A prevalent trope posits that a woman can be okay when her father faces off against her abuser. Stay away from his daughter or meet his wrath. Roots in sexism appear clear when wondering why a man becomes the focus as the hero in a story about female pain. I could give the benefit of the doubt to consider that cruel men may only listen to a tougher man instead of a woman, but I take issue with any man centering on a woman’s perspective. She becomes the plot device for male vengeance.
I lost my father over a year before my abuse started. Within that time, my family and I often pondered what Dad would think of certain hot topics. How would he mourn all those celebrity deaths in 2016? Would he care about Taylor Swift’s news? I even went to the more personal past, like how he must have felt when my baby brother miscarried or being my father when I exhibited my first signs of bipolar disorder. Soon enough, despite having passed, he came into my abuse story.
I have written about my mom’s quick actions after hearing my descriptions of what our school play’s director spewed at us. She took each “Shut up!” or verbal onslaught over our group’s failures like a doctor to their patient’s updates. Did I know my dad well enough to definitively claim what he would do? For much of my life, he found his peace in drinking. No outsider feelings touched him, and no concerns stared at him in the face. An easy jump from my abuse to his potential viewpoint is that he would be too busy in his alcoholism to care. In my bitter teen years after he died, I stood by this. The logic back then: If he didn’t care enough to stop drinking, why would he snap for this?
The director could have held my destiny. Maybe he did for a while when each interaction thereafter circled back to how whoever I was talking to could hurt me. My father, who was not there amid his daughter’s abuse, is some semblance of a character here as well. While I am not a hardcore action heroine, I still take the lead. I grieve my dad alongside how I grieve the support he might have been. I also give grace to his role. If I try to nail down where he would be, I end up with a futile analysis of a scenario so distant from the gleaming that keeps me going today. The trauma of both the abuse and Dad’s death did not blossom me or act as character development; I just know that in all steps of my recovery, I can be the greatness in this process. I’m the one upholding friendships and digging into the beauty found through library work. Leads push for their valuable plot.
After anger, after intensity, I asked my mom what she thought Dad would have done truly. Laying next to her on the bed seven years after the abuse, she held my hand to meld her love’s certainty with an answer not as definite. She did not declare a Dream Dad universe or reject any hopeful possibilities.
“He would love you through it somehow.”
I recollect now when my second-grade teacher did not cast me as a starring role in our class’s play but instead as a one-line character. In my frustration, I gave vague details to my parents of not “getting it.” After a cool-down alone for a minute, Mom came into my room to ask the full story.
“Your dad is ready to send the military over there.”
I paused, not to unscramble my narrative but to put in place that he was going to have some sort of stance here.
Photo by Guillaume de Germain on Unsplash
Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.
