I once asked my Father, Do you actually love me? I was 16 or 17, and really in a dark place. I was crying, and he was reprimanding me for something I'd done wrong.
I hurt bad enough to ask it through tears, in a hotel lobby in Singapore.
I don't remember what he said in response, because the answer was not of course I do.
Years later, he said it more. And I understood to read his actions more. But something stayed hidden from me that I felt I could never quite touch. Something reserved for my Mum and sister that I could never quite match. No matter how well I later did, or how well I took care of him when he was sick, or how guilty I felt when I was in England. In the months and years just preceding his passing, he said it actively and often. I hung on to those words like I've never hung on to anything before. Our last words to each other were I love you Papa and he said I love you to. Yes, I do.
I wish I could hang on to them always. I wish I could believe them always. But the old doubts return. I hear that he has sent a sign to my Mother and sister and wonder why I am not selected to receive these. Without asking, without begging. I hate that I then feel rejected, and in turn, feel a stab at anger at him and at them. I feel like turning away and saying, fine, I get it. It's just not there for me. Some people just do not feel a certain way about some people. He loved me as much as he could. I should love myself unconditionally and deeply and then I will not feel this need.
Maybe.
But for now, that line of reasoning doesn't really work.
I feel it's important to say that I do feel sorry for myself when I think about this aspect of my life. I have spent many hours tormenting myself for "feeling sorry for myself" and thus trying to push it all down.
I should clarify that I am trying to overcome the ridiculous notion that one cannot feel sorry for one's own pain. If I was my friend, or a sister, I would feel tremendously sorry. I would cry for me. And then, I would try to help.
That's what I'm trying to do here.
I hurt bad enough to ask it through tears, in a hotel lobby in Singapore.
I don't remember what he said in response, because the answer was not of course I do.
Years later, he said it more. And I understood to read his actions more. But something stayed hidden from me that I felt I could never quite touch. Something reserved for my Mum and sister that I could never quite match. No matter how well I later did, or how well I took care of him when he was sick, or how guilty I felt when I was in England. In the months and years just preceding his passing, he said it actively and often. I hung on to those words like I've never hung on to anything before. Our last words to each other were I love you Papa and he said I love you to. Yes, I do.
I wish I could hang on to them always. I wish I could believe them always. But the old doubts return. I hear that he has sent a sign to my Mother and sister and wonder why I am not selected to receive these. Without asking, without begging. I hate that I then feel rejected, and in turn, feel a stab at anger at him and at them. I feel like turning away and saying, fine, I get it. It's just not there for me. Some people just do not feel a certain way about some people. He loved me as much as he could. I should love myself unconditionally and deeply and then I will not feel this need.
Maybe.
But for now, that line of reasoning doesn't really work.
I feel it's important to say that I do feel sorry for myself when I think about this aspect of my life. I have spent many hours tormenting myself for "feeling sorry for myself" and thus trying to push it all down.
I should clarify that I am trying to overcome the ridiculous notion that one cannot feel sorry for one's own pain. If I was my friend, or a sister, I would feel tremendously sorry. I would cry for me. And then, I would try to help.
That's what I'm trying to do here.
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