the nuanced subject of fathers
First version posted on June 18, 2017, here
4.9.25
I think as I reach 30, I’ve gone through so many iterations of what a father is. What their job should be, what is the role they are meant to have in the lives of their children? If I were to have children, what behavior would I accept of their father? After cutting off relationships because a partner or friend turned out to be a bad parent, I think I have less grace. The more I understand about “life” and “adult” choices, the less grace I have for the fathers I have experienced.
My birth father took almost 30 years to tell me that he didn’t want me or my sibling. I truly believe that I only need to be told things one time. When my adopted father told me, at 6 years old, that I would be the catalyst to his divorce with his wife, I believed him and knew he absolutely meant that to his core. When the divorce finally occurred in my 20s, he looked at me and told me I was part of the reason. I knew. I was told several times in my life but I remember the first time the most vividly. Because I only need to be told once.
My birth father is a weak man. I can see that without the rose-colored glasses of childhood grace. I know, now, that having children is a choice. Signing a birth certificate, twice, was a choice he made. He decided to make that choice, and then abandon those tied to the birth certificates. He is no longer a mystery I am interested in solving. His justifications will warm his bed, or they won’t. I only wish there was more social pressure on him, and all absentee fathers, to sign their rights away. To show up or shut up. To be barred from any sort of societal reward until they tend to their responsibilities. I still wholeheartedly believe that we cannot move forward without addressing the past truthfully. He is incapable of this, so it is better for everyone for him to be released to his demons. It has been enough time, and enough pain. I realized that I need to be the one to make the adult decisions, even though I have been an adult for a significantly smaller amount of time. I will remain a stranger to him, and that’s what he wants. I no longer bend backwards to let him know that I am open to hearing him. He’s made his choice, and spent almost 30 years building up the courage to speak it- even though he tried to take it back as soon as he realized that I could take what he said for what it was. These exact words: “I never said I wanted you guys.” That’s enough for me.
My adopted father broke my nose. He shoved down my elderly great-grandmother so he could continue to beat my face in. I was 20 years old at the time. I spent my childhood with him being emotionally and verbally abused; being called racial and homophobic slurs, being hyper-monitored and financially abused, and neglected in a completely different way. It was easy for him to convince a pre-abused child to rely on, and worship him. I believe that is why we had so many “good times”. When everyone in the house was compliant, both in mood and action, he allowed us to be happy. This was not the happy home that was displayed to the outside world. It was the shadow behind the reference photo that was tossed in my face as evidence against the abuse I experienced as a child. I allowed myself to be adopted at 19 because I had no other emotional choice. I wanted the same last name of my only sibling, and theirs was already changed. There’s little other choice for me at that age, looking back now. I know now that every “good” choice he made, or opportunity he offered me was only to boost his ego and his status as the person who “saved” us.
My adopted father frequented white supremacist rhetoric. He fetishized the black women that lived in his home, myself included. Making comments about our bodies, our hair, under the guise of compliments. He often spoke derogatorily about my parents (unjustified to speak about with the children), and lamented over the “ghetto” he “saved” us from. He often would tell me that I would've been a “Teen Mom on Welfare” if he specifically hadn’t stepped in. Stereotypes and factually untrue. He was not the reason we ended up in his wife’s care. It was a choice she made, and gave him an out for. He wanted to be a white savior, and found the perfect opportunity. When he finally left my life, in my 20s, all I felt was immense relief. It didn’t matter to me that his entire family was calling me a liar, telling me that I couldn’t have possibly been abused when they spent my childhood watching me be berated. It was over. The truth was out and those who believed me, did so.
Now, my first “truth-telling” was years ago. Parts of his family have come around when they experienced his abusive behavior, but mostly they are still rallying around him. Typical of whiteness and patriarchy, to protect the man instead of the black women he almost killed.
I’m grateful and I’m not. I appreciate the rooms and spaces I was allowed to be in with my proximity to whiteness. I’m appreciative of what those spaces taught me. I’m appreciative and grateful that I am well versed on the typical signs of narcissism and abuse so it is maybe 40% harder for me to believe someone’s love bombing and subsequent abuse.
It’s possible that I could never feel truly “healed”. But I know that I’m much better. I have no father, and that’s okay. I don’t know if I’ll have children, or even marry. But I know what I cannot experience. I saw the type of husband and father that both of my fathers were; it’s something my self esteem could never be low enough to sustain. I know that I deserve better than the fatherhood I’ve been shown, and if it couldn’t be offered to me- I will do everything in my power to offer that to any children I would bring into the world. Father’s day is dedicated to my grandfathers, two men that did their best with what they had. And tried to do right by their children and learn from their mistakes.
The Hunger Pains series (Part 3)
the hunger for rest
I cannot breathe because my body cannot fully relax because I am being watched they are watching me they are watching me I am being watched and my body cannot fully relax. because I cannot breathe. I cannot fully relax my body because I am being monitored. I am being monitored they are monitoring me they are monitoring me I am being monitored and I cannot breathe. I am suffocating because I am being watched they are watching me they are watching me I am being watched and my body cannot fully relax. I cannot breathe because my body cannot fully relax because I am being watched they are watching me they are watching me I am being watched and my body cannot fully relax. because I cannot breathe. I cannot fully relax my body because I am being monitored. I am being monitored they are monitoring me they are monitoring me I am being monitored and I cannot breathe. I am suffocating because I am being watched they are watching me they are watching me I am being watched and my body cannot fully relax. I cannot breathe because my body cannot fully relax because I am being watched they are watching me they are watching me I am being watched and my body cannot fully relax. because I cannot breathe. I cannot fully relax my body because I am being monitored. I am being monitored they are monitoring me they are monitoring me I am being monitored and I cannot breathe. I am suffocating because I am being watched they are watching me they are watching me I am being watched and my body cannot fully relax. I cannot breathe because my body cannot fully relax because I am being watched they are watching me they are watching me I am being watched and my body cannot fully relax. because I cannot breathe. I cannot fully relax my body because I am being monitored. I am being monitored they are monitoring me they are monitoring me I am being monitored and I cannot breathe. I am suffocating because I am being watched they are watching me they are watching me I am being watched and my body cannot fully relax. I cannot breathe because my body cannot fully relax because I am being watched they are watching me they are watching me I am being watched and my body cannot fully relax. because I cannot breathe. I cannot fully relax my body because I am being monitored. I am being monitored they are monitoring me they are monitoring me I am being monitored and I cannot breathe. I am suffocating because I am being watched they are watching me they are watching me I am being watched and my body cannot fully relax. I cannot breathe because my body cannot fully relax because I am being watched they are watching me they are watching me I am being watched and my body cannot fully relax. because I cannot breathe. I cannot fully relax my body because I am being monitored. I am being monitored they are monitoring me they are monitoring me I am being monitored and I cannot breathe. I am suffocating because I am being watched they are watching me they are watching me I am being watched and my body cannot fully relax. I cannot breathe because my body cannot fully relax because I am being watched they are watching me they are watching me I am being watched and my body cannot fully relax. because I cannot breathe. I cannot fully relax my body because I am being monitored. I am being monitored they are monitoring me they are monitoring me I am being monitored and I cannot
the hunger for comfort
Pienso el amor frecuentemente. La diferencia entre estar lista y estar dispuesta. Soy lista, verdad. Pero estoy dispuesta? No se. Estoy dispuesto a ponerme en esa situación, realmente? Confío tanto en mí mismo?? Sí, pero alguien más?
Tal vez la última vez realmente fue la última vez…….que triste, no?
I find myself looking for intimacy in relationships outside of my family. Friends, lovers, peers, anyone who could see me outside of my body. See me outside the cage of doubt I spend my home-time in. The comfort is not bred within the walls of my house. Praise is hidden under obligation, these are all things I am supposed to do. It’s like why should I praise you, be proud of you for doing something you’re supposed to do? You’re supposed to be getting good grades, you’re supposed to be taking care of all these things, you’re supposed to be doing this, so why are you even excited about it? Why are you proud of yourself for doing these things when you’re supposed to do them? Those words loom and suddenly I am not proud of myself. For anything. I am undeserving of love, affection, comfort.
My friends tell me I shrink when they’re around. Shrivel, bend in ways they’ve never seen from me. They tell me I love them in big hugs and screaming from the rooftops because I was tired of mirroring the darkness. The bitter bite of obligated sweetness. I know that I own nothing. Everything promised can be snatched away, or never released in the first place. If not that, anything can be thrown back into your face. I’ve been taught and shown for my entire life that anything and everything tangible even intangible can be taken away from you at any given time. Nothing is mine, I own nothing. I was taught to only know guilt when receiving. Guilt so heavy it sinks the asking stone. One day I will die with boulders in my belly, every emotion swallowed in the face of asking for comfort.
If the only things I own are my thoughts, I become protective of them. I found my privacy in the spaces between those thin shapeless walls, in the margins and lines of my journals, in my bedroom. In my trembling fingers, anxiety is the only thing holding me together from the outside but…… these thoughts are mine.
i wasn’t taught the right kind of forgiveness
accepting the passive, the dismissive, the invisible
half formed and half meant
my mother apologizes by making dinner
55 minutes after deeming me both “too smart to” or “morally fucked” the air shifts and the soft voiced “are you hungry” appears
as if some slight reminder of nurturing is enough to serve as apology
oh, but let me human
let me let slip of tongue
and watch me bleed
bite my tongue clean off in submission
atonement
i’d never earn the pass my mother so freely scans at the kiosk apology
waiting to stamp me guilty into unforgiving ground
The Hunger Pains series (part 2)
who is the mirror child?
who is the maker of the nonsensical you-wind?
you won
this game and the next and the next until your prize comes in the mail
tucked inside ornate tissue and lace:
my gore for your viewing pleasure
each sliver of skin you bit and scratched, returned
wrapped around skewer and charred how you like
am I still delicious?
the veins from behind my eyes tossed in alfredo and seasoned,
no longer longing for one more lookpress every guttural scream you’ve ripped from me into the palm of your hand
your torture beget your favoritve sound
your request to love me, forced from my lips
even duress couldn’t satisfy you
there’s nothing left
there’s nothing left
there’s nothing left
there’s nothing left
there’s nothing I know more than a firework heartbeat
I mean
a dog scared by firework heartbeat
I mean
a hummingbird startled by a dog scared by fireworks heartbeat
I mean
another screaming lighting cloud
another birdcage singing the blues and you are the only one who can hear her
I mean me
I mean my echo is your ring tone so even your best friends know what I sound like when I’m dying
when I’m combusting
until there’s nothing left
until there’s nothing left
until there’s nothing left
until there’s nothing left
the hunger for peace
Every conversation I have with my parents feels like a scene in the play called “how to tell your parents that you do not trust them without telling them that exact phrase”. I’ve tried to trust them. It doesn’t work. This is the House of False Promises. The Fabrication chamber where we’re all supposed to pretend that I will receive what I was promised. My family heirloom is a lie. Party trick, how to convince an entire group of people that you are breathing. When you haven’t been. Not for years.
I feel guilty for trying to hold them accountable, just as I was taught. Especially when I had to hold my parents accountable to their promises, their lies, their actions. I really don’t know how to access these feelings anymore. I feel like I’m repeating myself. I feel like I’m repeating myself and bothering people for wanting to talk about my pain. I feel guilty for not wanting to give any more grace to anyone because grace has never been exhibited toward me.
The fight has become internal because they are not listening. Remember me, the invisible girl. I rationalize them, grace pours from my tear ducts and every cut I gave myself. I forgive them before I'm asked, apologize and grovel before I’m in trouble. Accept the punishment for my being weak. For my not living up to expectations. For asking for emotional comfort. When I’m open, as commanded, the things that bring me joy are immediately trivialized. They “don’t matter”, or they are things that I “should already be doing”.
So I learned to love outside my body. Equate the loving of flesh with the loving of hearts. These were the embraces that weren’t qualified. These were the embraces, breath exchanges that I could feel with my entirety, safely. Even when I knew that man, that body, that heat wasn’t mine to love. Or didn’t love me. Their bodies loved me, held me, tried to contain me and watched me overflow. They allowed me space to be, even when they were lying to me.
my hidden secret, my blood
my waist is getting smaller and smaller as your arms wrapped around it
I could almost disappear and love it
almost crack in half at your hand
and know my last breath was asking for it
I have never been more hungry than next to you in that last bed
it’d been weeks since our love’s last feed and the night knew it wasn’t going to be replenished any time soon, but you lied to me anyway
just like old times
The Hunger Pains series (Part 1)
hunger, belly, why are you so bottomless
why are you so so deep
so so empty
so so cavernous like the mouths I had, lost in themselves
hunger, belly, black hole
hunger, belly, where are the rocks?
you know boulders, best
break open the insides
your infectious internal bleeding
hunger, belly, what does your satisfaction taste like?
air-nothing
air-smoke
air-suffocating
my favorite tongue is the one that cannot taste
the one that sits on the fireplace, trophy cut skinned and photographed
hunger, belly, one day I’ll bring you to the oceans
let sand smooth you,
softness hue you
bone deep this time
mud deeper
when are you full
when are you full
when will you eat
when will you eat
the hunger pains
The magic child. A child hiding. A child of imagination. I spent most of my childhood drifting between magic and dreaming. The monsters I saw were my friends, allies, within these dreams and I begged to be one of them. To be hidden and imaginary and just as invisible as I felt in my skin. I heard ghosts, fictional characters, angels, people who were not born yet. I remembered the life I had before this one. And the life three lives before that. In this one I was the starving girl. The invisible girl. The watching girl.
I imagined the house a dripping wet castle most of the time. I was both the dragon that lives in the basement and the princess that was trapped there, hiding from a different type of beast. I was starving. I was crumbling, invisible, stepped on glass that was always breaking. I never knew which hairline crack would shatter me. There were parts of me that longed for it.
I saw the irony of my life. Hyper-monitored, yet almost completely ignored. It was due diligence; my grandparents can say they put me in therapy. What else is there to do? They’d done all they could by paying someone to translate what I was saying, it must be my own fault that I’m still starving. Or suffocating, or whatever manner of death the day named for me.
I found myself hiding everywhere. Because I was dying. My wilted flower heart was full and heavy to the point of sink, so my head remained down when people were looking at. I knew my strengths, my invisibility and hyper-visibility were fleeting in their placements. They took turns, discussed who should see me and when. And I wondered who “they” were. The voices in my head were symptoms of my depression, according to my therapist. My family loved me; they thought I was beautiful, smart, pathetic, weak, irresponsible, better than this, funny, sweet, a burden. I was best when quiet. When I was observant and quiet, I was a delight to be around. I listened, had no questions. Obedience and proprietary deeply ingrained in my veins, it was cellular now. I only knew how to bend and listen and follow while being told that I was a leader.
The first hunger was visibility. Then peace. Then, silence. I saw everything. Heard all of the words not meant for my body because I was so often forgotten. So often lonely, under surveillance, and surrounded.