Entry 22: Dad

The first time I realized I was more like my father, was when my sister pulled out a personality quiz from her purse, and started asking questions after the three of us had finished our dinner at a local restaurant. Each question, my dad and I answered the same, whereas my sister answered the exact opposite. I'd never stopped to consider that we were more alike than I realized, as everyone growing up had always said how much I was like my mom, so I settled on the fact that I was. She was artsy and creative, and so was I, whereas Dad was more of a businessman who loved cars and chasing sales, which my sister also leaned the same way

I'd never looked past our families talents and interests, to really discover who I was. Dad was gentle, calm, and a people pleaser, who only reacted to things when it hit a personal cord, which was how I was as well. I'd inherited my mother's physical characteristics, but her uptightness, reactiveness, and need for control hadn't been me. I'd been the calm one, watching everything in the background, while attempting to keep Mom stable and happy. It had been a role that Dad and I had both taken on, only he'd gotten too busy with work and the church, leaving the responsibility mainly to me.

I loved Dad, but growing up I hadn't respected him. He'd struggled to find a balance between church and family, and his desire to be needed and feel important took over his life, as our phone constantly rang off the hook with religious members demanding his time and attention. Had Mom been emotionally well, perhaps it would have taken less of a toll, but with him gone all the time, she suffered immensely. "I'm so lonely," she often told me, bursting into tears. She too dreamed of a fairy tale romance, which apparently they'd had in their younger days, before the church had entered their lives. He'd loved Mom deeply, but he had no idea how to nourish her, until she eventually fell out of love with him.

When Dad was home, he struggled to just hang out and be a normal father and husband. We were good at entertaining as a family when people were over, but were unable to function in a healthy way when it was just us. There was always something for Dad to take care of within the church, and if he did set time aside for us, it was to have a bible study, a requirement of the church. He was not only supposed to have one with all family members, but with me as well, which had always been super uncomfortable. He'd not taken the time to discover my interests, hopes and dreams, but instead had gone straight to questions about God, while covering intimate topics such as puberty, dating, and sex before marriage, using a book the church had made for teens and parents. I'd been unable to open up as I squirmed in my seat, giving nothing but text book answers. Eventually he got too busy to continue our studies, which I'd been relieved about.

After Mom passed away, I'd had a small window to get to know my dad as a young adult, but he didn't know how to nourish his daughters anymore than he did his late wife, as he quickly attached himself to a new wife a few months later, who wasn't focused on love but rather money, due to her inheritance about to run out from her late husband who'd passed away. I'd been desperate to attach myself to a mother figure, to feel maternal love once again, but now that my dad and her were married, she'd turned cold and selfish, with the whole thing having been one big act. "I know you don't like her," Dad said, his face red with anger, "but you need to make an effort for me."

I'd made an effort, and had been so deeply hurt by her, that I never wanted to be in her presence again. How had Dad let this happen? How had he taken her side over his own children's, in spite of her acting just as cruelly towards him, and cutting him off sexually within only a few weeks? It had been a disastrous union, I knew it and so did he, and yet as long as he was in the religion, he knew he'd never be able to get out of the marriage, and so he stayed and suffered, expecting the rest of us to as well.

"It's going to kill him if he stays," I said to my sister one day.

"But won't it kill him more to go through another separation within the church?" was her response.

And so the years passed, as he continued to go through the motions of a loveless marriage while rising up within the church once again. Then there was me, a constant reminder as to the failings of our family, as I took my leave from the church for good. I was still hopeful that we could create some sort of healthy father daughter relationship outside of the church, but he told me that the only way for us to have a closer relationship was if I allowed him to study the bible with me. Outside of that, it would be impossible to do so. And so we continued to be estranged, in spite of him announcing his battle with prostate cancer, and then more bad news a couple of years later. "It's not looking good," he said, as I held the phone to my ear, tears running down my face.

Dad was dying, and I had no idea what that meant for us. Would we be able to reconcile our relationship in time, and would he allow me in, so we could finally have a close father daughter relationship before leaving this world for good? I didn't know the answers, and the uncertainty scared me. But more than that, I was sad, so incredibly sad that we'd wasted so many years apart due to the church's influence, to now we only had a handful of months for us to find our way back to one another. I prayed it would be enough.