I Cried Tonight

After more than three years, I've finally begun to grieve the death of my father. But there's so much more to it than that. Tonight, I also started to heal from the negative effects my father's actions and inactions have had on me and my life.

For most of my life, I looked back on my childhood with fondness. When it comes to how my parents raised me and my siblings, I have a lot to be grateful for. But one thing I never had was any kind of relationship with my father.

I made peace with the fact that I would probably never have a relationship with him during the holidays four years ago. A month later, he was diagnosed with stage four cancer. His perspective on life changed. He wanted to be closer. He wanted to apologize for all his mistakes. He wanted a relationship.

I wasn't ready. I had just finally allowed myself to shut that door. Over the next six months, he and his doctors battled the cancer back to the point where there was light at the end of the tunnel and things were starting to look good.

I finally started allowing myself to hope to get to know my dad and build a relationship with him. Then I got the phone call. By the time I was able to join my family at the hospital, he was gone.

For the next couple years, I had only talked about my dad's death with two close friends. I had gotten emotional, and a couple tears came out, but that was about it. I felt no real connection to the situation. I have cried more while watching sad movies.

Then, mid-summer this year, with the help of my therapist, I started digging around in my childhood because I felt as if I wasn't seeing things clearly and I felt that not seeing and understanding my past was making it difficult for me to understand and have compassion for myself in the present.

We started talking about my dad and there didn't seem to be much there. I had stories, but I didn't really feel anything about them, so my therapist asked me to write a letter to my dad. I wrote it, but, again, didn't feel anything.

After a couple more sessions, I realized that the reason that I didn’t feel anything was because of a really strong defense mechanism I developed to protect myself from my dad's emotional abuse. Absolute disconnection. Nothing in. Nothing out. No good. No Bad. It was so effective, that until recently I didn't even realize that anything had happened in my childhood.

Being aware of my defenses allowed me to know when my walls are up and, sometimes, open up. Over the last few months, I've been practicing living with my defenses down. It's been incredibly difficult and sometimes painful, but also rewarding.

Two weeks ago, I talked to my therapist about a theory I had. I have a lot of hobbies, but I can never seem to stick to one for any length of time. My theory was that all my hobbies as a child were attempts for me to try to build connections with my dad and when the attempt to connect failed, my interest in the hobby dwindled.

The theory may or may not be correct, but I've learned that it really doesn't matter. What is important is what I learn and experience while exploring the theory.

This time, I discovered that, as a child, in addition to love, I sought a sense of safety, security, and validation from my dad. I didn't get any of that from him.

At the moment of this realization, I felt an immense source of heat in my chest. I stopped talking, closed my eyes and observed it for a while. This was anger. A lifetime's supply of suppressed anger. It felt like a vast and powerful underground river of anger-lava.

As I sat with it, I noticed what felt like a child crying in a corner. Sad, alone, and afraid. I recognized how this boy was feeling. It was uncomfortably familiar. I had been that boy many times. This time, though, I noticed something that has always been there, but I had been too numb to notice. I saw a ten-foot tall fire-breathing lava-demon standing in front of the boy protecting him. Protecting me.

I found three things interesting about this. One, the lava-demon had an unimaginably deep and powerful source of strength. It was powered by the anger I had just discovered. Two, this anger wasn't just directed at my dad, it was there trying to protect me from anything and anyone. And three, the child turned around and noticed the anger monster protecting him the same time I did. At that moment, he felt much less scared. He felt protected, safe, and thankful. The anger, in turn, allowed itself to calm down a bit.

I have always been afraid of my anger. I saw it as a purely destructive force. I now see it as the part of me that is there to protect me.

Since then, I've been on a roller-coaster of emotions. I've been more anxious than any time I can remember. Then tonight, for the first time, I didn't try to distract myself from or suppress my emotions. I went to my room, sat down and immediately started crying.

At first, I had no idea what I was crying about. It started small, but after a little while, it got stronger. It seems as if I was no longer holding the box that contained all the emotions relating to my dad closed and it exploded open. It was intense. I can't remember ever crying that hard or that long.

What I realized, though, was that when I suppressed my anger towards my dad, I suppressed all my emotions that had to do with my dad. Including love and grief. It was all flowing out of me now. It felt like a non-consuming, multi-colored, fire-tornado was raging in my chest.

When everything finally calmed down I realized that I'm angry at my dad, I love him, and I miss him.

I cried tonight. I cried out of anger. I cried out of love. I cried out of loss.