The year of the dying fathers.
The face of now and the face I recall.
I’m amazed when particular clients describe a closeness with their fathers and grieve the inevitable loss. It’s like hearing a language from a distant planet. Fascinating, yet impossible to decode.
The majority — at least those who wish to discuss parents — lay in the other category. Difficult years with a father whom they once loved until turning away after years of abuse. Fathers who walked out to chase drink, drugs, women or do-over families. Fathers who died young or were immature, emotionally absent, incapable or unwilling to look at themselves because it was easier to blame children or wives. Fathers who ruled with an iron fist, a religious text and a persona who dared you to defy him. Fathers who never existed because of adoption or sperm donation. Fathers who broke down in mental illness or a long-term diagnosis that demanded constant attention.
You can’t get everything in a lifetime.
This post isn’t to denigrate men. Someday I’ll write about how I’ve been enlightened by male Tarot clients over the years. I respect men in a much greater way than I ever did because of our work together.
Today it’s about dying fathers.
So many fathers are set to leave the planet this year. The old patriarchs. Their time has come.
My father is one of them, yet he refuses to leave this world. He’ll beat death, come hell or high water! You’d think as a born-again Christian, he’d be eager to join his community, 95% of whom are gone. But nope — he’s Billy Graham, terrified to die.
He’d never admit to his abusive ways — but I am an intuitive in large part because of him.
It’s not genetic — thank God I’m adopted and do not share his blood — but during those tender years in that house, I learned to develop a very strong antenna. Which Dad would emerge before/after church? Would he yell or be chill? Would he slap me, beat my brothers or joke around at dinner? Would he berate or praise (generally the former)? Would he sulk, whine or go out to choir/church/social groups and leave mom with house duties? In an uncertain environment, you can bet I became a great psychic — REAL FAST.
Thanks, Dad. Borderline personality has its perks.
Back then, there were no labels — at least not to my father’s generation — that he would ascribe to his behavior. Yelled too much? That’s just who he was. Challenge him? Punishment. That’s what his stepdad did. My father once mentioned how he never forgot the time his stepdad got up one night, shaved and dressed in a suit, then brought him to see his long-lost uncle/brother. Stepdad beat his brother to a pulp because he owed money and had skipped town until his unfortunate choice to return.
That’s just how you got things done then. Talk through fists and guns. Join the military, fight in wars and come home with trauma to pass down from father to family, father to family, ad infinitum.
They were men’s men — a future tragedy now unveiling itself in this generation of lost males. Therapy was for losers — because if the Bible said it, we did it — and if the solution wasn’t found those pages, then you weren’t faithful enough.
I often thank Christianity for saving my father because it inadvertently saved me.
If my father hadn’t become a Christian before I arrived in the fam — he would have been a much worse abuser than he was. He’d be horrified that I picture him such —but no one scared me like him, despite the moral codes imposed by his faith. We were all slapped around — minus my mother — but my brothers received much worse physical pain. I remember how one brother would cry from the bedroom as my father beat him over and over with a belt — and then we’d read the Bible after dinner. No apologies, no explanation. He never went that far with physical abuse on me. He was a clever man and knew that psychological games were my greatest punishment. Silence, sulking, disapproval. Never saying that he loved me until college - and it still sounds odd and unwelcome to my ears, even today. A well-placed criticism of my body and dismissal of whatever threatened him. He’d scream and berate male friends whom he thought were interested (his antenna clearly wasn’t attuned) — so I learned to not bring friends around much. Guilt trips — even today he tried to lay one about how rarely I called — but I laughed and handed it right back to him.
I know all the headgames and tricks. I’m not that terrified little girl anymore.
I was always stronger than him. I merely forgot.
Christianity — especially his rising star in the church — kept him in check. My guess is that he was a dry drunk who would have unleashed his inner alcoholic if there were not guardians in the form of elders and a godly persona he loved to project.
See, my father lived for the approval of men. He may have been a bully to his family but when it came to facing men, he backed down, despite being a former Marine who never fought in war. It was easier to berate women and hide behind their skirts when challenged. Short man syndrome only worked over the phone and behind four walls where we were taught to obey and never question his authority.
The last thing my father wanted was to be brought before his fellow elders. Having a drug-addicted, out of control runaway son was embarrassing enough. He was well aware that his questionable behavior would face the same scrutiny that many church women received from those same authority figures.
I don’t know much about him — my parents were not the sharing type — but he did lose his father in a drowning when very young. My sense is that this tragedy permanently stunted him.
Very few are born assholes.
It doesn’t excuse his choices and someday he will see the results from a 360° perspective. However, there is a deeper level of empathy in me because none of us leave this planet without being forged, time and again.
It’s some form of terrible karma that I chose this particular father.
This father has been one of my most difficult teachers in this life. If you asked me whether I loved the man, I’d be honest and say no. At least not human Raven. I don’t respect him and when he dies, I will not miss him. Truth be told — because there is nothing to fear now — I’ll celebrate the freedom that comes from his presence being gone. I’ll have to face my childhood home and church again — but once that’s finished, I’ll never look back.
My siblings will have a much different experience — but grown men with their fathers, especially adopted sons — is a complicated thing and one I would not be able to understand as a woman.
I’m sure the beings who play my father and me as Raven love and understand each other on some spectrum of light. On this planet, he chose to weaken me so I learned to stand up to him — and anyone who disrespects me, especially bullies. I played both roles in relationships, because that’s what love was to me. Bullying, silent treatment, dismissal. Avoidance, running, anxiety. Once I committed to self-healing, I chose to perceive love differently. I allow myself to feel now, even if I’m afraid. I’m aware of patterns that pop up because I don’t care to admit how much abuse I actually endured. My childhood was endurance until freedom and I like to think that somewhere in my dad, he knew that he’d never be able to break me, despite his best efforts.
I will not be broken by anyone.
Yet even now, if I’m not careful, he will steal my energy to continue living.
Otherworldly great beings notwithstanding, lest you think I’m on some woo we all love each other trip, bah. Let’s stay here, me typing this out. Do I feel guilty for being what many would consider a bad daughter because I don’t give into slavish obligation? No. I spent years feeling guilty that I couldn’t love my parents and that no matter what I did, I couldn’t gain more than a modicum of approval from my father. As he grew older, he became weepy and manipulative, telling me how much he loved me — which only grossed me out — then turned on a dime to accuse me of something or other. There was that implicit obligation of narcissistic fathers to daughters — you’ll move home and take care of me when I’m old — but in every recent dream where he appears, I say NO.
NO.
NO, I won’t worship when you demand me to walk to the altar and confess my sins. NO, I won’t go with you to wherever you want to take me. NO, I won’t go on a trip to the train station. NO, I won’t return home. NO, you won’t be able to steal my energy, though you attempt to. NO, your demonic, laughing eyes will not compel me to give in.
NO, you will never control me.
I’m no fool. I see the Magician, the trickster, behind the father.
Sometimes, my long-dead uncle and loving mother will appear and stand next to him or me. They can’t intervene but come as a warning.
Do not offer your energy. Let us help you by taking him.
Warnings I’ve shared with my siblings — but they’ll listen and not heed. I mean, why listen to the intuitive? The one who can see? What would she know?
You can only save yourself in these scenarios. You are your best advocate. Otherwise, what was the point of your childhood?
Thank God for my mentor. She dealt with horribly abusive parents and gives concrete ways to deal with the end points, the long hard road of decline. This is the most dangerous part of the journey. She nearly died as her aged father tried to steal her energy -- and she is no weakling.
Her advice? Stay away, Raven. Don’t go there. Don't call. Don’t get involved. The best thing you can do is stay away.
So I do. Every time I say NO, my father realizes that he will not be able to access my energy on any level — here or the after. He sees the warning lights.
Go away. Don’t bother me.
I wish him a peaceful journey but he seems to want pain before release. It reminds me of what a Buddhist teacher said about life on earth — we’d rather choose suffering because it’s familiar, rather than go forward into the unknown.
Where is the comfort found in those Bible verses now?
He had his shot in the role of dad. He blew it on so many levels. We can only evolve as much as we’d like, depending on the courage we need to face our traumas — or even admit that we have been traumatized. We can only understand to the extent that we are willing — and I’m sure I’ll parse out this relationship long after he’s gone.
It’s the year of the dying father. I’ve waited a long time for this.