The rage of the stranger that is my father


My mother played a big part in the creation of my emotional deprivation. She taught me to be hard, to hide, to not accept my own feelings and to doubt myself about everything. My mother’s lack of interest in me fucked with my ability to show emotions, however, when I think about the feelings I had when I was younger, a clear image of my father shows up, an image of him taken over by his anger, an image that truly scares me.

My father was never really involved with me. He was there off course, we lived in the same house, but he didn’t really care for me as long as I didn’t bother him, or actually didn’t bother my mother or sister. My father never played with me, he never taught me anything, he didn’t comfort me or even notice my tears. I was really nothing for him, but unfortunately my mother and sister were everything.

Interaction with my father would, and still does, only occur when someone reminds him of me. If I would cry when there was no one else around he would not look up from what he was doing, he really wasn’t aware of my existence, but at soon as my mother would tell him my crying bothered her, he would jump up to make me stop. Or at least he believed that that was what he was doing.

It is very strange for me to have no clue who my father is, even though I have lived with him for 18 years. We just never talked, we never listened to each other, there is just no connection. I remember that even when I was just four years old, I wasn’t able to call him my dad, I even asked my mother if I was really his child. Things just seemed so different for me. But this question I guess I should have never asked because it resulted in one of the first images of my enraged father.

My father was the guard of the family, the protector of my mother and sister. And for some reason I was the biggest thread. When I wasn’t able to please my mother, there would always be a point at which she would say to my father: “Do something about your daughter, she is driving me crazy!” And without even wanting to know what was going on, he would lift me up on one arm, carry me to my room, slap me, punch me, push me or throw me down. “You have to listen to your mother!”

My sister used my father in a similar way to get whatever she wanted. She knew that her father would do anything for her, she knew that she would always be right in his eyes, he would always make sure that there was nothing to be upset about for her. So whenever we were playing together and I wanted to do something she didn’t like, or when I didn’t want to play her way, she would call him. “Daddy, Anna is ruining the game for me!” Or even, “Anna is crying because I threw her toy out of the window!” And my father would come, threw me in my room, made sure I felt pain for upsetting my sister and left to give my sister what she wanted. “Don’t upset your sister”

My mother desperately tried to turn me into her idea of a normal daughter, but it was my father who was able to make me so scared of myself that I truly believed I was a bad person. What did I learn from my father? That I simply don’t matter. I can not remember that he was ever able to show me compassion, nor did he ever question if I was really wrong. He taught me that I was worth nothing, because I am nothing to him. He taught me that no matter how upset I am, or how much an other person hurts me, I am to blame. He taught me that I, like himself, am in this world to serve other people. I have never been able to express my feelings to him, he never showed interested, he pretended that they didn’t exist and this, in combination with the scars on my body, prevented me from ever showing or having emotions.

My father was the real reason I stopped existing without him even having an opinion about me.

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