My Father’s love hurt me more than it hurt him. I don’t know what he was thinking. Well, actually, he often said, “My job is to toughen you up because life is tough out there!” I was convinced the song, A Boy Named Sue, was written for me. At least it felt that way. I’m not sure if life has been tough because Dad was right, or if it’s been tough because I didn’t feel loved or wanted. Either way, I’ve had to figure it out through the eyes of a little girl whose father left a weeping hole in her heart.
There are times I wonder what life would have been like, if my dad had tried to hang around and help me through it rather than fight me through it. Of course I’ll never know, but it’s okay because my past is what I’m made of.
Something must have gone right before it went wrong. Before anger swallowed our family and took us hostage.
And you don’t discover answers to these things, the roots, unless you are willing to get your hands dirty and dig.
August 17, 2016, a year before I published my memoir, almost three hours on the phone with Mom long distance, one question led to another and next thing I knew she began to share random stories. She landed on the baby blanket that I used to drag through the old two-room school house that we lived in. I felt my old guard go up, preparing for the inevitable. What I expected to hear her say never came out of her mouth. Instead she took me off guard.
Here is an excerpt from my book, Wounded Song.
My Mother and I were talking about old family photos, which led to the pink sleeper I used to wear, which then led to the blanket I had as a toddler. She said my sister’s blanket was yellow with yellow trim, a normal size baby blanket, but not mine. I had to pull the full size blanket, pink with pink satin trim, off my bed and drag it throughout the house. Mom said she’d have to wash it every other day. As I listened, I waited for her to tell me that dragging a big blanket through our tiny two-room school house annoyed Dad to no end.
Instead she said, “You were so adorable.”
“I was adorable? That’s nice to know I was thought of that way.”
She balked, “Why would you feel that way? How could you not know you were adorable?”
“Um because how would I know that? Dad never showed it. And besides Mom, have you read my book?” We both laughed.
I said, “Obviously I was very young during these happy memories you seem to have. But I could certainly stand to hear some nice stories of how Dad thought of me. He clearly didn’t show this side of himself when I was older.”
Mom sighed, “I know and I don’t know why. But I do know it wasn’t you. I think he had his own problems that he didn’t know how to deal with.”
She proceeded to tell me a story, “Your dad really loved you, ya know. When you were little he always made sure you didn’t get hurt. I know kind of ironic now, but he bragged about you because he was so proud. When you were two or three-weeks-old I loaded you into the front seat of the car to take you to your first doctor check-up. I told your father I was gonna drive very careful like I had a dozen eggs in the front seat. Your dad said, ‘You drive like you have Tammy Sue in the front seat!’”
Tears warmed my eyes at the thought of my dad actually being proud of me and more than that, concerned. Hearing that he cared, and that I once mattered to him made me sad at the loss of never experiencing this with him. But I was glad to hear that he had a heart and that he had really tried. [end of excerpt]
Hearing this story for the first time in my life, no longer a little girl, made my eyes tear at the loss of the sweetness, the concern, the possibility, the tenderness and the protection that I never felt growing up. Yet it made me weep with warmth at the fragility of the effort of my dad’s heart to try. At least he tried.
It takes time to heal the damage.
However, if I’m willing to hang in there and ask questions soaked in hope, I just might discover a buried truth along the way. A morsel of mercy that pauses my mourning so my loss becomes fleeting. If I allow the light in, perhaps a piece of my story can grow in a brand new way with a new morning.
I can’t change my story, but I can pause and reflect on the victories I’ve had while I keep running the race.
What have you discovered by digging a little deeper and
getting dirt in your fingernails?
One thing I discovered was that while my dad tried, he knew I was more valuable than a dozen eggs!
August 17, 2016 was my 3-hour conversation with mom. Who, by the way, was willing to listen and share as we dug through dirt together. What a difference that has made in our relationship and family healing.
August 18, 2017 was my book launch where 100 people came, including my mom and siblings and family.
April 27, 2019 as I wrote this blog I did a double take; those dates were one year apart. WOW! His divine orchestration continues to heal my story.
Tammy Sue, my father was an alcoholic who died when he was 35 and I was 7. My early life was basically the same as what you describe later in yours. I had no real happy memories but one, of us skipping down a busy sidewalk in New York City together. Literally, that’s it.
When I was in my mid 20’s his sister gave me a box of letters and inside was one he had written to his parents. He described how he was surprised the house was still standing with me in it (I was somewhat of an ‘active’ child); but then he wrote, “I have no extra pictures of the kids so I’m enclosing the ones from my wallet.” When I saw that, I lost my mind. That was such an epiphany, that my dad cared enough about me that he carried pictures of me in his wallet. I don’t recall him ever expressing his love for me but in that moment I read that, I felt it. It healed so much for me.
Reading this piece brought that back for me. Thank you. 🙂
When my dad died I was handed a manilla envelope with misc items. When I pulled his drivers license out it struck me odd. I thought, oh, yeah, right, I guess that makes sense. It was an every day normal thing that humanized him. It caught me off guard. Thank you for sharing your story. You found victory over your rejection.❤
My growing up was very different than yours, although along the way things happened that affected our family dynamics forever. My baby sister died and, me being the youngest of five at the time, lost my mother for awhile as she mourned her baby. Within a year, a new baby was born, and I again lost her to his needs. One of my favorite books as a child, which I read alot AND which was read to me by my mother, was “Are You My Mother?” by Dr. Seuss. Pretty obvious what I was feeling as a young kid. What I discovered over time, however, helped me view my mother in a very different light. She was the child of alcoholics, and had her own burdens to carry into her adult life. She tried to raise six kids in an environment that was safe and loving. I had an epiphany one day, can’t recall exactly when, where I looked at her with new eyes. I saw her as a “hurt child” who never really got the love and attention that she herself needed when young. Once I realized that, all the “stuff” I felt as a kid just basically frittered away. I realized how hard she tried to keep our family steady and cared for. That was my “healing moment”, if you will.
Your story may be different than mine, but you identified with a piece of the wound, showing the value of sharing. Your epiphany to look at your mother different changed your childhood view. It reminds me of my chapter, Who Do I Blame? Your new view changed the course of your family culture!
Well done, Tammy Sue. Your dad did love you even though he didn’t show it much as you grew older. I know these are empty words to you because you only know what you were old enough to experience. Family love wasn’t anything he lived with as a child so it was a foreign concept to him with no idea how to express it. I’m not making excuses for his actions, just mentioning what you already know. Despite him, you grew into a lady I’m extremely proud of and your blog is helping people in a concrete way. Love you. Mom