When I’m away from you, I’m happier than ever

Today is my father’s 75th bday. Traditionally, it’s had the same emotional impact on me as the dreaded F Day. Yes, Father’s Day. Because of said birthday, I decided to make it the day that I would get back to posting on the blog. Yay! My re-launching and commitment to staying consistent.

 I was going to post something else today because, well, it’s not Father’s Day or even close to Father’s Day, and this post centers on that very holiday.

 And yes, I know, I should have everything pre-planned, be strategic, think about my content pillars, and what I’m posting and when, and blah blah blah, but I woke up this morning and felt the need to post this.

 And honestly, all the planning and SEO contemplation and making sure things were so perfect was really keeping me stuck.

So, I’m just going to start. Again. And every Wednesday, I’ll post something. Maybe, someday, someone will read it, lol.

 It’s funny how the days you used to celebrate (like someone’s bday) can shift and turn into moments, hours, or a day of heartbreak. And funny, too, how these very same days can sometimes shift back to celebration.

Maybe it’s not so much about missing the person or wishing things were different…although I’m sure that’s the case for some people. It’s a little different with complicated grief.

For me, with my dad, it’s more of a pain of knowing it is what it is. It’s not the guilt I used to feel or the inescapable agitation that would follow me around all day. It’s not pity for him or worrying about how he’s celebrating. Overall, it’s a feeling of being okay and for that, I’m very, very grateful. And today, I will celebrate the re-birth of my blog, baby. Amazing how wounds can heal.

And here is my Father’s Day post, coming to you on August 30th, lol.  

 

Father’s Day. Ugh, FATHER’S DAY.

 I used to spend so much time dreading this holiday, rejoicing the day after, knowing I had 363 more days until I had to deal with this bull shit again.

In the years after I ended my relationship with my father, I endured a handful of Father’s Days that were so unbearably painful I didn’t think I could survive until the clock struck midnight and we could all move the fuck on. And no, that’s not hyperbole: all the Father’s Day emails, the storefront signs, the social media posts.

I couldn’t escape it. It was closing in on me.

After one particularly masochistic holiday spent scrolling Instagram, I was angry.

“How is it that everyone has the best fucking dad ever? Not everyone can be the best. By definition, actually, there’s only one.” I said to Linds on the phone.

Ahh, social media. How glorious everyone’s life looks. Perfect parental relationships abound!     

The following year, I tried hiding. I vowed to be social media celibate, went hiking and then to yoga, drank tequila, paced my apartment, played piano, went from task to task, a busy little Beez. Anything to avoid the internet and the cute strip outside my condo buzzing with shops and hip brunch spots and Father’s Day signs and worst of all, fathers in the flesh, walking around with their cute little families.

I had a wound, and it was active. Bloody, even. And everything about that day poked it, flicked it, poured salt into it. It was intolerable.

Mark Manson, the author of The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, said something in his book along the lines of if you feel beautiful, you don’t have to look in the mirror every day and tell yourself you’re beautiful. If you feel that way, you don’t need convincing.  

 Oddly, I thought of Father’s Day when I read this, how, after those excruciatingly painful years, I moved onto a new tactic. I told myself how okay I was. How fine I was. But just like looking in the mirror and telling yourself you’re beautiful, you don’t need to constantly remind yourself you’re okay if you actually are. Hmphf.

But you know what?

Father’s Day now passes with ease. It’s shifted into a celebration of love and family of another kind, a truer kind. I can look at all the rad dads in my life and feel happy. Like, truly happy. I can experience the love between my husband and my children and feel something different than what I felt before. True fucking love.

The wound healed. Huh. Without Father’s Day pointing it out to me so front and center, perhaps it wouldn’t have been so obvious. The calendar turning can be a truly remarkable thing.

I think what helped me was that I realized I didn’t need to white-knuckle it. That I could hold space for myself and self-care, too. That maybe on Father’s Day, I needed to acknowledge and love myself, to turn the attention back toward myself instead of being so hyper-focused on him.

So much of the dynamic with my father was focused on him and his emotions. So of course, I felt guilty ending the relationship, and not calling him or showing up for him on Father’s Day. It was counter to my programming.

It wasn’t just painful, it made me feel unsafe. It hit on all my old beliefs that I was bad. I was being painted as the villain, the one who wouldn’t bend the knee, and on that day, it was front and center. It just kept hitting that same button that I was bad, bad, bad and he was somehow, a victim.

In righting that story, of who’s to blame, who’s at fault, whose values and commands I should be adhering to, I realized how backward and programmed my feelings were. That was what freed me from my Father’s Day hell. But it took truly believing it. Because I thought it in my brain for a long time before I really felt it, and that was hard too. I had to feel it, to free it. It took time.

Billie Ellish – “Happier Than Ever”

(“I don’t relate to you, cause I’d never treat me this shitty”)

I took an active role in taking care of myself. I thought about being my own fucking father. I can take care of myself, I told myself. I can hang in there. What does it mean to father yourself? To pick a different father? To let your sister give you father vibes or your brother or your dominatrix (jk, jk) or whoever the fuck you need father energy from.

Yes, of course, no one can replace your actual parent, but sometimes, turning away from that toxic relationship and accepting that there’s no actual love there, well, it’s fucking painful but it’s so freeing.  

It’s ok if you have a bad dad, or mom. Yes, it leaves an indelible mark, but no, you don’t have to suffer forever. Yes, there are components that may be forever painful. No, you are not doomed. Yes, it takes work and time and money and fortitude to heal. No, you don’t have to go it alone. Yes, things can shape shift and change definition.

 A dreaded holiday can morph into a day of celebration and joy. And no, that had nothing to do with my father changing or my relationship with my father changing.  

For anyone suffering, hold on. Let the wound heal. Don’t ignore it, figure out how to treat it, how to help it along. Clean it out, put on a band-aid. On the hard days, do what you need to do to survive. It will be ever evolving. Let time go by. It’ll get easier, but just like any scar, it will always be a part of you.

Post Notes

Mark Manson, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*CK

https://markmanson.net