It’s been a while since I last posted, and a lot has transpired in my life. A year ago, I lost my father. Our relationship was fraught with difficulties; he could be quite abusive. Most of his harsh words were directed at my mother, but in recent years, I found myself on the receiving end of his anger as well.
My father struggled significantly, ultimately ending up in a psychiatric hospital because he refused to take medication. When he halted his treatment, he would become unstable, leading to repeated hospitalizations. Each time, they would stabilize him, only for him to be released, and the cycle would start anew. Growing up with my grandparents, he never learned the essential skills needed to care for himself.
Later in life, he married a woman who, after about four to five years, moved out but continued to meet him monthly. During these visits, she collected half his paycheck and he would take her shopping. In his mind, he believed this arrangement was acceptable as she was his wife. However, it was clear that he was being exploited in a way that was heartbreaking.
Eventually, he found himself as a long-term resident in a psychiatric hospital. The medical staff could never discharge him to a senior or nursing home because he wouldn’t take his medication, and those facilities couldn’t force compliance. This situation perpetuated a frustrating cycle that prevented him from being able to live in a less restrictive environment.
The emotions surrounding my father’s death are complex. On one hand, I recognize that he was a product of his environment and didn’t fully understand the wrongness of his behavior. He never learned that he could not yell or manifest abuse when things didn’t go his way. It’s challenging to fully blame him for this, considering his upbringing and mental struggles. On the other hand, his abusive behavior marked much of my life, making it difficult to find closure.
During the years I assisted in caring for him, I had to establish strict boundaries. He would call me one or two times daily, believing it was my duty to address his needs. Eventually, the disruption became too much, and I had to block his calls. Now, in the aftermath of his passing, I find myself facing a barrage of unopened voicemails and feelings of guilt. I start to question my choices—did I do enough? Should I have acted differently?
While he gave me life, I can’t help but ponder what else he provided. I am certain that some of my talents stem from him, but he also set a poor example of what a man should be. This upbringing played a pivotal role in my subsequent relationships, especially with my abusive ex-husband. The parallels between the two are uncanny; both exhibit arrogance, self-absorption, and a stark absence of empathy for others.
It’s a lot to process, and I find myself reflecting on my father often. I am grateful that our last moments together were peaceful; in the days leading up to his death, he was uncharacteristically kind. Perhaps focusing on this miracle, rather than the negativity of our past, is a healthier path forward.
Is This Abusive 
Leave a comment