This will
start a mess and end up a mess. I’ve tried to write it many times. I’ve wanted
to be clever and disguise it as a piece of fiction writing, and I am in awe of
the people out there who could do that. I want to write it to help me try and
understand and process at least for a few minutes. But mostly out from the
inside and onto the page.
I’ve alluded
to the fact before on this blog that my Dad and I have a tricky relationship. I know I’m not the
only one out there and I reckon many of us walk with a bit of a limp when it
comes to parent child relationships that never come to full, healthy fruition
for whatever reason. In this sense the reasons don’t really matter and to be
honest I’m not sure I fully understand them all either.
I have read
somewhere about older men whose wives pre-decease them, as they carry on
through life they often shrivel and die inside. He will ask me often what the
weather has been like locally to me, not because he is interested, but because
he wants to tell me what the weather is like where he lives. And most of the
conversations go that way. I don’t know how to change them to make them like exchanges you have with other people, to make them more fun,
more interactive so I give up trying mostly.
So last night
as often happens something particular he said got under my skin and triggered a
regular chain reaction of thoughts. Mostly this escalates into an intense
irritation. Afterwards a primal scream, a debrief with the Scotsman or a slug
of wine can help me vent/make a bit of sense afterwards.
Sometimes the
feelings in my head continue on and mirror Dad’s outlook. They hurtle round
with abandon like gleeful recalcitrant toddlers in their small circles. I know
it’s out of control. Dad’s trying to control me in his way, I’m trying to make
sense of things by trying to get inside his head and control him back.
Patterns,
habits.
Dad is one of
those text book people that people advocate that you give a wide berth or de-friend
on facebook because they are hard emotional work and you can choose to walk
away. Toxic is a bit too strong, but elements of that are there. I don’t feel I can walk away completely because he is Dad, but I can try and maintain healthy boundaries by limiting
visits.
I would love
to be able to write and say there has been forgiveness and reconciliation. I
love to read stories of when that happens, but it is usually with a heavy heart
because I just don’t see it on the cards. And each time
the mess wreaks its havoc (which is pretty much each time I see or speak to
him) there is an abject sense of failure again
on my part that I have not done what I can or cannot do what I can to show love
and to fix things.
It is in this
broken and messy state that God continuously invites me to share the pain, lean
on Him. Or I can choose to medicate the pain in unhealthy ways and He will wait
for me. It’s rare when I do share with others that there is a ‘me too’, but I
have a hunch there are a lot of ‘me too’ people out there. It’s hard when the
parent is still alive to acknowledge and voice to others without feeling
disrespectful. (Heck, a friend of mine with professional knowledge after a long conversation even ended
up recommending alcohol when I asked advice on how to deal with the situation.)
One of our
leaders shared a photo of a stained glass window in church this morning. It
depicts a child with unknown hands on their shoulders. One hand is in a
protective position the other poised to gently push the child on their way. God
will always be gently encouraging me to pick up and press on with regards to my
Dad, but as I do so His protection will never, ever leave my side for a moment.
Especially in those moments when it really doesn’t feel like it is there.
I am grateful
for the safety of Selina & Ruth’s space to write.
Just because.
