It's pretty obvious this time of year is a mix of emotions for me. I look forward to Christmas and the holiday season, but winter is also long and dark.
Outside of that, this year reminds me of a lot; last year, Brett and I were just starting our infertility journey, looking at possible surgery. A year later not much has changed except I'm missing a part of my reproductive system. While I watch others my age become pregnant or give birth to their second child, I feel stuck.
This time of year is also when my favorite aunt passed. It happened unexpectedly five years ago when I was in my kitchen, making holiday goodies for our families. Brett and I had little money as newlywed college students, so we decided to make homemade goody baskets: candied pecans, chocolate-covered pretzels, and candy cane hot chocolate mix. The air smelled of peppermint as I bashed candy canes with a hammer; it felt like the holidays. When my cell phone rang, I knew by the tone in my mother's voice that something was terribly wrong. A heart attack was brought on by pneumonia my aunt had been fighting on-and-off for months. Her heart couldn't take the pressure. We brought home our goodies in our beat-up van as we headed mostly for a funeral rather than to celebrate the holiday season. The funeral took place two days after Christmas.
Yet, in spite of all of this, my mind keeps coming back to one particular person this season - my dad. It's impossible, to sum up, the relationship I have with my father. It's complicated - messy; I believe the term is toxic. We are estranged from each other. It's such a mix of emotion because I have no doubt that my father loves me, but his love and time comes with a price on my personal mental health.
We haven't spoken since the end of July this year. Things seemed to be copacetic until the weekend my mother got remarried. A slew of catty text messages and being accused of lying ended up in a long message from me, explaining to him how I felt. I read it over and over before sending it to him, knowing he would probably still take things the wrong way and put the blame on me. It's always up to me to keep our relationship going. It's up to me to be the bigger person. Yet, I'm not the parent.
If I try to go back and explain how this started, it would probably be when my dad started working day shift. For the first eight years of my life, my dad worked second shift at a local, tool-and-die factory in a small town in Indiana. Those years were mostly spent with my sister, who is six years older than I, and our mother. I can remember mom reading books in bed, playing the Sega Genesis as I watched enamored, and watching old sci-fi shows like The X-Files and Star Trek: Voyager. I loved those years because I had mom all to myself, and I grew to have many of the same interests she did.
Then, dad was switched to day shift. It was a great thing, right? He was going to be able to spend more time with all of us now. Before this, my dad often has mandatory overtime on Saturdays, so sometimes I only saw him once a week. He was mostly a stranger. I remember him taking us to a county park that had a lake-front beach to play, where I developed my dislike for cracker and cheese Lunchables, and I remember him holding our dogs and being asked to go "kiss up to dad" when my mom or sisters wanted something. When dad first came home, I was terrified. He was the scary one, the strict one, the one who mom threatened to tell if we did something too naughty. I didn't know how to be around this person.
As with any family, there was a mix of good and bad. We had wonderful family vacations, a nice home, a pool outside, a playset, and a large extended family that made celebrating holidays the best. However, if I look back and examine my childhood, it's clear that my parents' relationship struggled. I can remember my mom's Mercury Sable peeling out of our gravel driveway in the middle of the night while I prayed to god, "Please don't let my parents get divorced" over and over again. I remember when mom went to stay with a friend for the night when she was angry, and my father looked at me straight in the face and said, "If your mom and I split up, who or you going to live with? Me or her?" I couldn't have been older than ten or eleven at this point. I had no words.
Dad has always been this mix of ups and downs. When he's happy, things are great. That's why vacations were fun because he'd plan this grand adventure for us all. He is where I get my sense of adventure and why I love to travel when I can. But when dad is upset or angry, it's an erratic force. I always tried to evade that force, hide in plain sight or do things to make him and mom happier like clean the house or make food. I've been trying to take care of others since I was a child. It's no wonder I fell apart by the time I reached adulthood.
His angry, dark moods continued sporadically as I moved through adolescence. The fights were no longer just between my parents but now always between him and my sister. I can remember her smoking a cigarette outside in the dark after a screaming match indoors where no one won. Dad always had a bagful of threats to throw at us in order to keep us in line. If we didn't clean our room, he would threaten to take away our stuff or burn it. He would threaten to ground us. Rarely did anything come from these threats, but at times, they were hurtful and ridiculous. Who threatens to burn their child's belongings?
I was too young to understand why my sister was upset with my father. I had my own issues, and hers are her story, not mine to tell. But I can remember never being able to please my father. He complained about housework and money often to the point where I would stress over what to order at restaurants because what if something was too expensive? Would he be mad at me? Would we be able to pay our bills? I think that's where my anxiety started. It began by listening and internalizing all my father's worries. When I make decisions today, I know I am still affected by that voice. I hear it all the time in my head.
My dad did some things well like showing up to my marching band contests, picking me up from work, and making sure I got to the places I needed to go. He was consistent in that manner. I knew he'd physically be there if I asked; he just wasn't always happy about it. He often complained, and it made car rides alone with him stressful. The one car ride engraved into my memory is the day his mother died. I went to school that day, numb, and was broken up with by my boyfriend at the time via text message. My heart split, and all the hurt over him and her death came rushing at me. I couldn't make it through the rest of the day. Mom had meetings at work, so dad had to come to take me home. He berated me the rest of the way home as I cried silently looking out the window.
High school was some of my worst years. Adolescence is difficult for most teenagers, so I don't think my experience is too out of the ordinary - bad boyfriends, inconsistent friends, and problems fitting in. I did everything wrong in high school it seemed. While I should have been participating in activities, making good memories, and getting ready for my future, I was having sex, smoking cigarettes, and my grades were dropping in school. The signs were all there that I had problems and that I needed help, but I never asked for it because I knew what would happen if I did.
When my secret activities came upon my parents' radar, my father had a way of shaming me about the things I did. When I stole alcohol from them (which happened many times, he just noticed a few), he would announce it in front of grandparents, aunts, and uncles to humiliate me. That one didn't bother me as much; I knew I shouldn't have been doing it, but around the age of 15 I had begun to harm myself more and more by slicing shallow cuts on my arms, usually my left. When my parents found out, they didn't know what to do. Perhaps I needed therapy (which I clearly did mom and dad!) or outside help? After pondering it and fighting about it, they decided I didn't. I can remember overhearing their fight from across the house as my dad worried that I would blame all my problems on him. I was weak according to him, and I should be able to take care of myself. And just like everything other time I did something wrong, he told the whole fucking family. Once again, I had no words.
My mother attempted to get me some help in the form of biblical counseling, which I can personally attest is a joke. Reading bible verses never fixed my mental illness nor did praying. If it works for someone else great, but it did jack shit for me. In this form of counseling, I wasn't allowed to talk about my feelings or problems. Apparently, I was focusing on myself too much. I needed to focus on god. Yeah right.
High school went on like this. My dad publicly humiliating me from time to time in front of family or my friends. I didn't like people to come over because my dad would sometimes yell at me until I cried in front of them. Usually, it was over something like housework. My dad had this routine where he'd yell until I'd cry. I tried not to, but I'm just a sensitive person. Sue me. Then, after I'd been reduced to tears, usually a sobbing-hyperventilating type of crying, he'd come find me in my room, where I'd be sitting on my bed, face down, and he'd say, "You know I love you right?"
Around sixteen to seventeen years old, my anxiety worsened. I didn't have the vocabulary to put to what I was experiencing then, but I do now. I lost a significant amount of weight at this age, going from around 235 to 185 in months. The adults around me were astonished. How did I do it? What was my secret? Apparently, I looked great according to others, but when I look at photos of me from that period of time all I can notice is the dead look in my eyes and the sallow complexion of my face. I don't look attractive; I look sick. The secret to this weight loss was I started throwing up at least once a day. This sounds like bulimia, but it's not. I never tried to make myself throw up. I never wanted to throw up, but my nerves were thin; my anxiety at a high, and it made it difficult to keep food down. I stopped eating breakfast because I threw up almost every morning. My friends made jokes about "morning sickness" and "are you pregnant?" But I knew that it was never those things. Breakfast had become coffee and a cigarette to wash down the taste of pure acid I had just upchucked into the toilet or sink. The color of orange juice against porcelain white. I remember being unable to stop myself from throwing up on the school bus a few times and throwing up a lot in public places like restaurants. I became a pro at running from the lunchroom to the bathroom down the hall to the protests of teachers so I could throw up lunch. I hated it! It was painful and upsetting. I'd return to the friends or family with blood-shot eyes and visibly weakened. Knowing this behavior was not normal, I mustered up the courage to ask my school nurse about my condition. Why was I throwing up? How can I stop this from happening, and why is it happening? She and the school counselor spoke and neither one knew why I was throwing up. I remember feeling helpless and near tears. Even the adults around me didn't know what to do. My father kept saying I was bulimic and would deride me in front of others. First of all, if I was bulimic, then I would need professional help. Secondly, who makes fun of someone with bulimia? My dad was convinced I was doing this "for attention" and that it was completely under my control. It wasn't until a couple of years ago as I sat in mental health training as a teacher that I heard someone explain that vomiting was a sign of severe anxiety. Nearly ten years later I had my answer.
I would like to say that my anxiety or depression went away magically, but it didn't, and I'm clearly still dealing with it today. When it was at its worst was my first two years at UMBC out in Baltimore, Maryland. The combination of starting college across the country, my father being arrested, and my parents' divorce sent me spiraling. I began cutting myself again, drinking and smoking heavily, and a myriad of other unhealthy behaviors, trying to deal with the chaos that had become my life. My father would call me often to lament and lay blame about his circumstances. No one knew whether or not he was guilty of the crime accused - child molestation; it was too disgusting to even think about. In addition, my mother would call me too now and then, usually drunk and telling me about her online dating escapades. I felt like I had no parents. They couldn't take of themselves. They couldn't take care of me.
I declined quickly. My anxiety kept me away from class, from asking for help, and at times, eating in the dining hall overwhelmed me. It was all too much. I locked doors and turned off lights, wanting to disappear, feeling hopeless. Things would never improve. Why wake up? Why go on when everything is pointless? Why am I even here? I couldn't answer those questions.
It's scary when I can't think of a reason to keep living.
If it wasn't for my sister, I probably wouldn't be here. She supported my decision to seek out help and spoke to my parents about paying for my care. My father has always spoken about mental health professionals and doctors with derision convinced he knows better than those "whack jobs" and that being mentally healthy is about personal strength. If I was falling apart, he thought it was my fault like depression or anxiety is a choice. I knew I couldn't face my parents and tell them I needed help. I would have been talked out of it or avoided it altogether.
As I got help, my father complained about the money, and I had to stop taking his phone calls. I had to stop taking care of my parents and being the person they confided in. I had become their touchstone, their person to vent to and to complain to. I would ask them about work, taking their medicine, and were they taking care of themselves. It felt like our roles had reversed, and in order for me to heal at all, I could no longer help take care of them. I had to focus on myself.
It took me years to muster up enough self-respect and esteem to put myself first: before family, before friends, and before those, I dated. This is the battle I'm currently having with my father. Do I allow him access to me and to my life? I've tried over and over again, and it usually ends badly, but he is my father and I will always love him. I love that he and I share a love for cooking and that we like trying new things. And I hate that I have his depression and anxiety and chronic loneliness. When I first started therapy out east, my biggest fear was that I would turn out like my father - alone and miserable. It seemed inevitable.
I want my father to be happy and it saddens me to know he isn't. I don't know if he knows that, but I truly want good things for him, but I now know that I am not responsible for his life. I am only responsible for mine. I don't want him to know that I'm going back to therapy because I am overwhelmed once again. I don't know what to say to him so for months there has been radio silence. Months passed. His birthday passed, and I haven't said anything of which I know he is keeping track. When I finally give in and call him, it will be used as emotional fodder to guilt trip me about how bad of a daughter I am.
In the last couple of days, he sent me a Christmas card with $50 gift cards for each Brett and I. I have to call him and thank him because it is a generous gift. The card said he wouldn't be home on Christmas so he was sending us a card just in case. Maybe he thinks I am going home to Indiana for Christmas. I am not. Instead, my wonderful sister bought me a plane ticket to spend the holiday with her. I haven't told either one of my parents. Since my anxiety has worsened, I've stopped talking to people. My head is spinning because I know this conversation will happen soon, and I am not prepared for it, but there is no way out but through. That's the way it has always been.
Outside of that, this year reminds me of a lot; last year, Brett and I were just starting our infertility journey, looking at possible surgery. A year later not much has changed except I'm missing a part of my reproductive system. While I watch others my age become pregnant or give birth to their second child, I feel stuck.
This time of year is also when my favorite aunt passed. It happened unexpectedly five years ago when I was in my kitchen, making holiday goodies for our families. Brett and I had little money as newlywed college students, so we decided to make homemade goody baskets: candied pecans, chocolate-covered pretzels, and candy cane hot chocolate mix. The air smelled of peppermint as I bashed candy canes with a hammer; it felt like the holidays. When my cell phone rang, I knew by the tone in my mother's voice that something was terribly wrong. A heart attack was brought on by pneumonia my aunt had been fighting on-and-off for months. Her heart couldn't take the pressure. We brought home our goodies in our beat-up van as we headed mostly for a funeral rather than to celebrate the holiday season. The funeral took place two days after Christmas.
Yet, in spite of all of this, my mind keeps coming back to one particular person this season - my dad. It's impossible, to sum up, the relationship I have with my father. It's complicated - messy; I believe the term is toxic. We are estranged from each other. It's such a mix of emotion because I have no doubt that my father loves me, but his love and time comes with a price on my personal mental health.
We haven't spoken since the end of July this year. Things seemed to be copacetic until the weekend my mother got remarried. A slew of catty text messages and being accused of lying ended up in a long message from me, explaining to him how I felt. I read it over and over before sending it to him, knowing he would probably still take things the wrong way and put the blame on me. It's always up to me to keep our relationship going. It's up to me to be the bigger person. Yet, I'm not the parent.
If I try to go back and explain how this started, it would probably be when my dad started working day shift. For the first eight years of my life, my dad worked second shift at a local, tool-and-die factory in a small town in Indiana. Those years were mostly spent with my sister, who is six years older than I, and our mother. I can remember mom reading books in bed, playing the Sega Genesis as I watched enamored, and watching old sci-fi shows like The X-Files and Star Trek: Voyager. I loved those years because I had mom all to myself, and I grew to have many of the same interests she did.
Then, dad was switched to day shift. It was a great thing, right? He was going to be able to spend more time with all of us now. Before this, my dad often has mandatory overtime on Saturdays, so sometimes I only saw him once a week. He was mostly a stranger. I remember him taking us to a county park that had a lake-front beach to play, where I developed my dislike for cracker and cheese Lunchables, and I remember him holding our dogs and being asked to go "kiss up to dad" when my mom or sisters wanted something. When dad first came home, I was terrified. He was the scary one, the strict one, the one who mom threatened to tell if we did something too naughty. I didn't know how to be around this person.
As with any family, there was a mix of good and bad. We had wonderful family vacations, a nice home, a pool outside, a playset, and a large extended family that made celebrating holidays the best. However, if I look back and examine my childhood, it's clear that my parents' relationship struggled. I can remember my mom's Mercury Sable peeling out of our gravel driveway in the middle of the night while I prayed to god, "Please don't let my parents get divorced" over and over again. I remember when mom went to stay with a friend for the night when she was angry, and my father looked at me straight in the face and said, "If your mom and I split up, who or you going to live with? Me or her?" I couldn't have been older than ten or eleven at this point. I had no words.
Dad has always been this mix of ups and downs. When he's happy, things are great. That's why vacations were fun because he'd plan this grand adventure for us all. He is where I get my sense of adventure and why I love to travel when I can. But when dad is upset or angry, it's an erratic force. I always tried to evade that force, hide in plain sight or do things to make him and mom happier like clean the house or make food. I've been trying to take care of others since I was a child. It's no wonder I fell apart by the time I reached adulthood.
His angry, dark moods continued sporadically as I moved through adolescence. The fights were no longer just between my parents but now always between him and my sister. I can remember her smoking a cigarette outside in the dark after a screaming match indoors where no one won. Dad always had a bagful of threats to throw at us in order to keep us in line. If we didn't clean our room, he would threaten to take away our stuff or burn it. He would threaten to ground us. Rarely did anything come from these threats, but at times, they were hurtful and ridiculous. Who threatens to burn their child's belongings?
I was too young to understand why my sister was upset with my father. I had my own issues, and hers are her story, not mine to tell. But I can remember never being able to please my father. He complained about housework and money often to the point where I would stress over what to order at restaurants because what if something was too expensive? Would he be mad at me? Would we be able to pay our bills? I think that's where my anxiety started. It began by listening and internalizing all my father's worries. When I make decisions today, I know I am still affected by that voice. I hear it all the time in my head.
My dad did some things well like showing up to my marching band contests, picking me up from work, and making sure I got to the places I needed to go. He was consistent in that manner. I knew he'd physically be there if I asked; he just wasn't always happy about it. He often complained, and it made car rides alone with him stressful. The one car ride engraved into my memory is the day his mother died. I went to school that day, numb, and was broken up with by my boyfriend at the time via text message. My heart split, and all the hurt over him and her death came rushing at me. I couldn't make it through the rest of the day. Mom had meetings at work, so dad had to come to take me home. He berated me the rest of the way home as I cried silently looking out the window.
High school was some of my worst years. Adolescence is difficult for most teenagers, so I don't think my experience is too out of the ordinary - bad boyfriends, inconsistent friends, and problems fitting in. I did everything wrong in high school it seemed. While I should have been participating in activities, making good memories, and getting ready for my future, I was having sex, smoking cigarettes, and my grades were dropping in school. The signs were all there that I had problems and that I needed help, but I never asked for it because I knew what would happen if I did.
When my secret activities came upon my parents' radar, my father had a way of shaming me about the things I did. When I stole alcohol from them (which happened many times, he just noticed a few), he would announce it in front of grandparents, aunts, and uncles to humiliate me. That one didn't bother me as much; I knew I shouldn't have been doing it, but around the age of 15 I had begun to harm myself more and more by slicing shallow cuts on my arms, usually my left. When my parents found out, they didn't know what to do. Perhaps I needed therapy (which I clearly did mom and dad!) or outside help? After pondering it and fighting about it, they decided I didn't. I can remember overhearing their fight from across the house as my dad worried that I would blame all my problems on him. I was weak according to him, and I should be able to take care of myself. And just like everything other time I did something wrong, he told the whole fucking family. Once again, I had no words.
My mother attempted to get me some help in the form of biblical counseling, which I can personally attest is a joke. Reading bible verses never fixed my mental illness nor did praying. If it works for someone else great, but it did jack shit for me. In this form of counseling, I wasn't allowed to talk about my feelings or problems. Apparently, I was focusing on myself too much. I needed to focus on god. Yeah right.
High school went on like this. My dad publicly humiliating me from time to time in front of family or my friends. I didn't like people to come over because my dad would sometimes yell at me until I cried in front of them. Usually, it was over something like housework. My dad had this routine where he'd yell until I'd cry. I tried not to, but I'm just a sensitive person. Sue me. Then, after I'd been reduced to tears, usually a sobbing-hyperventilating type of crying, he'd come find me in my room, where I'd be sitting on my bed, face down, and he'd say, "You know I love you right?"
Around sixteen to seventeen years old, my anxiety worsened. I didn't have the vocabulary to put to what I was experiencing then, but I do now. I lost a significant amount of weight at this age, going from around 235 to 185 in months. The adults around me were astonished. How did I do it? What was my secret? Apparently, I looked great according to others, but when I look at photos of me from that period of time all I can notice is the dead look in my eyes and the sallow complexion of my face. I don't look attractive; I look sick. The secret to this weight loss was I started throwing up at least once a day. This sounds like bulimia, but it's not. I never tried to make myself throw up. I never wanted to throw up, but my nerves were thin; my anxiety at a high, and it made it difficult to keep food down. I stopped eating breakfast because I threw up almost every morning. My friends made jokes about "morning sickness" and "are you pregnant?" But I knew that it was never those things. Breakfast had become coffee and a cigarette to wash down the taste of pure acid I had just upchucked into the toilet or sink. The color of orange juice against porcelain white. I remember being unable to stop myself from throwing up on the school bus a few times and throwing up a lot in public places like restaurants. I became a pro at running from the lunchroom to the bathroom down the hall to the protests of teachers so I could throw up lunch. I hated it! It was painful and upsetting. I'd return to the friends or family with blood-shot eyes and visibly weakened. Knowing this behavior was not normal, I mustered up the courage to ask my school nurse about my condition. Why was I throwing up? How can I stop this from happening, and why is it happening? She and the school counselor spoke and neither one knew why I was throwing up. I remember feeling helpless and near tears. Even the adults around me didn't know what to do. My father kept saying I was bulimic and would deride me in front of others. First of all, if I was bulimic, then I would need professional help. Secondly, who makes fun of someone with bulimia? My dad was convinced I was doing this "for attention" and that it was completely under my control. It wasn't until a couple of years ago as I sat in mental health training as a teacher that I heard someone explain that vomiting was a sign of severe anxiety. Nearly ten years later I had my answer.
I would like to say that my anxiety or depression went away magically, but it didn't, and I'm clearly still dealing with it today. When it was at its worst was my first two years at UMBC out in Baltimore, Maryland. The combination of starting college across the country, my father being arrested, and my parents' divorce sent me spiraling. I began cutting myself again, drinking and smoking heavily, and a myriad of other unhealthy behaviors, trying to deal with the chaos that had become my life. My father would call me often to lament and lay blame about his circumstances. No one knew whether or not he was guilty of the crime accused - child molestation; it was too disgusting to even think about. In addition, my mother would call me too now and then, usually drunk and telling me about her online dating escapades. I felt like I had no parents. They couldn't take of themselves. They couldn't take care of me.
I declined quickly. My anxiety kept me away from class, from asking for help, and at times, eating in the dining hall overwhelmed me. It was all too much. I locked doors and turned off lights, wanting to disappear, feeling hopeless. Things would never improve. Why wake up? Why go on when everything is pointless? Why am I even here? I couldn't answer those questions.
It's scary when I can't think of a reason to keep living.
If it wasn't for my sister, I probably wouldn't be here. She supported my decision to seek out help and spoke to my parents about paying for my care. My father has always spoken about mental health professionals and doctors with derision convinced he knows better than those "whack jobs" and that being mentally healthy is about personal strength. If I was falling apart, he thought it was my fault like depression or anxiety is a choice. I knew I couldn't face my parents and tell them I needed help. I would have been talked out of it or avoided it altogether.
As I got help, my father complained about the money, and I had to stop taking his phone calls. I had to stop taking care of my parents and being the person they confided in. I had become their touchstone, their person to vent to and to complain to. I would ask them about work, taking their medicine, and were they taking care of themselves. It felt like our roles had reversed, and in order for me to heal at all, I could no longer help take care of them. I had to focus on myself.
It took me years to muster up enough self-respect and esteem to put myself first: before family, before friends, and before those, I dated. This is the battle I'm currently having with my father. Do I allow him access to me and to my life? I've tried over and over again, and it usually ends badly, but he is my father and I will always love him. I love that he and I share a love for cooking and that we like trying new things. And I hate that I have his depression and anxiety and chronic loneliness. When I first started therapy out east, my biggest fear was that I would turn out like my father - alone and miserable. It seemed inevitable.
I want my father to be happy and it saddens me to know he isn't. I don't know if he knows that, but I truly want good things for him, but I now know that I am not responsible for his life. I am only responsible for mine. I don't want him to know that I'm going back to therapy because I am overwhelmed once again. I don't know what to say to him so for months there has been radio silence. Months passed. His birthday passed, and I haven't said anything of which I know he is keeping track. When I finally give in and call him, it will be used as emotional fodder to guilt trip me about how bad of a daughter I am.
In the last couple of days, he sent me a Christmas card with $50 gift cards for each Brett and I. I have to call him and thank him because it is a generous gift. The card said he wouldn't be home on Christmas so he was sending us a card just in case. Maybe he thinks I am going home to Indiana for Christmas. I am not. Instead, my wonderful sister bought me a plane ticket to spend the holiday with her. I haven't told either one of my parents. Since my anxiety has worsened, I've stopped talking to people. My head is spinning because I know this conversation will happen soon, and I am not prepared for it, but there is no way out but through. That's the way it has always been.
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