My father passed away when I was ten years old, and to say he wasn’t a perfect parent would be an understatement. He was both drug and sex addicted, and was rarely at home. When he was around though, he could be really fun and spontaneous; washing everybody in the neighborhoods hair in the kitchen sink, letting us soap our own windows on Devil’s Night, and putting my sister on top of the refrigerator when she stepped on a nail and then proceeding to soak her foot in cottage cheese.
And then there was the other side…
He could be incredibly volatile; screaming at us in the back seat of the car to “shut the bleep up” while he took a hit off of a joint (with the windows up), ordering my brother to go upstairs to get the belt out of his closet so he could whoop my brother (that had to be the longest walk ever), and losing his mind because after scrambling some eggs, he decided to get creative and flip the eggs in the air, and they went all over the floor (I’m not sure he thought that one out). His behavior was erratic and we walked on egg shells whenever he was around. He scared the heck out of me, and to this day I have PTSD-like symptoms when I’m around somebody who exhibits excessive mood swings.
He was far from perfect, but today I can say with confidence that he did his best.
Now, it took me a very long time to buy into this “he did his best” concept. It felt like a cop-out at first. “Why couldn’t he do better?” I would think to myself. “He had to know better.” “He had to know he was hurting us, and himself.” “He had to know the drugs and his decisions were tearing our family apart.” But in truth, he was a broken man who didn’t know how to do better or he would have. His parents never taught him how to love, and when my dad was a very young boy his mother gave him and his siblings the responsibility of watching over their even younger brother, who sadly got hit by a car and died on their watch. His mother blamed them, and there was tremendous guilt and shame in the family after he died. It was clear that my father never found a way to forgive himself.
I felt a huge weight lift off of me once I understood where my father was coming from and why he acted the way he did. I felt even better once I was able to forgive him because I knew in my heart he did his best. And yet, I still felt a lot of anger and sadness around it, so of course, I had no place left to look but inside.
What were the stories I was still holding on to in relation to my dad?
What were my expectations when it came to my dad? (Expectations are something that often cause me suffering, so I knew there was something related to expectation at the bottom of this).
I’ve never met a perfect parent. I certainly am not, my kids would be the first to tell you, but I can say for certain that I am 100% committed to showing my kids that they are loved. Unfortunately, my father was not quite as committed. As a result, most of my life, I longed for the type of love I thought the perfect father would provide. I longed to be loved by a father with great strength, who spent his days committed to his family and who would do just about anything to protect them. I longed for a father who would give sage advice, who would show me I was loved, who would walk me down the aisle at my wedding, who would look at me with pride in his eyes the way father’s do when they’re watching their children, and most of all, who would show me that I’m worthy.
I continued to experience anger and sadness until I was willing to look at these stories to see how they were holding these feelings securely inside of me. What I came away with, after doing some digging, was that it was my job to love me, to know my worth, to be proud of myself, to trust in my own instincts and to know what’s best for me. This was revolutionary! But the more I thought about it, the more I knew that nobody else could possibly know what is best for me or give me what my own intuition naturally provides. And once I took responsibility for my own life, I found great strength in becoming that provider and protector of myself and my family.
One final step…I still wasn’t there.
Like my father, I still needed to forgive myself. I needed forgive myself for believing the stories I told myself. I needed to forgive myself for waiting around for somebody else to rescue me and guide me, when I already had all of the tools I needed to do that for myself. I needed to forgive myself for believing that all fathers are perfect, all knowing and loving beings. Most of all, I needed to forgive myself for believing that my father should have put his family first before his addictions and pain. That was just not the reality – because he didn’t.
Once I peeked under the hood of my stories, pinpointed my unrealistic expectations, forgave myself for my false beliefs, saw my father for who he really was and forgave my father, I felt free. Ironically, this path lead me to be more forgiving of myself as a parent, because like my father, I am doing my best.