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-> Hobbies, Crafts, and Collections
-> The Imamother Writing Club
MountainRose
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 Fri, Jul 06 2012, 2:50 am
| grin wrote: | | MountainRose wrote: | Dear Daddy,
I don't like writing you a letter. You are supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be able to come down to the kitchen for a drink and get lost in conversation with you. I miss speaking my mind with you and having your constant presence to lean on.
But I grew up. Oceans separate us and Skype is a feeble bridge. I am on my own two feet and you watch with pride through the warp of my webcam. Now you are called Zaidy and there is a different "Daddy" in my life.
I will always know exactly what it feels like to hug you. I can feel your hands on my forehead every Friday night, no matter where you are. I hear your advice inside my head, but I still call to hear you say it yourself.
Boruch Hashem I can call you. I can Skype you, though you never have the webcam aimed straight at your face. I know that when you were my age there was no Skype and you couldn't call, but I couldn't do that. I couldn't have left home with only your letters.
I wish I could get a hug from you right now, though I will settle for a long call.
But I hope I never write you a letter. | I like this very much, but I don't understand that last line - why not write a letter?? |
It requires too much distance. I was trying to mirror the first line.
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StrongIma
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Fri, Jul 06 2012, 5:19 am
| amother wrote: | I will not start this letter with "dear Totty." The word "Totty" has been stricken from my vocabulary, a blank card slotted neatly in to replace it. "Abba" is what my kids call my husband.
So if the word is nonexistent, why is it that every time I hear it, I flinch?
I can't talk to you anymore. You don't talk to me, either. I won't mention you if I can help it. All manner of conversational acrobatics are employed to avoid referring to you.
Totty, do you remember when we did talk? How you used to talk to me late at night, when I was still so little (and still up way past my bedtime?) I with my legs swinging at the dining room table, you with your newspaper, relaxing after a long day--how we'd ponder the most obscure scientific topics? Do you remember the trips we took, where you'd share your love of history and the natural world?
Sometimes I look in the mirror and think how scarily I remind myself of you. You know how they say we turn into our parents? I guess I was always afraid of that happening.
I would be thrilled to gift my own children with similar memories of trips and talks. What I'm afraid of are the other memories. The ones I'm in morbid terror of bequeathing to my kids.
Don't play innocent. You know what I'm talking about. I hope you do, because if not...that's a horror I can't countenance. I really think you do. I just get that vibe; I'm not sure exactly why.
So: do you remember rolling on the floor with me when I was fifteen, locked in combat like a pair of sumo wrestlers? Do you remember whipping me repeatedly with a belt when I couldn't have been older than eleven, as I jumped on the bed and sang "I don't care" in a cracking voice?
Do you remember screaming at me, as I lay on the floor after yet another violent physical struggle, "X (our seriously ill teenage neighbor) just died! And it's because of you! Because of the way you act!"
Or the time you told me, "You're going to go off the derech one day, just wait and see!"
Or, "You're chayav misah for what you're doing!"
Oh, I remember. I remember the endless, soul-dulling petty arguments, when you just HAD to be right and have the last word, as though you were a fellow child and not our father.
The KNOWING that the genial, obsequious, funny and personable face you presented to the world was just a mask. That behind that mask lay an angry man who never grew up, never knew when to stop, didn't mind sacrificing his family to his rages, and didn't have any self awareness with which to grasp the problem. Who blamed his young daughter for the problem instead. Or his wife, his other children, anyone really. Anyone who would never speak up.
I remember the sense of aloneness when my siblings joined the blame game, ganging up on me for upsetting the balance. "He's your father! You can't just ignore him! No matter what he did! He's not so bad, really. Besides, YOU always start up! Why do you fight so much?"
I just wanted to know why, if you were our father, you could get away with treating us this way.
And yes, I remember you yelling at Mommy - all the time. I know you were tired and stressed after a full day at work. (Well, that's only for the times you yelled at her right after work.) But you killed me, slowly, little by little. You broke my sense of self and my concept of marriage. I watched her sit on the couch and cry deep heartbroken sobs after you stormed off. My mother is a strong woman who rarely shows vulnerable emotions, but you made her cry. Not every time. Only when she'd reach the breaking point. If she had cried every time you shouted abuse at her, her eyes would be red as Leah Imeinu's from multiple crying spells each day.
So those are my recollections for Father's Day. Actually, you don't believe in Father's Day. You always say "every day is Father's Day." Yeah. Well, for some of us no day is ever Father's Day.
Yes, I flinch when I hear "Totty". Also "Father's Day," and "kibud av", and lots of other things. I broke down and cried when they sang "Tatteh, Tatteh" at the kumzitz in High School. I've gotten so I'm able to hide the flinch inside me, but it's still there.
And I still can't talk to you. Not because you're not here; you are. But I can't. And that's that. And if you talk to me, you know that I'll ignore you or at most give a monosyllabic answer while looking away. I do glimpse regret in your eyes for fleeting instants, these days. But I can't look at your face long enough to accept it. I don't know if I ever will.
Don't even ask about my relationship with my Tatteh in Himmel. I haven't gone off the derech (yet) but I feel like you stole that from me as well. I can't picture a loving, balanced father watching over me, knowing everything I do. The concept holds no comfort for me. I subconsciously try to avoid that aspect of relating to Hashem. It's so hard and so painful for me, because I did feel His love in my stormy teenage years while you were busy destroying me. I really did, and I want a relationship with Him. I scramble to grasp it, though the foundation is shaky.
So no, this letter will never be sent to you, and probably neither will any other. I have to take it day by day. I'm focusing on my family, your beautiful grandchildren; groping in the dark not to cause them the same pain. If you ever do see this somehow, the only message I can tell you--for both our benefits--is don't
love
Your Daughter.
Your love is terrifying.
Happy Father's Day, Totty. | 
this brought tears to my eyes.
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syrima
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Fri, Jul 06 2012, 9:39 am
[quote="StrongIma"][quote="amother"]I will not start this letter with "dear Totty." The word "Totty" has been stricken from my vocabulary, a blank card slotted neatly in to replace it. "Abba" is what my kids call my husband.
I am sure the "Abba" you married is worlds better than what you had, and IY'H will provide your kids with the security and care that you were deprived of.
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WhoAmINow
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Fri, Jul 06 2012, 2:43 pm
Dear Papa,
Over and over again I'm surprised by landmark events in my childhood which you don't really recall. Is it like that for everyone? I expect so; my kids are now doing it with me. But I like remembering a lot of them with you anyway.
For instance, right now I'm remembering a certain evening when I was eight or nine. You had acquired -- how, I don't recall, although you told me -- you had acquired same-day tickets to a special grown-up performance which included some sort of classical music. You mentioned that there was en extra ticket (Mama was busy with something or other), and no doubt you were promptly sorry you'd brought that up: I bounced and begged and wailed and whined to go with you, and was loudly unsatisfied by any reason against it. I wonder what you had originally planned to accomplish after supper, before I took up the whole time. But at last I accepted your refusal and obeyed your insistence that I go to bed.
I had given up on the ticket, but your well-meant gentle advice to stop making such a big deal of it went right over my head. I was still whimpering and sobbing as I pulled on my flannel nightgown and curled up under the covers. I clung to my sense of defeat and unhappiness. But do what I might, I did fall asleep. Then, an hour or so later, I half-woke with a full bladder, stumbled out to deal with it, and, as I re-emerged in the brightly-lit hallway...there you were, saying: "You're awake after all!" Your tone was merely surprised, but I assumed I was in trouble for not letting go of the matter. You glanced at your watch and thought for a moment. "How fast can you get dressed?"
I don't remember the show itself at all, only which auditorium it was in. What I remember is the astonished, full-hearted joy of getting the invitation. I know now, of course, how wearily unpleasant it was while I was pestering you. Your obligation to teach me how to behave was uppermost, and you steadily pursued it. But in the relative quiet after you finally got me off to my room, you kept thinking about me. You took me seriously. You believed that my unhappiness mattered, even if I had foolishly manufactured most of it myself, even though other things matter more. You thought about it. You believed it. And you did something about it.
Somewhere in the timeless mind of G-d, an eight- or nine-year-old girl forever sits beside her father in the lower balcony of that grand, elegant Victorian hall where the very windows glow with the nighttime darkness beyond them. She gazes with awe at the red velvet curtain, two stories high, and respectfully strokes the rich old wood that is the arm of her seat. She basks in the golden glow of the sculpted plaster walls, listening to the uneven rumble of a gathering audience and the snatches of instruments tuning up. She sits still -- which is difficult, but a necessary part of the solemn magic in itself -- and is utterly saturated with the wondrousness that fills and overfills all that soaring space. With a child's knack for dwelling entirely in the moment, she revels in the magical, alien "real world" around her, completely joyful, so securely anchored by the loving presence beside her that she merely assumes it as she does the air. Moments like that don't begin or end. I am unspeakably the richer for having inhabited that one; and it was you, Papa, who took me there.
In one way of course it's a pity that you don't remember. But in another way, it makes me very happy that I can show it to you.
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merelyme
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Sat, Jul 07 2012, 6:45 pm
WhoAmINow, your post is inspiring.
and amother ... hugs. You should find peace and healing.
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MountainRose
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Sat, Jul 07 2012, 6:53 pm
| WhoAmINow wrote: | Dear Papa,
Over and over again I'm surprised by landmark events in my childhood which you don't really recall. Is it like that for everyone? I expect so; my kids are now doing it with me. But I like remembering a lot of them with you anyway.
For instance, right now I'm remembering a certain evening when I was eight or nine. You had acquired -- how, I don't recall, although you told me -- you had acquired same-day tickets to a special grown-up performance which included some sort of classical music. You mentioned that there was en extra ticket (Mama was busy with something or other), and no doubt you were promptly sorry you'd brought that up: I bounced and begged and wailed and whined to go with you, and was loudly unsatisfied by any reason against it. I wonder what you had originally planned to accomplish after supper, before I took up the whole time. But at last I accepted your refusal and obeyed your insistence that I go to bed.
I had given up on the ticket, but your well-meant gentle advice to stop making such a big deal of it went right over my head. I was still whimpering and sobbing as I pulled on my flannel nightgown and curled up under the covers. I clung to my sense of defeat and unhappiness. But do what I might, I did fall asleep. Then, an hour or so later, I half-woke with a full bladder, stumbled out to deal with it, and, as I re-emerged in the brightly-lit hallway...there you were, saying: "You're awake after all!" Your tone was merely surprised, but I assumed I was in trouble for not letting go of the matter. You glanced at your watch and thought for a moment. "How fast can you get dressed?"
I don't remember the show itself at all, only which auditorium it was in. What I remember is the astonished, full-hearted joy of getting the invitation. I know now, of course, how wearily unpleasant it was while I was pestering you. Your obligation to teach me how to behave was uppermost, and you steadily pursued it. But in the relative quiet after you finally got me off to my room, you kept thinking about me. You took me seriously. You believed that my unhappiness mattered, even if I had foolishly manufactured most of it myself, even though other things matter more. You thought about it. You believed it. And you did something about it.
Somewhere in the timeless mind of G-d, an eight- or nine-year-old girl forever sits beside her father in the lower balcony of that grand, elegant Victorian hall where the very windows glow with the nighttime darkness beyond them. She gazes with awe at the red velvet curtain, two stories high, and respectfully strokes the rich old wood that is the arm of her seat. She basks in the golden glow of the sculpted plaster walls, listening to the uneven rumble of a gathering audience and the snatches of instruments tuning up. She sits still -- which is difficult, but a necessary part of the solemn magic in itself -- and is utterly saturated with the wondrousness that fills and overfills all that soaring space. With a child's knack for dwelling entirely in the moment, she revels in the magical, alien "real world" around her, completely joyful, so securely anchored by the loving presence beside her that she merely assumes it as she does the air. Moments like that don't begin or end. I am unspeakably the richer for having inhabited that one; and it was you, Papa, who took me there.
In one way of course it's a pity that you don't remember. But in another way, it makes me very happy that I can show it to you. |
I love this phrase!
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Sherri
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Sun, Jul 08 2012, 9:33 pm
| WhoAmINow wrote: |
In one way of course it's a pity that you don't remember. But in another way, it makes me very happy that I can show it to you. | Your whole post was so enjoyable to read! Welcome!
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amother
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Sun, Jul 08 2012, 9:39 pm
To the 2 amothers who write about their negative experiences with their fathers- I am more inspired now to encourage my husband to continue developing such strong bonds with our children- so that they can have positive associations of Avinu shebashamayim.
Hugs to both of you.
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happyone
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Sun, Jul 08 2012, 10:53 pm
To my beloved Totty,
It's five years since your untimely death and the pain doesnt let up, it doesnt ease, it doesnt dull.... There's a constant deep longing for you that only your children can understand. In fact, I wonder if my siblings feel that pain as intense as I do. I was Daddy's Little Girl, although I was from the older ones in the family. I thought, and still think, I was your favorite and had utmost respect for you and thought there was no one like you.
Your calm demeaner was a breath of fresh air and I wondered how I can be just a little bit like you, being the high strung person I am. You always had a smile on your face and a good word for anyone in your presence. Your simchas Hachayim even in trying times was one to emulate. Your Kibbud Av V'em to your parents was unreal. How I wish I can practice that same respect for ones father as you taught us all your life.
You were taken from us in an instant. We had no time to say good bye, no time to ask forgiveness, no time to get one more hug. You left a family of orphans, a widow and an aging mother who soon after died of grief at the loss of her beloved son.
Honestly, I'm ANGRY at you... How could you leave us so soon? Father's have responsibilty to be there to raise their children, marry them off and take care of them. My siblings will have no father to walk them down to the chuppa. You missed my son's bar mitzva, another child's upsherin and now my daughter's sweet sixteen party. You're not there to meet your younger children's potential shidduchim, you missed your own son's bar mitzva, you missed another son's wedding.
I went to visit your gravesite last week and according to tradition most people put a rock on the tombstone after lighting a candle. (I wonder where that source is from.) I actually threw it at you! A literal wake up call. A not so freindly reminder that you have a family down here that needs your tefillos, and hopes that in your absence you are at least meilitz yosher for those that love you and miss you dearly.
lots of love,
your daughter
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amother
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Sun, Jul 08 2012, 11:18 pm
| sequoia wrote: | | amother wrote: | I wrote this recently for Father's Day.
A Different Kind of Fathers Day
But things have crystallized, and it’s time for a change.
I’ve come to realize that he didn’t reject me because I was damaged; I am damaged because he rejected me.
And I can fix that.
Someone who cares so little, whose spent less than 15 days of my life with me, doesn’t deserve 9,855 days of my attention. He certainly doesn’t deserve to hold so much power of me, my relationships and my self-perception. He hasn’t earned the right to feature in my thoughts, mess with my emotions and interfere with my religious observance.
So this year, I’m observing the real Fathers Day for the first time, albeit unconventionally.
On June 17, 2012, I’ll be grieving for the father I never had and for that important male relationship I’ve missed out on. But he missed out too. He missed out on knowing me – as a child and as an adult. He missed out on the successful daughter he could have had. He’s missed the opportunity to enjoy parental pride, and for that I pity him.
Will I always feel some sadness for my fatherlessness? I’m sure I will.
But from now on he is banished from my thoughts, except when I choose to let him in. He’s had too much power for far too long.
It’s time to say goodbye. |
Wow. That's amazing and beautiful. I wonder if I'll ever get to that place. |
Thanks Sequoia. I hope you do.
I'm not sure if I'm totally there but I'm working in that direction and it feels good.
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amother
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Sun, Jul 08 2012, 11:19 pm
| Sherri wrote: | | amother wrote: | I wrote this recently for Father's Day.
A Different Kind of Fathers Day
I’ve lived through 9,855 Fathers Days, and I’m not 9,855 years old.
...
So this year, I’m observing the real Fathers Day for the first time, albeit unconventionally.
On June 17, 2012, I’ll be grieving for the father I never had and for that important male relationship I’ve missed out on. But he missed out too. He missed out on knowing me – as a child and as an adult. He missed out on the successful daughter he could have had. He’s missed the opportunity to enjoy parental pride, and for that I pity him.
Will I always feel some sadness for my fatherlessness? I’m sure I will.
But from now on he is banished from my thoughts, except when I choose to let him in. He’s had too much power for far too long.
It’s time to say goodbye. | I read this recently (in the Jewish Press maybe? Where was it published) and it touched me so much. It's a very very powerful piece.  |
Thank you Sherri.
It was in the Nshei magazine and on the Jewishmom site.
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Sherri
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Sun, Jul 08 2012, 11:24 pm
| amother wrote: | | Sherri wrote: | | amother wrote: | I wrote this recently for Father's Day.
A Different Kind of Fathers Day
I’ve lived through 9,855 Fathers Days, and I’m not 9,855 years old.
...
So this year, I’m observing the real Fathers Day for the first time, albeit unconventionally.
On June 17, 2012, I’ll be grieving for the father I never had and for that important male relationship I’ve missed out on. But he missed out too. He missed out on knowing me – as a child and as an adult. He missed out on the successful daughter he could have had. He’s missed the opportunity to enjoy parental pride, and for that I pity him.
Will I always feel some sadness for my fatherlessness? I’m sure I will.
But from now on he is banished from my thoughts, except when I choose to let him in. He’s had too much power for far too long.
It’s time to say goodbye. | I read this recently (in the Jewish Press maybe? Where was it published) and it touched me so much. It's a very very powerful piece. |
Thank you Sherri.
It was in the Nshei magazine and on the Jewishmom site. | Yes, I read it in the Nshe magazine. Kudos to you for being able to express this-- and much hatzlacha!
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syrima
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Mon, Jul 09 2012, 10:02 am
| WhoAmINow wrote: | Dear Papa,
Over and over again I'm surprised by landmark events in my childhood which you don't really recall. Is it like that for everyone? I expect so; my kids are now doing it with me. But I like remembering a lot of them with you anyway.
For instance, right now I'm remembering a certain evening when I was eight or nine. You had acquired -- how, I don't recall, although you told me -- you had acquired same-day tickets to a special grown-up performance which included some sort of classical music. You mentioned that there was en extra ticket (Mama was busy with something or other), and no doubt you were promptly sorry you'd brought that up: I bounced and begged and wailed and whined to go with you, and was loudly unsatisfied by any reason against it. I wonder what you had originally planned to accomplish after supper, before I took up the whole time. But at last I accepted your refusal and obeyed your insistence that I go to bed.
I had given up on the ticket, but your well-meant gentle advice to stop making such a big deal of it went right over my head. I was still whimpering and sobbing as I pulled on my flannel nightgown and curled up under the covers. I clung to my sense of defeat and unhappiness. But do what I might, I did fall asleep. Then, an hour or so later, I half-woke with a full bladder, stumbled out to deal with it, and, as I re-emerged in the brightly-lit hallway...there you were, saying: "You're awake after all!" Your tone was merely surprised, but I assumed I was in trouble for not letting go of the matter. You glanced at your watch and thought for a moment. "How fast can you get dressed?"
I don't remember the show itself at all, only which auditorium it was in. What I remember is the astonished, full-hearted joy of getting the invitation. I know now, of course, how wearily unpleasant it was while I was pestering you. Your obligation to teach me how to behave was uppermost, and you steadily pursued it. But in the relative quiet after you finally got me off to my room, you kept thinking about me. You took me seriously. You believed that my unhappiness mattered, even if I had foolishly manufactured most of it myself, even though other things matter more. You thought about it. You believed it. And you did something about it.
Somewhere in the timeless mind of G-d, an eight- or nine-year-old girl forever sits beside her father in the lower balcony of that grand, elegant Victorian hall where the very windows glow with the nighttime darkness beyond them. She gazes with awe at the red velvet curtain, two stories high, and respectfully strokes the rich old wood that is the arm of her seat. She basks in the golden glow of the sculpted plaster walls, listening to the uneven rumble of a gathering audience and the snatches of instruments tuning up. She sits still -- which is difficult, but a necessary part of the solemn magic in itself -- and is utterly saturated with the wondrousness that fills and overfills all that soaring space. With a child's knack for dwelling entirely in the moment, she revels in the magical, alien "real world" around her, completely joyful, so securely anchored by the loving presence beside her that she merely assumes it as she does the air. Moments like that don't begin or end. I am unspeakably the richer for having inhabited that one; and it was you, Papa, who took me there.
In one way of course it's a pity that you don't remember. But in another way, it makes me very happy that I can show it to you. |
I really liked this. There are so many memories with parents where it's not about what was said, sometimes nothing was said at all, but the being together and being included is what's important.
Can you show this to him?
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WhoAmINow
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Mon, Jul 09 2012, 10:40 am
merelyme, and MountainRose, and Sherri, and syrima, thank you. It's so gratifying to get such warm feedback! I'm very grateful to be able to say that, in fact, I can show it to him, and I plan to, when I see him IY"H later this week.
To you who have written of your pain:
I know that I don't really have any idea what it's like, but your very effective writing has given me an inkling - just enough of an inkling that my heart goes out to you. I hope it helps you to say it, and to say it here in a place where you can hear the support of others. May H' fill your heart with healing and your future with joy and richness and growth beyond any expectations!
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amother
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Mon, Jul 09 2012, 12:55 pm
| amother wrote: | To the 2 amothers who write about their negative experiences with their fathers- I am more inspired now to encourage my husband to continue developing such strong bonds with our children- so that they can have positive associations of Avinu shebashamayim.
Hugs to both of you. |
Wow, that gave me a lift! Thanks so much for telling me! I'm so glad I inspired you and something positive came out of something so negative.
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amother
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Mon, Jul 09 2012, 12:56 pm
| WhoAmINow wrote: | To you who have written of your pain:
I know that I don't really have any idea what it's like, but your very effective writing has given me an inkling - just enough of an inkling that my heart goes out to you. I hope it helps you to say it, and to say it here in a place where you can hear the support of others. May H' fill your heart with healing and your future with joy and richness and growth beyond any expectations! |
Thank you for your healing words; they made me feel warm inside.
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robynm
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Mon, Jul 09 2012, 2:03 pm
| amother wrote: | I will not start this letter with "dear Totty." The word "Totty" has been stricken from my vocabulary, a blank card slotted neatly in to replace it. "Abba" is what my kids call my husband.
So if the word is nonexistent, why is it that every time I hear it, I flinch?
I can't talk to you anymore. You don't talk to me, either. I won't mention you if I can help it. All manner of conversational acrobatics are employed to avoid referring to you.
Totty, do you remember when we did talk? How you used to talk to me late at night, when I was still so little (and still up way past my bedtime?) I with my legs swinging at the dining room table, you with your newspaper, relaxing after a long day--how we'd ponder the most obscure scientific topics? Do you remember the trips we took, where you'd share your love of history and the natural world?
Sometimes I look in the mirror and think how scarily I remind myself of you. You know how they say we turn into our parents? I guess I was always afraid of that happening.
I would be thrilled to gift my own children with similar memories of trips and talks. What I'm afraid of are the other memories. The ones I'm in morbid terror of bequeathing to my kids.
Don't play innocent. You know what I'm talking about. I hope you do, because if not...that's a horror I can't countenance. I really think you do. I just get that vibe; I'm not sure exactly why.
So: do you remember rolling on the floor with me when I was fifteen, locked in combat like a pair of sumo wrestlers? Do you remember whipping me repeatedly with a belt when I couldn't have been older than eleven, as I jumped on the bed and sang "I don't care" in a cracking voice?
Do you remember screaming at me, as I lay on the floor after yet another violent physical struggle, "X (our seriously ill teenage neighbor) just died! And it's because of you! Because of the way you act!"
Or the time you told me, "You're going to go off the derech one day, just wait and see!"
Or, "You're chayav misah for what you're doing!"
Oh, I remember. I remember the endless, soul-dulling petty arguments, when you just HAD to be right and have the last word, as though you were a fellow child and not our father.
The KNOWING that the genial, obsequious, funny and personable face you presented to the world was just a mask. That behind that mask lay an angry man who never grew up, never knew when to stop, didn't mind sacrificing his family to his rages, and didn't have any self awareness with which to grasp the problem. Who blamed his young daughter for the problem instead. Or his wife, his other children, anyone really. Anyone who would never speak up.
I remember the sense of aloneness when my siblings joined the blame game, ganging up on me for upsetting the balance. "He's your father! You can't just ignore him! No matter what he did! He's not so bad, really. Besides, YOU always start up! Why do you fight so much?"
I just wanted to know why, if you were our father, you could get away with treating us this way.
And yes, I remember you yelling at Mommy - all the time. I know you were tired and stressed after a full day at work. (Well, that's only for the times you yelled at her right after work.) But you killed me, slowly, little by little. You broke my sense of self and my concept of marriage. I watched her sit on the couch and cry deep heartbroken sobs after you stormed off. My mother is a strong woman who rarely shows vulnerable emotions, but you made her cry. Not every time. Only when she'd reach the breaking point. If she had cried every time you shouted abuse at her, her eyes would be red as Leah Imeinu's from multiple crying spells each day.
So those are my recollections for Father's Day. Actually, you don't believe in Father's Day. You always say "every day is Father's Day." Yeah. Well, for some of us no day is ever Father's Day.
Yes, I flinch when I hear "Totty". Also "Father's Day," and "kibud av", and lots of other things. I broke down and cried when they sang "Tatteh, Tatteh" at the kumzitz in High School. I've gotten so I'm able to hide the flinch inside me, but it's still there.
And I still can't talk to you. Not because you're not here; you are. But I can't. And that's that. And if you talk to me, you know that I'll ignore you or at most give a monosyllabic answer while looking away. I do glimpse regret in your eyes for fleeting instants, these days. But I can't look at your face long enough to accept it. I don't know if I ever will.
Don't even ask about my relationship with my Tatteh in Himmel. I haven't gone off the derech (yet) but I feel like you stole that from me as well. I can't picture a loving, balanced father watching over me, knowing everything I do. The concept holds no comfort for me. I subconsciously try to avoid that aspect of relating to Hashem. It's so hard and so painful for me, because I did feel His love in my stormy teenage years while you were busy destroying me. I really did, and I want a relationship with Him. I scramble to grasp it, though the foundation is shaky.
So no, this letter will never be sent to you, and probably neither will any other. I have to take it day by day. I'm focusing on my family, your beautiful grandchildren; groping in the dark not to cause them the same pain. If you ever do see this somehow, the only message I can tell you--for both our benefits--is don't
love
Your Daughter.
Your love is terrifying.
Happy Father's Day, Totty. |
im blown away. a lot of this I could have written and it feels awful to read it written so well. I agree that you should send him the letter. I would want my child to send it to me. but I understand how painful it is to tell the prson whos hurt you all these years. you have inspired to me to write a truthful letter now.
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amother
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Mon, Jul 09 2012, 2:04 pm
Dear Daddy,
Do you remember when you told me the story of the three bears, and I asked you how its possible that Mama's porridge was too cold and Papa's porridge was too hot if they came from the same pot? Do you remember telling me that Mama made a big pot of porridge and served herself first so that Papa's and Baby's porridge could stay hot? You explained how Mama bear got a phone call after serving her porridge so Papa's porridge stayed in the pot an hour longer and that's why it was still hot.
Do you remember all those silly questions I used to ask you? How did you always have answers for them?
My five-year-old seems to take after me with his endless questions. I don't take after you with endless and instant answers. He wants to know who's going to watch him if both of his parents will die someday. He wants to know how he will know who he's supposed to marry. He wants to know where he's going to live after he's married. He wants to know why tigers have stripes and cheetahs have spots and how to differentiate between a jaguar and a leopard. He wants to know why the Brooklyn Bridge and Manhattan Bridge are so close to each other and why the trains only go on the Manhattan Bridge not Brooklyn.
Daddy, we're going to your house for supper tonight. Please answer his questions.
Thank you.
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amother
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Mon, Jul 09 2012, 2:11 pm
| amother wrote: | | amother wrote: | To the 2 amothers who write about their negative experiences with their fathers- I am more inspired now to encourage my husband to continue developing such strong bonds with our children- so that they can have positive associations of Avinu shebashamayim.
Hugs to both of you. |
Wow, that gave me a lift! Thanks so much for telling me! I'm so glad I inspired you and something positive came out of something so negative. | I wasn't sure how you'd feel about the comment- glad you're okay with it.
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, but they're of a more passive aggressive nature. And he is a loving father, for all his shortcomings.