My father, john allred, is a bad man. A bad, bad and very mean human and because of this, we do not have a relationship. When I was twelve, he called me some very inappropriate names after I’d spoken well of my mother’s boyfriend, who I adored and whom john allred was constantly degrading. (My parents were two years into a very nasty and protracted divorce proceeding that he chose to perpetuate for uncountable years later.) I guess I’d just had enough of john allred’s ugly comments and finally decided to point out that I thought he should be happy that the boyfriend treated me like his own daughter. Suffice it to say, this didn’t go over so well.
It was my father’s weekend for visitation and we’d just returned from a day at an amusement park. He pulled his fancy new BMW up to the curb of his house when this discussion reached a head. He put the car in park, turned around to face me in the back seat and while pointing at me, told me that I was a “deceitful little bitch,” that I should get out of his car, get my “shit ” from his house and that he would be taking me home to my mother. My two younger brothers were in the car watching the whole thing. Later that year, they would sit beneath his Christmas tree and watch as he tore up my picture and warned them that this is what would happen if they ever chose my mother over him. Nice guy, huh? I can’t even begin to describe the damage that this one incident precipitated upon our whole family but, most profoundly, on my brothers. So fractured is my family that most people who know me think I’m an only child. I’ll likely write about all of it at some point.
With the exception of a couple conversations I’ve initiated over the years—literally only three—john allred and I have not spoken since. I’m okay with it now. It took a while to get okay with it, but I am there. For the most part. And since I’ve never had any sort of positive father-daughter experience of my own, it’s something I don’t often miss.
But there are moments when I regret this loss. Sometimes, very rarely, when I see Sam being such a fantastic, loving and involved father to our daughter, I feel a little sting. Mostly, I’m happy and thrilled that Ruby is going to have a completely different experience than I.
Sometimes I feel it when I see my girlfriends with their daddies. My best friend from childhood has it good with hers and, lucky for me, he took me under his father wing in high school and he’s more than adequately made up for the many shortcomings of john allred. I am thankful that my friend shares her wonderful dad with me. And I love him deeply.
Then, there are abrupt moments that underscore the absence of this important relationship in my life. Like the one I had just now as I ventured out into the blogosphere. I read this beautiful, funny and touching post this morning and while my very first thought was, “Wow, is she ever lucky to have this relationship with her dad…,” my immediate second thought was…well…it wasn’t even a thought, really. It was a pang. A stab. A quick sucking in of my breath before heaving out puddles of unexpected tears.
So I feel it for a bit, then pull myself together and move on. Or write about it here.
Just to head off the pity party, there’s no need to feel sorry for me. Quite honestly, it is very rare that I feel the pain of something lost. Everyone has roadblocks in life and we deal with them to the best of our abilities. This is just one of mine. I have a good life and a terrific, quirky family that I wouldn’t trade for anything. And I do get to have a more normal experience by living vicariously through my child. It is in this way only that I do so, and I think it’s healing for me.
19 responses so far ↓
1 Bordtodth // Dec 14, 2007 at 1:29 pm
How succinctly you described such a momentous event.
Unforgetable ……& for me, your mother, unforgiveable. So I guess that means I’m not over it?
(I believe his small name is printed in all lower case.)
2 Becca // Dec 14, 2007 at 1:53 pm
Goodness..I guess I’m not alone. I too had a horrible relationship with my father after the age of 12, he was mean and always said horribly hurtful things. Up until recently I thought my middle name was slut *well not really* but it was what my father called me when he was drunk & upset…mind you, I was still a virgin and didn’t even know what the word meant at that point. When I turned 21 and got tired of his verbal abuse, I finally got the balls to talk back to him and let him know exactly how he made me feel all of those years, I was no longer afraid of him beating the crap out of me, and it felt so good to finally release all those years of pain..maybe you should do the same, closure is always healthy..I promise.
3 ms. teso // Dec 14, 2007 at 6:57 pm
even at 12 you were so strong.
admiration from me to you. always.
4 dramamath // Dec 14, 2007 at 7:13 pm
Very similar to the relationship that my mom had with her mother.
5 bonzize // Dec 14, 2007 at 8:44 pm
Aaryn-too bad you couldn’t use a smaller font-this one is way too big for such a teeny dick. A fleck of dust really. xoxo Your Fairy Godmother.
6 notanun // Dec 14, 2007 at 8:53 pm
Hey, sweetie, I am officially old and your story carries me back to places I like to pretend never existed. My mother beat me with a broom handle because I went to visit a girl friend and stayed too long talking to her mother–or she beat me with a broom handle because she could–who knows? My father was a mean, distant, abusive SOB who would just as soon kick me across the room as anything else. And I spent 40 some years trying to be whatever the hell it was that they could love. I stayed married long after I should have so as not to incur even more disapproval. Nothing worked. When I talk to my shrink I can almost believe that I wasn’t the broken one. But they held up the northwest corner of the church. Everyone knew how good they were–by extension, I must have been…
Hug Ruby. Sam is what he is supposed to be and her life will be different and better for it. You and I became ourselve through different means. Maybe we are who we are supposed to be too. Aaron and Beth benefit from my experiences, even if I don’t understand how or why. *If I were my mother–If I were my father–I know I would have loved me.
7 Mrs. G. // Dec 14, 2007 at 9:16 pm
I, sadly, have a father similar to yours. I haven’t seen him in 25 years, and, prior to that, it was a sketchy relationship at best. In truth, I have not father, so I get your weepiness over that sweet post.
Watching my own husband father our children has come close to salving all wounds. It’s been that powerful. My kids, like Ruby, are lucky.
JA is a stupid ass.
8 Professor J // Dec 15, 2007 at 12:58 pm
My parents were divorced when I was four. I have no memory of my father, and sometimes I get a pang about it. But reading your blog, I’m glad to not have the memories.
9 stephanie // Dec 15, 2007 at 12:58 pm
You’ve written this in such a lovely way - refreshing in a world of shrieked public confessionals and blamings. I find myself frequently trying to help students of mine reach this kind of healthy reflection; I am stricken with sadness at what they’ve experienced.
I’ve always felt so very lucky, almost guilty, to have had loving not-too-terrible parents. I will focus on passing that forward.
be well*
10 family-of-five // Dec 15, 2007 at 3:14 pm
hey, aaryn, I do feel privileged to learn more about you through your lovely brave writing. my own father is a gem of a fine man, but a distant one. you squeezed my heart with this one.
11 Jennifer Summer // Dec 15, 2007 at 9:58 pm
I really needed to read something like this PRECISELY at this moment in my life. I can relate on so very, very many levels.
Thank you.
12 Bri // Dec 16, 2007 at 11:12 am
I’m so sorry that you went through something like that. Just reading your blog you can see how much you both love Ruby… What a very blessed little girl! You have definitely given her a gift that cannot be replaced - a mom and dad who love her and love eachother.
Thank you for sharing such a personal, painful story. You are truly brave.
13 Moxy Jane // Dec 16, 2007 at 2:30 pm
Aaryn,
Thank you for sharing such a personal piece of your life. The first, second, third time I hear Louden’s song, “Daughter”, I felt that horrible wanting and wishing that I had a dad who would write a song like that for me. Who would loudly proclaim for all to hear, that I was HIS daughter and HE was MY father.
I, like you, do okay most of the time. But every so often, and always out of the blue, I’m knocked over and out of breath. I’m so grateful for my husband and for the father that he is for our three daughters.
I wish you well.
14 Caroline // Dec 17, 2007 at 12:55 pm
oh Aaryn, what a beautiful post. No, I’m not feeling pity, but true empathy and sadness for you that you had to go through that. And it is so wonderful that you get to watch your daughter enjoy what you didn’t have. The father/daughter relationship is a weird one. I’m reminded every day of how divorce can destroy children, and I’m trying so hard to stay whiter than white through mine..sometimes it’s a challenge, but hearing stories like yours gives me renewed strength knowing that it makes a huge difference to my kids’ well being. You really express yourself with beauty and strength.
Peace, love and strength to you ’sista! and all the other women who responded to your post with stories of sadness.
15 wordnerd // Dec 17, 2007 at 1:01 pm
great post…and great perspective on the whole thing…it’s true that we all have our own obstacles and challenges…:*)
16 Trasi // Dec 18, 2007 at 5:11 pm
I can sort of relate to this - not so much my father, but my mother was the nightmare in my life. In some ways, I wish that I could even say it hurt me deeply. Maybe it is buried somewhere in there, but I have a hard time evoking any emotion for her whatsoever. Apathy. Which is almost non-human of me.
I also found what I needed in a mother somewhere else, through my mother’s cousin, mostly. Too bad it took me until I was 30 to find her. But better late than never! We do what we have to do to make our way in the world.
17 Mrs. Blogoway // Dec 18, 2007 at 10:26 pm
you’re very brave and I will be back to read more. I love hearing about other people’s families.
My Dad wasn’t perfect. He did the best he could but like you, I sometimes am amazed at the love my daughter receives from my husband.
18 Type (little) a // Dec 19, 2007 at 10:06 am
I’m another one who people think is an only child. I’m not. And it only hurts when I see friends with such close sibling relations.
And it hurts because I have nieces and nephews that I will never know. And they’ll never really know my daughter.
Sigh.
19 Airing some seriously dirty laundry // Jun 4, 2008 at 10:42 am
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