The Sheer Terror Of Hearing From My Father

Let me start by saying that my father has never given me any reason to fear him or to panic if I see he is ringing me but nevertheless that is how I feel and I have tried to get past this in every imaginable way but the last few years I have finally had to accept that this is how it is meant to be.

The worst my father ever did to me was be an absentee father. In that I mean that he was of that generation where he’d head to the pub after work and arrive home long after I was in bed. In the mornings he would wake long after I had gone to school. It was only weekends that I would see him.

My father is also of that generation whereby men do not show emotions as that was considered a weakness. Therefore the only time throughout my childhood that I ever heard my father tell me he loved me, was when he was drunk.

When I was young, my father tried to spend more time with me. Weekends he would often put me to work in the vegetable gardens with him, or I would help to dig the irrigation ditches for the sprinklers.

And then there were the times when he would ask me if I wanted to come to work with him during the school holidays. This was my favourite as I’d get to spend all day in my dad’s company, as he fixed other peoples’ cars.

As much as I loved this time with my dad, I had to put a stop to it when I was nine years of age.

Why I hear you ask?

Because my stepmother did not like me spending this time with my father and for this she would make my life a living hell, after I would return back home. She was very careful not to ever do this in front of my father, but she did it all the same.

I’ll never forget the last time I spent the day with my father at his work. It was the best day turned into my greatest nightmare!

Dad asked me the night before if I’d like to come to work with him the next day. I was so excited.

The day started and after breakfast we headed off, Dad and I chatting away during the drive. We arrived at his work and I spent the entire day chatting while Dad worked or exploring the neighbourhood. It was perfect and to be honest I didn’t ever want to go home. I remember thinking how great my life would be if Dad and I just stayed at his work permanently.

Well I was only nine years of age.

After Dad finished work that day, we headed home. I was silent during the drive because I was scared of what was going to happen to me once we arrived home.

After we walked into the house, Dad grabbed a beer from the fridge and disappeared into the lounge-room to watch TV and unwind.

My stepmother however, called me into the kitchen and in a quiet but hard tone of voice, informed me that I was not to ever go to work with my father again. She went on to say that if he ever asked me again, I was to tell him that I did not want to go.

I tried to argue with her, keeping my voice low, knowing I couldn’t let Dad hear or I’d suffer even more. She did not take kindly to me trying to change her mind and it was then that she opened a kitchen drawer, removed some type of utensil — I cannot remember now what it was — and beat me numerous times across my back. As I only had a thin T-shirt on, she even managed to tear through my skin in many places. The entire time she was speaking pure venom into my terrified ears.

Once she let me go I rushed to my bedroom, where I sobbed as quietly as I could but not for long, because I knew I’d receive more punishment if I ever let anyone know I had been crying.

When she called me to dinner that night, I had to plaster a smile on my face and pretend to be happy.

As we were eating Dad asked me if I’d like to spend the next day at work with him again. I bravely looked him in the eye and explained I would prefer to stay home if that’s okay, as I didn’t really enjoy being there that day.

Nine years of age and I should have been nominated for an academy award for best actress, not quivering inside with sheer terror instead!

That was the last time I ever spent the day with my father at his work. In fact, spending any alone time with him become non existent.

As the years flew by, I found it harder and harder to talk to my father. I was terrified if I was to walk into a room and he was the only one there. I would quickly make some excuse to turn right back around and walk out the door.

When I had no choice but to talk to my father, I would talk about the weather or cars and how to fix them.

I seriously should be the worlds best mechanic as that’s all Dad and I talked about for more than twenty or more years, if we talked at all, which was not often. Mostly because if he wanted something from me he would always ask my stepmother to ring me.

Over the last twenty or so years, Dad and I probably speak two maybe three times every ten years, because it was about that time that Dad began to call me himself, if he wanted something from me. That shot my panic level up tenfold.

Now on the odd occasion, approximately every three years or so, Dad will pick up the phone and call me. I, on the other hand, see his name pop up on my phone screen and all I feel is sheer terror. 90% of the time I will answer it, because I feel obligated too, and off we’d go, talking about the weather and cars. The other 10% of the time I would just stare at the screen and beg it to be silent. I would then be left with crippling guilt because I was too cowardly to pick it up and say hello.

I, on the other hand, never ring my father!

What is so devastating about this loss in both of our lives is that Dad is now in his mid eighties and here am I living almost 4,500 kilometres away from him and have done so for more than thirty years.

I am well aware that I don’t have forever to fix this relationship with my father and I often wonder if he ever thinks about why our relationship is as it is. He does not know what my stepmother used to do to me and I’m not sure I can ever tell him while she is still alive!

Yes I’m a grown arse women in her mid fifties and still she terrifies me to my chagrin — as do most women I am sad to say.

Please don’t think I do not love my father because he means the world to me and when he is one day gone, it will cripple me like the loss of no other. It will destroy me to know that he no longer breathed the air I breathed, warmed under the same sun I do, albeit at different times or appreciated the same moon that I see at night, again at different timings.

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Originally posted on Medium