To the Father I Used to Know: An Open Letter to Healing
"The wound is the place where the Light enters you." - Rumi
This isn't the kind of letter you're likely bursting with excitement to read, Father. It's not a letter filled with joyful updates or eager pronouncements. Instead, it's a necessary excavation of the past, a difficult exploration of the hurt you inflicted on me, a child yearning for your love and guidance. This letter isn't intended to wound you but to heal the fragmented pieces of the inner child that continues to bear the weight of your absence and broken promises.
From a very young age, your expectations loomed large. Academic excellence was paramount – anything less than a B was unacceptable. My desire to express myself through chorus was met with the demand that I join band, further solidifying the idea that my desires were secondary to your preordained path. It wasn't until your second marriage that I experienced a sliver of freedom, a chance to be myself, but even that came with stringent conditions. My identity had to be confined within the rigid boundaries of heterosexuality and a specific racial preference for romantic partners. This seemingly small gesture of autonomy came at a steep and unimaginable price – the loss of my innocence.
Your focus shifted towards your new bride, leaving me adrift in a sea of confusion and loneliness. The guidance I desperately needed, the support that should have been a constant in my life, vanished. I was left to navigate the treacherous terrain of adolescence alone, relying solely on my own immature understanding of the world, the experiences of a child thrust into circumstances far beyond her grasp.
One devastating night, a single poor decision spiraled into a nightmare. Too intoxicated to consent, I became a victim of a violation that stole my sense of safety and security. The profound pain that followed forced me into a desperate search for solace, a misguided attempt to numb myself from the unrelenting trauma that replayed relentlessly in my mind. The emotional wounds festered, finding release in self-destructive behaviors that eventually became public.
My pain, once internalized, poured out, raw and unfiltered, met with the harsh judgment and cruelty of my peers. Accusations and questioning rained down like daggers, piercing my already vulnerable heart. There was no sympathy, no attempt to understand, just a torrent of condemnation. My desperate cry for help culminated in a night of suicide watch, a stark testament to the depth of my suffering. But instead of compassion, I faced accusations from you, suggesting that my pain was a ploy orchestrated by my mother to gain custody.
My mother, a woman who bore the unspoken burden of my trauma, never once questioned my integrity or my truth. Yet, you, the man who should have been my rock, met my vulnerability with suspicion and mistrust. The evidence of my suffering, the very essence of my shattered spirit, was dismissed and disregarded, ripped from me like a heart torn from its chest.
Following this, I was pushed to the periphery of your life, relegated to the edges of your existence. Eventually, I was abandoned, left with nothing but bags of discarded clothing, miles away from everything I had ever known, silenced and dismissed, denied the opportunity to even address the man I once looked to for guidance and protection.
Our connection dwindled to infrequent phone calls and sporadic visits. Yet, the distance remained, an invisible wall erected between us. You pushed me into the military, believing that a rigid structure would mold me into a woman worthy of your trust. But again, I was left alone in the darkness, carrying the weight of my trauma like a child clutching their most cherished toy. My desire to serve, to protect others from the horrors of war, ultimately fell short. The trauma proved too heavy a burden, its shadow obscuring the path toward my dreams. My honorable discharge should have been a moment of relief, a testament to my resilience, but its impact was muted. The validation I craved, the acknowledgment of my efforts, the sense that you were still proud of me, never quite materialized.
As the seasons changed, so did the years, but I was unaware that another storm was brewing. I encountered a new kind of predator, a narcissist who was calculated, vengeful, and relentless in their abuse. Like a fly ensnared in a spider's web, I was trapped, unable to escape, unable to be rescued, not even by the father I once knew and desperately needed.
This letter, Father, is not intended to inflict pain. It is a desperate attempt to explain the depth of the hurt you caused, to shed light on the shattered remnants of the child I never truly got to be. It's a plea for healing, a hope that through understanding, through the articulation of this long-buried pain, the little girl within me can finally find a measure of release, a fragile path towards wholeness.
