They Were Never ThereEarly last year I realized it bothered me way more than I'd ever let it. I cut contact with my father over 20 years ago (well, he did that when he threatened to kill me and my mother). I cut contact with my mother several years ago, except for some semi-annual phonecalls on important occasions: her birthday, and Christmas. It took me several years to realize she was psychologically abusive.
It was pretty easy for me to nullify the memory of my father in my mind, as he'd never been a caring person at all, so I just wrote him off as never having been there. My mother, not so much, since she purported to love me while her actions contradicted that very idea. She didn't know any better. I think I can manage to forgive her someday, although I cannot find it within myself to care for her as a daughter would care for her parent.
While I long to have had parents, or siblings--that thought stretches itself into wishing for a normal family with siblings, cousins, uncles and aunts--for some reason, though, it's my father I find myself sad about these days. It's been going on for a few months.
Whenever I think of that man I wonder what kind of world made such a creature so screwed he wouldn't treasure having a little daughter on his knee. I would've grown up into a woman he'd have been proud of. Instead all he ever thought of me, was how expensive I was. He'd warned my mother he never wanted children and she went against his wish. So there I am.
I wonder if this feeling will ever subside. I let myself miss him because I have to stop looking for him, wishing he'd been there. I get tired of having to be so damn strong all the time, and sometimes I just lose that strength. Who else but parents are there to pep-talk you into facing another day, staying on track? I guess I would've rebelled against him as a teenager like almost all teens do. But I would have loved him.
I'm still really f***ng sad. No father, no mother. No family. And I doubt my capacity to associate with people who could help me relieve that absence.
So I write... (even though I'd promised myself I wouldn't write about painful stuff, an article on Psychology Today convinced me it's actually therapeutic. It seems writing about GOOD stuff reduces its positive effect, but writing about bad stuff also reduces its negative effect!)
So here I am listening to Jia Peng Fang and feeling sorry for myself. :)
I'll never have a family, it's that simple. That thought has yet to comfort me though. When the heck will it stop stinging so much?