March 10, 2025
They say hurt people hurt people. Well, the best way to describe my dad is a wrecking ball of hurt.
If my mom’s a rock, my father’s a bull. It was like his goal in life was to make others feel as miserable as he felt. His favorite pastime was yelling at customer service workers on the phone. He made excuses to be nasty to people just because they somehow “wronged him.” From cursing out a lady pulling into HIS parking spot to yelling, “I’m taking everything!” at my mom every chance he could get. He was a hurricane of destruction. I was scared of him.
I don’t remember the exact moment when I realized that his behavior wasn’t normal for a man. They say we learn about social cues and norms from our parents. My fear of my dad manifested itself into fear of anyone who had power over me: teachers, principals, older adults. People who had the ability to abuse their power—they were all the same. I had trouble looking such people in the eyes. I had stage fright, my voice trembling as their eyes bore into me when I presented in class. I spoke in a soft voice, scared of offending and unleashing the rage I assumed was simmering just below the surface. I was scared to step on toes or make waves because I imagined something I said would offend and unleash their wrath. Unleash the demon I assumed that lay in all men. Spitting, cursing, turning bright red and out of breath from their shouting. Veins popping out while their eyes darkened to two black shiny blobs. No, dealing with my dad and his demon was enough. I didn’t want to offend and release the demon in anyone else. I tiptoed around adults. I spoke only when spoken to. I became a shadow— invisible. I prided myself on being docile and inoffensive. I shrank myself out of, what I thought at the time, self-preservation.
There are a few moments with my dad that play over and over again in my head. I wish to be free of these moments, but no matter what memories fade, these only become sharper with age. One such memory: I’m in middle school. I’ve just come home from school, and my dad is in a rage. I’m instantly on high alert and hope he goes to his office and sulks. He does not. Instead, he sets his sights on me as I settle into my computer at the dining table. His breath stinks of alcohol. His face is sweaty and bright red, no doubt from ranting about the newest way he’s been “wronged” today. I don’t remember what excuse he’s using to direct his anger at me this time. Dirty dishes? Cleaning my room? I try to ignore him, tune him out. I hope he’ll disappear into his office. He doesn’t. He gets so close to me that I can’t ignore him anymore. I turn to him just as he says, “I don’t love you.”
“I know you don’t,” I shout back at him. My voice broke. I didn’t expect those words to hurt as much as they did, to cut me so deeply. I didn’t expect those words to shatter me and consume my thoughts some twenty years later. He immediately tried to take it back. He must have seen how much hurt was plastered all over my face. It was too late. He had said it. There’s no taking back those words once they’ve been spoken.
I think if anyone else had said it, it wouldn’t have made such an impact. Your dad is supposed to love you no matter what, right? Unconditional love. Your dad is the one man who knows you the most, has been there through it all. He’s seen you through your triumphs and failures. He’s the one person who is supposed to know you at your core. If he’s unable to love me, does that mean I’m unlovable? I battle with that thought with every failed date I go on, with every failed relationship. The darkest part of me whispers, “See? You’re not lovable. You can’t be. Your own dad couldn’t even love you.” Then I take a pause from dating because I can’t put myself through another rejection, another man confirming my deepest insecurities. I don’t want to put myself through that again. After a couple of months of collecting myself in isolation, I put myself back together again. I step out into the world with my best foot forward, propelled by the hope that there’s something better out there for me. The cycle continues.
Honey to Bear 