More than halfway through this day….
I wished a few people a happy Father’s Day today. One was my former pastor, who told me he viewed me as one of his own daughters. I’ve wished him and only him a happy Father’s Day now for over a decade. His reply was sweet:
And then I wished my brother a happy Father’s Day. That turned out to be one of the most difficult texts I’ve ever written. This is only his second year as a father and he’s been doing a phenomenal job. But I struggled with the text because I lied.
Dorce is what I call my brother, Spuck is what we used to call my dad when we were little.
I don’t know that my dad would be proud. I could assume that. And when I started thinking about what he would think of my brother and his children…my thoughts very quickly went bad. I wondered if he would ever hurt my niece or nephew the way he hurt me and my uncle. I wondered if he would love them or just view them as easy prey. How would he view them? Would he, in some sick way, be sexually attracted to them?? It’s disgusting for me to even think about.
But I realized, maybe my dad’s emotions wouldn’t be pride for how his son turned out as a father- but maybe a sick attraction to his little children. This disturbs me so, so deeply. But this is something I’ll never have an answer for. I deleted my text, then retyped it, then deleted it again, then retyped it again.
I came to the conclusion that saying my dad would be proud of him would make him feel the best. Even if it wasn’t true. God, it was so difficult to type those words, to say what I think is a lie.
I want so badly to tell my brother the next time I see him why I was in the hospital. But without explaining WHY I have PTSD, Depression, and Anxiety, I’m afraid he’ll judge me. He won’t understand. He’ll think I’m weak.
But I can’t bear to tell him all of the truth because that would ruin his happy life…in so many ways.
Today after church, I sat with two homeless guys for a while. I just chatted with them. I wound up giving them some bug spray, a knife, and two flashlights I had in my car. We were talking about the difficulties of living in a tent. I told them if they came to church next week again, I’d bring them more bug spray and a hand held broom (at their request).
And then when I drove home, I thought about my dad again. And stupid Father’s Day. I thought about all my anger and rage and how I’m not yet able to move past that. I thought about all the damage my dad has caused- just to me- not to mention to my uncle and any other victims he had. His choice to die and his abuse…I don’t even understand myself all the layers (psychologically) that his sexual abuse has caused. I have so many issues with men, fears of men, doubting their intentions (no matter who they are). I have so many issues with sex and it’s been a problem in every relationship I’ve ever had. I have so much fear of pain down there, that no matter how much I’ve wanted to have children, I was always terrified of the giving birth part. And I look at how I let my ex-fiancé treat me- and (I think) that psychologically that was because of how my dad used me and abused me. I expect that from men, so it’s “normal” to me. There is so much more to sexual abuse than any other kind of abuse. I don’t even understand it all.
I’m trying though. I’m trying to understand so I can understand myself and work through things. I also think that some of my issues with God as my Father are from the abuse I experienced with my dad. I’m projecting how my dad treated me onto how I think God is treating me and the rest of the world. Even knowing that though, I find it impossible to believe that God is “good.” I want to believe it… I just don’t truly know it.
After my last session, I spent the next 3 days in bed. It’s no wonder I’m getting obese. Not only am I eating my feelings, but I’m not doing much else to get out and about. I was trying so hard to avoid life that I couldn’t even bring myself to write things out here. In all fairness, I had one of the worst migraines ever the day following my session. It literally incapacitated me. I could barely get out to walk the dog. I stayed in bed that whole day, that night, the next day and night, and the next. Today, I had to fight myself hard to get up to go to church. I was feeling so terrible and so tired this morning, that I decided not to go multiple times. In the end, I forced myself up, got a shower, and went.
I knew I needed to go. I knew God would want me to and I knew I needed it for myself. And I got to chat with those homeless people, so that was cool. I wish I could remember what my pastor preached about. Maybe later it’ll come to me.