I have not blogged for a few weeks. After the fallout from my inaugural blog
post, I was momentarily reconsidering the wisdom of putting my life and my
thoughts out there. The reaction to my
first post was overwhelmingly positive.
Most of my friends and family were wonderfully supportive, and some
friends even shared their own stories with me.
I am both amazed by, and grateful for, the truly lovely people I have in
my life. People’s stories never fail to
intrigue me and I feel blessed that some felt moved to share theirs with me. The take-home message I got from this
experience is that I am lucky.
Incredibly, happily, lucky.
However, not everyone in my life had that reaction. I agonised for a long time about whether I
should show my parents a copy of my blog.
Part of me didn’t want them to feel pain about the experiences outlined
in the piece. The last thing I would
want them to feel is sadness or pain or (misplaced) guilt or helplessness. I wanted to protect them. But the larger part of me kept returning to
this thought: if these things happened
to my child, I would want to know. I
don’t have children, so I don’t know the complex emotions that parents have
towards their children. I think I can
imagine that the transition from knowing your child as a being dependent on you
for its very survival, to them being a self-sufficient adult making their own
way in the world, outside of your protection, is a difficult one. Some parents handle it better than
others. I understand that for most
parents, your child will always be your baby, no matter how old they are. I get that.
But, if I was a parent, I would also want to know my child as an adult,
what they think about things, what their experiences of life are, and to share
things as equals. The bottom line for me
was: I want the people closest to me to
really know me. As I want to know
them. Otherwise, what the fuck is the
point of this life we have been given?
Unless we connect with people on a real level, we are just shuffling
around, going through the motions of our ultimately pointless existence.
So, anyway, I emailed Mum a link to my blog and warned her
that she might find the contents difficult to read, that it involved some
negative experiences with men that I had had many years ago. I told her that I would understand if she
didn’t want to read it, and that I would leave it up to her judgement as to
whether she showed it to my father. When
I next spoke to my mother she was very supportive, if a bit shocked. She told me she was proud of me for having
the courage to share my story. We cried
a bit and then my Dad got on the phone.
My Dad told me he would rather have not known about it. Just writing this sentence, and remembering
the difficult conversation we had, has brought me to tears again. When he said that, it was like a knife going
through my heart. I had shared something
incredibly personal and influential in my life and he would rather not have
known. Then he aimed another dagger at
my heart. He said, “Why did you let him
get away with it? Why didn’t you go to
the police? You let the team down”, in
reference to the sexual assault in the pub bathroom. I was speechless for a moment, but then I
found myself trying to defend my actions in not going to the police. “Um, Dad, I explained why I didn’t go to the
police. Did you read it?” He just repeated that he would rather not
have read it, said he loved me, and got off the phone. I was devastated.
Now, I don’t know what it’s like for a father to learn that
his daughter has been sexually assaulted.
I can imagine that it must be one of the toughest things for a father to
deal with. My father has always been
incredibly over-protective of me. I am
his only daughter; his first-born child.
To him I will always be the little red-haired toddler, impatient for him
to assemble my Christmas presents early on Christmas morning. Dad and I have always been close, probably
because we are very similar. When I was
a teenager, that similarity led to many pitched battles, culminating one night
in me leaving home and spending the night in a youth shelter, without my
parents’ knowledge. The shame I felt at
seeing my father’s ashen face the next morning, after he had spent many sleepless
hours trying to find me, has never left me.
So, yes, Dad and I have a complex relationship. He is my rock, my one constant in the world,
my idol and my protector. He is one half
of the key to my identity. But no matter
how I try, or how many years go by, he is unable to see me as anything but his
little girl. To him, I am not a
nearly-40-year-old woman who has a career, a marriage, who struggles with
life’s occasional shitstorms, who sometimes triumphs but more often settles for
good-enough. I am an almost middle-aged
woman, like any other, just trying to make my way in the world.
His reaction felt like a denial of my personhood. I felt like I had to defend my actions, like
I was the one who had done something heinous, rather than the men who attacked
me. This is the latest in a long line of
thoughtless and hurtful things Dad has said to me over the years, an addition
to the list of topics we can’t discuss without ending up fighting. In some ways, he can’t help it, given his own
extremely dysfunctional upbringing. I
know my Dad didn’t mean to make me feel like shit. I know he loves me more than anything else in
the world. I also know that, at almost 70,
he is not likely to change any time soon.
The thing that saddens me the most is that he and I will always be stuck
in the father-child relationship, rather than relating to each other as equals,
maybe even as friends. And that strikes
me as a lost opportunity.