Many of us have difficult relationships with our parents. Those relationships have caused us the most pain in our lives and even if that parent is no more the pain unfortunately, often lives on. Recently, a sister I know lost her father, one with whom she had shared she did not have a relationship. But she is mourning his death and she told me that she had not expected it to be so painful. While she did not say this, I deduced that she is mourning what can never be. She can never have a relationship with that man who was partly responsible for her being here and he can no longer answer her many questions.
She is attempting to chronicle her pain and the grieving process and below she puts some of her pain into words.
“Resemblance can be traumatic and hurtful at times. Depression, rejection and frustration just to mention a few, not minor but major issues were things that tampered with my soul,” she wrote candidly.
“Many may have the luxury of looking like their dad and being loved at the same time. Sadly, life wasn’t like this for me. I craved his love and affection but he lived his life without care and ignored my existence.
“All I wanted was a relationship with him; to call him daddy, to express my feelings, to feel loved, to feel like some-one cared but that never materialized. My childhood was traumatic without him as I suffered pain and hurt at the hands of my mother. I never felt like I belonged and would sometimes question biological attachment. Many people don’t know my name since I was constantly addressed by my father’s name. They said, ‘you’re his twin’ but how is that information useful when it brought so much pain and trauma?
“He lived a good life. He lived a luxurious life, one that was admired by many with his well-established business image. His actions resulted in many hurdles in my life. I was forced to be independent at 18 years old.
“Post independence, I found myself in a tumultuous relationship with my mother, who often subjected me to harsh words and emotional maltreatment. Phrases like, ‘You’re just like your father,’ and ‘You have an attitude just like your father’, echoed through my home, leaving me bewildered and hurt. These statements felt like a cruel taunt, especially since he had never been a part of my life to provide context or understanding. In the depths of my confusion, I grappled with a haunting question: ‘Who would believe me if I tell this story?’ Society often insisted that a mother would never harm her child, but I couldn’t help but wonder, ‘Is that really the case?’ “This internal conflict fuelled my isolation, as I sought validation for my experiences in a world that seemed unwilling to acknowledge the complexities of familial relationships.
“Depression took a toll on me; I isolated myself from people. Food wasn’t necessary because my thoughts were enough to satisfy the feeling of hunger. Crying was used as a way of satisfying the feeling of rejection. Crying was used as a coping mechanism for years until I became numb. Numb to feeling, emotions and even insults.
“For the 53 years of his existence, I saw him approximately five times. Excitement gripped my soul but that was thwarted by promises that never materialized. I took a picture with my eyes of his face and stored it in my mind.
“Many were raised without a father, but I deemed my situation as different because of my experience. In most cases, the mother would provide emotional support to children but unfortunately this wasn’t the case for me.
“I don’t know if it was strange of me, but all I wanted was to feel and experience love from him. Even if he didn’t, at least she could have tried even though he hurt her.
“It had been ten long years since I last encountered my father; a time marked by the weight of unspoken grievances and unresolved emotions. Our final meeting lingered in my memory, a pivotal moment that had changed everything. During that conversation, I found the courage to express my feelings, hoping for understanding and connection. Instead, my words ignited his anger, as he perceived my candidness as an affront rather than an invitation to dialogue. As I shared my expectations of him as a father, I felt the atmosphere shift, the warmth of familial love giving way to defensiveness and resentment.
“In the years that followed our last encounter, I mentally steeled myself for the day when I could finally ask the questions that had haunted me since our separation. Writing stories and poems became my refuge, a way to channel my emotions and navigate the complexities of my thoughts. Each word I penned was infused with hope, a belief that someday an opportunity would arise for me to reach out and speak to him again, and that this time, he would truly understand my perspective. Yet, if one were to ponder why I had never called, the answer lay in his elusive nature; he had changed his phone number multiple times, each transition a silent severing of ties, leaving me without a means to bridge the gap between us.
“After the last meeting, he embraced silence as a shield, retreating further into his own life while I grappled with the aftermath. For me, the years that followed grew increasingly challenging, yet I found a way to endure, navigating the emotional turmoil that had become my constant companion. As the Christmas season of 2024 approached, an inexplicable heavi-ness settled over me, a sensation I struggl-ed to articulate. The familiar joy of the holiday felt distant and muted, leaving me uncharacteristically unexcited as Christmas came and went. With each passing day, the feeling deepened—a nagging sense that something was amiss in my world, even as thoughts of him remained frustratingly absent from my mind.
“On January 18 at approximately 8:30 am I was contacted and told ‘your father passed away’. Physically I wasn’t prepared for death to be my next meeting with him. The unusual feeling stopped, emotions were hesitant. I was never told of his hospitalization.
“The void of not being able to see his reaction or hear his responses to my questions was not filled. His body was taken to a funeral home and I got dressed and proceeded there. Upon arrival, the vehicle that transported bodies reversed into the driveway and my body felt different. At this time I was clueless as to whether the body was his, since I was awaiting other relatives’ arrival to provide further details.
“A feeling that could not be expressed in words took over and I felt as if it was my father’s body. The drivers and porters looked at me in amazement as I approached them and asked to see the body. Permission was granted and it was my father, the man with the same picture in my head. His facial features were intact, I felt as if he was still alive. He lay there lifeless and couldn’t hear or see me. I stared at him for several minutes as my fatherless childhood flashed through my mind.
“I will never know what it means to call him dad. I was hoping that one day it would change but death shattered that dream. I had so much love for him even though he didn’t care. I am still trying to process everything. I forgive him. I just need to find a way to let out my anger, frustration and agony. I didn’t anticipate death to be our last meeting.”
I pray that this sister finds healing even as she grieves what can never be. As parents let us try to love our children. If you have a broken relationship with your child or your parents try to mend it. Death is painful, the finality of it is a pain that never goes away. Hoping this sister finds a way to heal.
