This is a letter I wrote to my deceased abusive father. My father died in 2000 of lung cancer. I am now, 46, but as you will see, I always called him “Daddy.” I never matured to the name of “dad” or “father”. My therapist told me to write him a letter and it did help. I just thought I might share it.
Dear Daddy,
You shocked me, Daddy. You had me confused. Since I only visited you once a year, during the summer, and you were my real one and only daddy I would ever have; and boy did I love you, why did you do this?
That first night it happened, I was asleep and the pain awakened me. I’m guessing you felt my body tense up, so you quit and got off my bed. Then, two nights later, you started again. Once again I awoke with a start. This time I faked sleep and rolled over away from you on the bed. This is when the confusion really set in. Because I didn’t know the rules of a father, I wasn’t sure if you weren’t doing a duty all fathers perform. I knew about child molestation already, but I was not sure that applied to fathers, I was so young.
After you left my bed, and you went to bed that night, I woke up one of my step-sisters; whom you raised full-time. I pulled her into the bathroom with me and told her what happened. She just looked at me and shook her head knowingly. You had apparently been doing this to both of my step-sisters for a long time.
That is when it hit me! Daddy, you molested me! There was no so called “duty.” I may only have been a young girl, but I knew right then and there that what you did was wrong; and it would never never ever happen again.
I quit going to sleep before you did. Then, the situation changed to different offenses. I remember walking by the kitchen table where you were sitting, and I was wearing a tube top. You told me to lift it up so that you could see how my breasts were maturing. I adamantly and strongly denied your request. You just seemed to laugh like it was a joke. I was wary of you every day, for the rest of your life. However, amazingly even at that young age, I felt empowered that I did not take the abuse any more. But I still loved you, you were my Daddy.
During the next 20 years I had set my boundaries and kept them. For those 20 years, I waited for an apology. Over the years, I only told a few very, very close, trusting friends.
Then you got sick, Daddy. I couldn’t leave your side and stayed 24/7 at the ICU. My friends, who knew the secret, questioned my loyalty. They kept telling me that I owed you nothing. But you see, Daddy, I still loved you, all along. During those last few days, I thought just maybe the apology would come. It never did, even when you knew you were going to die.
I’ll never forget when the day came that you asked me to unplug the machines and let you go. We both expressed our love for one another. I did as you asked, and then crawled up in bed with you and held you until you died.
I know you did wrong, and I know you knew it too. But I always did and will love you. And I know you loved me.
If I hadn’t empowered myself so soon after the incident, I don’t believe we would have had the life-long love for each other. I believe the fact that you did not say you were sorry upset me more than the abuse. I didn’t realize your death would affect me so much, since you were mean and abusive.
My stepfather was not always an abusive alcoholic. He was simply a man who loved a glass of scotch in the evening before bed during the early years of my childhood, the years I called him “Daddy.” He was kind-hearted and taught me the life lessons that a girl needs in order to become a compassionate member of the human society.
No, he was not always an abusive alcoholic but he is now.
Don Mustard has been my dad since I was eighteen months old. I was not fond of men as an infant, especially those I had never met. Despite this, on the day we met, I ran straight to him and begged him to pick me up. We became inseparable for the next several years.
I owe most of my character to this man. My love for animals, my passion for hunting, my need to be around horses, and my unconditional love can all be attributed to the years I spent at his heels. I learned the value of hard work by taking care of orphaned cattle from the rancher that employed him. I woke up in the wee hours of the mornings to answer the cries of a calf searching for breakfast and did so without complaint. I had no friends during my elementary years because I smelled like animals, but I cared not. I had a family who loved me. I had a large variety of animals that were much kinder than humans for companionship. I was happy.
I was entering junior high when I began to notice that there was a problem. The bottle that had taken my dad a few weeks to finish now needed to be replaced once a week, and soon after, twice a week. As a family that was struggling just to keep food on the table, this seemed like a luxury that we just could not afford. However, my mom discovered that being unable to provide this bottle was a much worse problem than the money that was being spent on it. Dad would become irritated without his “nightcap,” but we just brushed it off as crankiness.
Then, the irritation was turned my way. Suddenly, nothing I did was right. I was an honor roll student and worked right beside the cowboys on the ranch from dusk until dawn, with the exception of school hours. Still, it was not enough. I was the entire reason for his and my mother’s marital problems in his opinion. I was called a mistake or “that bastard child” on more than one occasion. I would fall asleep many nights in tears. I worked harder to achieve more, aching to hear him tell me he was proud of me once again. It never came.
My mother sat me down during my freshman year of high school and explained our situation to me. My once loving dad was sick, and until he would admit it, there was nothing that she or I could do to make him happy again.
I did my research, like any good student. I learned everything I could about alcoholism, not only about the physical effects, but the psychological effects as well. I learned that the man who spat such ugly words at night was simply not the man who had taught me to ride a bicycle and tie my shoe. Sadly, he might not ever be again.
I wanted to be angry with him.
After all, he was the one who had taught me that allowing anything or anyone to have such a hold over your actions made you weak. The night his anger turned to physical blows, I might have grown resentful, had I not been able to remember one cold morning in a deer stand so many years before. I had proven myself to be a near perfect shot, after years of practice, and I was being rewarded with my very first hunting trip. The excitement of the next morning kept me awake most of the night, and I jumped out of bed the moment my mother woke me. I entered the living room proudly wearing my new gear. That warm camouflage uniform was prettier than any dress in my personal opinion. I tucked my bright red hair into the baseball cap and double-checked the gun that I had lovingly cleaned the night before. My mother handed my dad a lunch box with sandwiches and jerky, and we were off. He drove patiently and carefully through the field while his daughter was unable to stop talking in bubbly excitement over the possibilities of the day.
My dad did all the talking once we were in the deer blind, keeping his voice down to a barely audible whisper as he spoke about the feeling of sighting a deer through the sights of your gun. He warned me about the possibility of freezing up once my sights were lined up and told me how to fight through it. Soon, those words of experience soon turned to wise lessons of life and love.
I valued these lessons and tucked them away for later years, but it was his speech about unconditional love that would eventually turn that little girl into the woman I am today. He told me, “when you love someone, be it your family, an animal, or your husband, you must love them unconditionally. Everyone makes mistakes and we always hurt the ones who love us the most. Love is worthless unless it’s unconditional. You must always forgive those you love without hesitation. If it isn’t unconditional, then it isn’t love at all.”
Many years later, I would forgive him instantly for his abuse. This abuse increasingly grew more violent, and by the time I moved out of my parent’s home, I was grateful to be free of his anger and bitterness. I kept the lessons he taught me in the deer blind close to my heart but added my own touch to it. I decided that while love was worthless unless it was unconditional, that did not mean that a person had to stick around to be abused and walked on. A person could love unconditionally while doing so from a distance.
My dad’s drinking grew increasingly worse after my mother passed away. Today, his mind is half gone from the booze and the evidence is apparent even during the sober moments of the daytime. He has become an empty shell of a man. He is deeply affected by depression and seeks to fill his emptiness with women who could never hope to fill the shoes my mother left behind. He has yet to admit that he has a problem. I still love him unconditionally although I am sure he would tell you otherwise.
I will always be grateful for the earlier years that I spent with my dad. I am a woman who always seeks a brighter future because of these moments. More importantly, I know how to love someone with everything I have, no matter their crimes against others or me. Experience has taught me that there are not many souls out there who can say the same. Most people speak their love without ever knowing exactly how to show it. My Daddy taught me that showing it is more important than three empty words and my children will learn this as well. That is the greatest gift any man could have passed down to his daughter.
I have lost hope that he will ever seek the help he needs to change but on the day of his funeral, I will proudly stand there and speak of the man before the disease. I believe that on that day, I will finally receive his pride as he watches my eulogy through eyes unclouded by booze. Maybe then he will realize that I learned my lessons well and grew up to be everything he had once hoped for. Alcoholism will have finally released its hold on my dad. I will not speak of the horrible deeds or the years I spent as his victim. After all, love is worthless unless it is unconditional.
My best friend’s 17 year old daughter just got her first car recently. I somehow got talked into going to Jefferson, TX with her. This girl, who I’ll call Jenny, and I worked together in the same restaurant last summer, and actually get along rather well. We both enjoy the same anime cartoon, and find the same things amusing, and we both have a serious weakness for cuppity cakes. Now she is, in many ways, an old soul and a pretty cool chic to sit and talk to. So really, it wasn’t any kind of torture to go spend time with this kid just so her mom could have some peace of mind knowing that an an adult was around if something went wrong with the car or whatever.
We went to Jefferson, TX, which is this little historic town that used to be a major shipping hub in the plantation days, but is now a tourist trap with antique shops and ghost tours and such, along with the occasional four day long biker ralley. Jenny and I wandered into some of the cuter stores and looked at funny teeshirts and weird pocketbooks with pounds and pounds of fake gems pasted on them and looked at all of the historic architecture, and train cars, and such, and had a great time.
As we were wondering around, we wandered into the local drug store. I had never been in there before, and Jenny thought the place was cool. The first thing I noticed was the old timey soda shop inside this drug store. It was OLD, and it brought back memories of my dad taking me to the local drugstore in the town where I grew up and having lunch or ice cream at the soda shop counter there.
It was a powerful wave of childhood memories, and for a moment I wasn’t my 44 year old self. For just one moment, I was a little platinum-haired kid, and I think I actually looked around for my daddy.
Now, rather than make me sad that my daddy died when I was only 14, these memories made me feel so connected to the daddy I lost so long ago. I actually felt the joy of a child as I walked up to the counter and started to read my ice cream options on the wall.
I sometimes think that, as adults, we get so caught up in all of the busy-ness of our lives that we forget that kids are onto something. Kids don’t forget to laugh and play and enjoy the moment. Kids don’t forget to live life.
I think I’ll have to ask my friend if I can borrow Jenny again sometime soon so that we can go back to that drugstore with its soda shop counter and sit down a moment and enjoy life.
We miss you. It has been a painful few months and I still have not accepted it. I still think that this was all a big joke and you guys will drive up in the driveway all happy and we will go back to being a small dysfunctional family like we were before all of this.
I look at pictures and just cry because I see how happy you two are in them, and I force myself to believe I will never get to see you two that happy again.
I just can not live in our house anymore, or even in our town. Everyone is telling me I can not keep Mia or Dokee, that I have to sell them. You both understood my love for them and that in a time like this I need them. So, I’m leaving to go to college somewhere. I want to become a vet like you always thought I needed to be, Daddy. I can not say that I have the best grades, but I think if I clear my slate and move on, I will succeed.
I have lost so much weight and now am twenty pounds under weight. I can not sleep at night. I am so depressed and ready to just give up. I can’t do this I can’t be told at eighteen that I have to pay bills and find a way to feed Steven. I just want to get away from it and hide.
I just want to get away from people telling me I have to sign this and this. Why did you put me through this, why have you done this? Was I that horrible as a child? Was it right to put me through this? Do you really believe I needed this?
Hi, I found your web site yesterday and decided it is time to seek friends who understand me and what I went through.
I was bullied in third grade on up to graduation. I talk to friends about it and they tell me I need to forgive the bullies. I have, but the pain resurfaces at times. Sometimes, I cry and just feel so alone and sad.
I had friends until the middle of third grade. One day, we were out on the playground, and all the girls in my class got around me. They pushed me, and I couldn’t get away. After that day, I had no girl friends in my class. The boys were always nice to me. My parents went to the bullies’ houses and talked with the parents, but they all still treated me differently from that day on.
In fifth grade, I went out for basketball where I met a bully on the other team. She hated me. She was there again in sixth grade, still hating me. In seventh grade I was put in her same section because they ran out of room in the higher section. What a sad reason to put someone where it would be scary. No one from my elementary school was in my section. I was alone with the tough kids, and I was scared to death. I found out later, that girl and some others were doing drugs.
In ninth grade, my daddy died, and I was even more alone. One night, I couldn’t breathe. Mom called the ambulance. I was taken to the hospital, where I was diagnosed with allergies and a cold. As I think back, I wonder if it was a panic attack.
In tenth grade, my entire English class was busted for drugs, except me. I never did drugs.
In high school, I finally started making friends, but I had to be careful. I didn’t want to get too close to one friend because she was loose. I didn’t need her reputation adding to my problems. I met another friend in summer school. She had been picked on too, but we didn’t have the same classes.
After I turned 16 and learned to drive, I learned to square dance. I always wanted to learn how. The other people there were older then me, and became parents and grandparents to me. I finally felt accepted.
I identify with Joseph in the Bible. What people meant as harm to him, God turned around for good. God always kept me safe and protected. If it weren’t for the situation I was in, who knows what trouble I could have gotten in. I have forgiven my bullies, but the pain and scars are still there, and will always be there. Sometimes the loneliness gets so great, I just sit and cry.
I have a wonderful hubby, sons, and mom, and I know they don’t understand me. I have been reading about triggers, and how they can take you right back to a bad situation. That is what I have been dealing with for the past two days. I have been crying a lot. After a church meeting last year, I asked to sit down with some ladies. One of them old me it was a private conversation, which triggered me right back to feeling like being left out in school. I ended up leaving that church because it was too painful and brought up too many triggers.
I love people, being around them and talking to them. I went to broadcasting school, and it brought me out of my shyness. Mom says that was priceless. I was once told that I was treated the way I was because the kids thought I was a snob. It made me laugh because it was just the opposite. I wasn’t a snob, just extremely shy with low self-esteem.
When the good days come and I’m smiling? I feel like it’s a small betrayal, to you, myself, our family. It’s just not fair. I try to remember you with a smile through the tears. I try to think of the moments that make me laugh. And I do. I can do it. But in the end, you’re still not here. Not coming back.
And it sucks. My heart hurts. Because it sucks.
I love you, Daddy. I miss you. I carry you in my heart always. That part is full. Despite the chunk I lost when I lost you. You fill up the rest of my heart with memories and laughter and moments where you simply held my hand. That’s all I need, for you to hold my hand as I make my way through this.
Do you think that’s possible? Reach down and hold me. I know you’re watching. You should be able to do it. Right? How does it work, anyway? Ah. I’m surely asking too much. But sometimes I have to.
