death for her. She just defied him. What on earth was he going to do with her after they left? She had other plans in place. She asked the police for assistance to stay put while she too had packed a bag or so. Cause both she and I would be leaving that day. I was shocked and surprised she would be so bold as to do something like that.

My dad was in shock and started to yell at both of us how awful we both were and good radiance that we're both leaving.

We moved in with my best friend and her family for a couple of months. They helped my mom gain her confidence, her strength, and find her own new home. She was so badly abused by my dad that she was paralyzed with fear living on her own.

She stopped eating, working, sleeping, showering... She was losing herself. Because my dad was this controlling figure in her life telling her what to do, I thought that was normal... so, I began to tell her what to do. Mom, you need to go to work now. Mom, you need to shower, you need to eat, you need to do this and that. It even got so far as I had grounded her when she did things I didn't like and she obeyed!

This was not healthy not for her, not for me—I was only 13. I was confused, alone, scared, and had zero drive in my life.

After we had lived on our own for a while, my mom did manage to find someone new (Bob) who turned out to be not much better than my dad but he was semi tolerable. I will write about him in a future installment.

Fast forward several years—I had not spoken to my dad since 1990 mind you... in 2013 I received a call from my brother who my dad was surprisingly close to (he was not his biological son). My brother told me, "Jen, Dad is sick. I don't think he'll be around much longer. You should come see him at the hospital."

The first thing to run through my head was, "Why on earth would I go to the hospital to see this abusive man? This man who has hated me and not wanted me? Who kicked me out of his home as a child?" But, I put my feeling aside and asked my brother, "What's wrong with him? I doubt he'd want to see me?"

"He's changed, Jen. He's stopped drinking. I'm sure he'd love to see you. He's got cancer."

Tears flooded my eyes. I hated him so badly, and yet I had pity on him. I figured I was going to go see him for my own closure. To tell him how he's made me feel all these years, that he's stripped me of so much in my life and messed me up emotionally and just really lay into him.

When I got to the hospital I could do nothing but cry. This big man who once towered over me, who was stern and angry and abusive was frail, defenseless, near death. I didn't have the heart to lay into him. He was going through so much already. I had to bite my tongue. I walked into his room and when we locked eyes for the first time—we both started to cry. He reached his hand out to me and I came forward.

"Oh, Jenni. I don't deserve to have you here. I am such an awful dad. I am so very sorry for everything I have ever done to you. I don't deserve you here. I don't. I love you so much, I want you to know that I have always loved you and I am so so sorry."

Those are words I have prayed to hear my entire life. I waited until I was 38 years old to hear my dad say he loved me. To say he was sorry. That messed me up more than his years of abuse ever did. Cause now I was torn. Does this man love me or hate me? How do I act?

I was lucky to have 1 year with my dad—During that time he made up for lost time and I spent a good majority of my days with him. We took a camping trip together along side my children and husband. He invited me over for dinners and movie nights. We had a wonderful time together. In February 2014, he had finally passed away peacefully inside my childhood home. Right in front of that couch in the above photo. He was at home surrounded by myself and my brother.

I was grateful for that closure I had with my dad, but at the same time it left this void in my heart. I finally knew what it felt like to have a family that was some what normal. No negativity, no harsh words, only love.

Below I have a photo of my dad and my youngest daughter whom he loved dearly. She was his best friend right up to the end. They became very close.

Dad and Nadia