My father was actually my stepfather. I met him when I was five and he quickly became the man I called Daddy. He’s the reason for my love of classic rock and Hemingway, was my Giants & Yankees buddy, and soothed my broken heart more times than I can count.
For years, I blamed myself for his death. He passed away under really suspicious circumstances and his body was cremated within 24 hours without an autopsy. I then allowed people who were supposedly his friends to gaslight me when I raised my suspicions, only to find out that they were in on the plot of keeping my father’s passing shrouded in mystery.
I blamed myself because I felt like I should have fought harder to keep him away from a certain someone. The scenarios of what I could have done differently repeatedly played in my head, as if maybe if I played it enough times, I could manifest a different outcome into existence.
I also didn’t know how to articulate the emotions surrounding his death. There was so much grief and sorrow, but also anger- anger from the physical and emotional abuse I endured from him as a child.
Waves of shame, humiliation, and guilt would come crashing down on me for being angry because I was supposed to be mourning his death, not the childhood I never had. At least, that was what I told myself.
The anger didn’t end there. Before he came into my life, I was living in Taiwan, surrounded by my grandparents, aunt, and uncles who did everything in their power to make sure I felt loved. I mean, really loved. It was the only time in my life I’d ever experienced what family is.
When my step-dad married my mother, she uprooted us to New York, away from the only people I ever felt safe with. I was expected to adapt to a new life in a new country without any familiarity or comfort of love, home, and family. Any time I struggled, it was made clear what a disappointment I was.
What did I do wrong to not get the love I got in Taiwan? Why was I forced to change my last name? It was the last thing that held me to the only identity I’ve ever had. Was I just as bad as the lies my parents told about me?
Those were the thoughts that plagued my mind for most of my life. But they were exacerbated when my father passed away. Maybe it was my mind’s way of trying to show me that not everything is as it seems. Only, I didn’t take it that way.
So I compensated by romanticizing the good memories while disregarding all the toxicity. Which inadvertently caused more pain to have to heal from.
As quickly as any emotion that made the pain real surfaced, I was even quicker to push them back down, hoping if I ignored it long enough, it would disappear. It only made it worse. There was this dichotomy- like your heart is on fire and you want to extinguish it, but you don’t know how, and at the same time, you want your heart to burn, because the quicker it burns, the sooner you stop feeling.
With time, I came to understand the abuse. My father worshipped the ground my mother walked on. Everything he did, he did out of love for her, even if it meant defiling her children. She was his greatest love.
Maybe one day, I’ll speak more about it. For right now, this is what my heart is open to.
Daddy- I remember the day we bought Warren Zevon’s last album, The Wind. When “Keep Me In Your Heart” came on, you said, “little darling, one day when I’m gone, I want you to play this song and think of me.” I do Daddy. I play it and I think of you. Until we meet again…
To the person, or should I say serial killer, who murdered my father, his “friends,” and everyone else who has come after me, including practitioners- I know you’re watching. This is for you.
