Girl on a swing, Source https://flickr.com, Author Luiz Carlos (Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic)
WARNING: Graphic Images
“For nothing is secret that will not be revealed, nor anything hidden that will not be known and come to light” (Luke 8: 17).
Since my father often worked nights, he slept late during the day. This required that we girls make no noise which might disturb him. We were constantly cautioned about this.
If we were still awake when he came home at night, giggling in bed was strictly forbidden. My father would pound on the ceiling with a broomstick, or stand at the foot of the stairs and shout unspecified threats up toward us.
This produced sheer panic on our part. It did nothing to diminish our love for him.
Anger, Insecurity, and Tenderness
Though my father’s anger pervaded our young lives, anger was not the sole emotion to which we were exposed [1].
Gnawing insecurity about his own abilities manifested in a lack of confidence on my father’s part that either my sister or I would ever make our way in the world. That projected insecurity is something we have had to fight against.
It was, I believe, coupled with a failure on my father’s part to recognize his children as distinct from himself. Such a failure is characteristic of narcissism [2].
Yet, there were times when he treated us with genuine tenderness. This is the source of trauma bonding.
My father enjoyed pushing me on the swings when I was little. The higher I went the better he liked it, and the more he encouraged me. That I had a morbid fear the swings would come loose from their moorings and topple over, I did not mention to him. Love was defined by the willingness to sacrifice — even one’s life.
I remember the time my father ate the peel off an apple for me at the park, leaving behind the juicy fruit. I still have the small piggy bank Pop bought for me at the zoo.
He affectionately referred to my sister (who owned a yellow raincoat) as his “yellow bubble.” He scrambled eggs for us just the way we liked them. He brought home an endless supply of cold cuts, cakes, and pies from the store.
It was my father who stayed with me on an unusual outing to the racetrack. Since I was too young to be permitted entry to the track, we stood outside the gate in the rain, while my mother went inside to place her bets.
On another occasion, my father arranged for an acquaintance to take us flying in a private plane. Only years after my father’s death did I learn from my mother how he agonized over our safety during that flight.
My father drove us around the neighborhood each year to see the Christmas lights. He would take us through the car wash with him — something I found thrilling, and my sister upsetting. My father was, also, the one who taught me to drive.
I came home from those sessions numb, Dad’s voice ringing in my head. “No! No! Keep away from the divider! You’re not going fast enough. You have to predict what the other drivers will do.” How to predict the actions of other drivers — or, more importantly, his own — my father never conveyed.
Early on, I had a major accident while my mother and sister were passengers in the car. My sister was about fourteen at the time. The first thing I saw, after coming to, was the blood running down her face.
Despite that, she never once refused to ride with me. She simply gathered up her nerve, and got back in the car. As a result, I regained my confidence behind the wheel.
Once I had my license, my sister and I could drive north on the Palisades Parkway and picnic alongside. These are some of my sweetest memories. Continue reading
ANNA WALDHERR A Voice Reclaimed, Surviving Child Abuse 