I can do hard things: boundaries.
"I can do hard things" was a mantra I remembered when I was on my first backpacking trip three years ago. I've done a lot of hard things since. I've quit jobs, sold everything + moved into a van, built a new life and career from scratch, hiked 600+ miles this year, reversed diabetes, wrote a book.
This week, I did a different kind of hard thing.
On Sunday, I woke up with two messages from my father about my student loans. I had a feeling this was coming after the review on Amazon, and I was right. This time, my body wanted a solution. I do not like retraumatizing myself unnecessarily and I was not going to have another trigger fest.
I paused after I read the emails. The first one was a form submission from this website. The second was a direct email.
The second one was signed, "Merry Christmas, Dad"
What if this was an attempt to start a conversation?
Someone who loves me very much had a reframe for the review last week. She said, "what if this is an attempt to reach out? It's clumsy, sure, but what if this is a white flag, an invitation to connect?"
I felt in my soul that this wasn't that, but I entertained the idea and started to write back. I paused. This boundary is in place because nobody would pick up the phone and have a tough conversation. I needed to hear his voice. I needed to know if this was a nastygram or if this was a white flag.
So I did a hard thing. I picked up the phone and called him.
It rang until it went to voicemail. I waited a few minutes, working up the courage to call my mom. I didn't really have a plan for what I'd say if she picked up. It went straight to voicemail. Exhale.
So I did another hard thing. I emailed them both, mentioned the calls went to voicemail, and asked for them to call when they had a minute. Exhale.
A few minutes later, my father called me back.
I'm still hurt, so I get one petty jab in, since the last time I reached out, he pretended not to know who I was.
"This is Sydney," I say as if his avatar isn't pressed against my cheek.
"Merry Christmas!" he said.
Every hair stood up on the back of my neck and I could feel my heart pumping out of my chest.
Shit, now what?
First: inhale.
I can hear him breathing. Time stretched out to a near halt, my pounding heart setting the beat for what came out of my mouth next.
My plan was simple: say thank you for the reminders about my loans and let him know I don't need them. The bank pays someone good money to come after me when my loan payments are late. Phone calls, emails, actual mail, I get it all. I am super aware of how behind I am. Thank you. And, offer an olive branch. If this was an attempt at re-entry, invite him to have the conversation that I desperately wanted to have last year.
See, this year, my work was holding the boundary. At every major milestone, I wanted to call my parents. There were multiple times I wanted to reach out, when I thought I was healed. At each one of those points, I came with insecurities masked as pride, and it never felt right. I wanted to prove (yes, prove) that I was okay and that my plan for Hiking My Feelings - the one he said was crazy - was working. I was doing it. I was right. He said I should go running back to the agency I worked with and beg for my job back at half the salary I was originally earning before I quit to join the startup last year. I wanted to rub his face in my success.
But I didn't. All year long, I healed that wound. Every time I wanted to call them, I took a deep breath and found ways to get grounded - journaling, a tough hike, a good meal, a hot shower. I validated myself. I celebrated myself. Instead of wanting to run back to them when I found pockets of joy on the road, I leaned all the way into Barry and experienced a level of intimacy I didn't know was possible.
Reading this, you might be thinking OMG THEY'RE GONNA DO IT, THIS IS IT, THEY'RE GONNA HEAL THE WOUND! If you've established boundaries with your folks, your hairs might be sticking up on the back of your neck, too.
I've listened to my father talk to customers on the phone for over 20 years. I know the difference between his bill collecting voice and his Dad voice. He had his bill collecting voice on with me.
With just two words, I knew this wasn't going to be a fluffy conversation.
He was talking to me like every customer he was ever rage-nice to. He was seething, I could feel the energy. I felt like I was having an out of body experience, watching myself move through this.
It felt like I was staring at the river we crossed in Yellowstone. Barefoot. Twice. Once by myself, once holding on to Barry for balance. I crossed safely. I didn't die. I can do this. Deep breath.
Barry squeezed my arm, steadying me before I opened my mouth. I took one more deep breath, trusting that whatever comes out of my mouth is exactly what needed to be said in this moment.
"Okay..." I start. I let the feelings of doubt pass as I took another deep breath. Toe in the water.
"Thank you for the emails about my loans," I continued. "I wanted to let you know that I am super aware of how past due my loans are. The bank does a fine job of letting me know, so you don't need to do that anymore." I exhale.
That wasn't so bad.
"Well, we haven't spoken in awhile so I didn't know if you're getting mail," he replied, trailing off.
He created my buttons, and he sure as shit knows how to push them.
My chest tightens yet again. I draw a sharp inhale and let it out slowly.
"If this was just about the loans, then I'm good to go here. If this was an attempt to reconnect in light of the boundary, I'd love to chat more." I said.
"It was just about the loans, but if you want to talk more, please do. You're my firstborn daughter, I love you so much, and I always want to hear from you," he replied.
RECORD SCRATCH
This is where well-meaning folks who don't know me or my father weigh in with their opinions about how I should be receiving his messages.
Here's the deal: this is exactly what narcissists do. Their words are calculated. They put on a performance that makes your skin crawl when you're in their presence, and if you find clarity and call them out on it, they'll resort to communication channels that have no room for nuance. But if you've been sucked into this energy in person, if you can hear their voice, you know.
I took another deep breath.
Let's cross this river. One step at a time. I got this.
I asked why he did what he did and why he said what he said. He didn't know, then he did, then he changed his story, and then he turned it around on me. The pattern is so painfully predictable at this point. And honestly, I'm tired.
I can see the best in people, it's my superpower. I see everyone through my optimistic AF filter because I KNOW that when we do the work, my vision isn't too far away. I'm walking proof. All of our icky layers and hard shells are a result of trauma and the reactions that come from that place. Once we can heal these festering, gaping wounds, we can change everything.
A lot of people aren't ready to have their best reflected back to them, so they run. They protect. They stay rooted in their struggle because that is all they know. The world is cruel and we are all so very busy, it's hard to make time to unpack this. So it festers. Mental illness. Physical disease.
As I'm listening to my father pretend that he doesn't remember telling me my story is bullshit after I told him about my rape for the first time, I'm wondering if the man I thought he was has ever existed. I dig deep.
The Dad I knew was kind, smart, curious, a brilliant writer and communicator, protective, my best friend, fearless, willing to take risks, the first to chat up a total stranger, would do anything to for me or my sister. He took me to "Wendy's" (read: Planned Parenthood) to get a cheeseburger (read: Plan B) and never told my mom. I could tell him everything.
He also had a hot temper, was quick to anger, precise and sharp with his language, casually racist and prejudiced in a "what, it's not funny?" kind of way, caused me to walk on eggshells for fear of triggering him, threw stuff when he got mad - but not at anyone in particular so it wasn't that bad, threw our family cats across the room since "cats are disposable", and instructed me to throw our dog away in the dumpster behind the grocery store near their house when she died.
As I come out of my analysis, he's still rambling about how his short term memory is bad these days.
Shit, does he have a memory issue? And if so, does that change anything?
"Well I want you to know that I'm not recording this conversation," he said.
Me: 🙄 + 💡
There is a point when you see your parents for who they truly are versus who you thought they could/should be. What do you do with that information? Do you move through it? Do you ignore it? Do you leave?
Where most folks get stuck is they think they don't have a choice in this situation, so they keep subjecting themselves to toxicity and abuse. In turn, they perpetuate the cycle.
SPOILER ALERT: You always have a choice. And the right choice for you might be the scary choice. To cut ties. To remove yourself from the orbit of their expectations and see who you become.
It's hard to walk away from the people who taught you how to walk. It's terrifying to know what you thought you had might not exist, that this part of your identity is shifting. When you learn that this foundational chapter of your story has a crack, it's a shock to the entire system, and it feels like life or death.
But you know what scares me the most? The thought of living another day as anyone other than my truest self. I am a human in pursuit of healing all of my wounds, so I can live my happiest, healthiest, most impactful life. I am breaking the cycle. Every interaction I have has the opportunity to make the world a better place, versus spraying my trauma in every direction like a firehose.
Picking up the phone was a hard thing. Sending an email was a hard thing. Answering when he called back was a hard thing.
But perhaps the hardest thing about all of this is forgiving myself for wanting to be seen so badly that I morphed into the person I thought they'd be able to see, when in fact, they will never be able to see me for me. I forgive myself for managing their feelings at the sacrifice of feeling my own. I forgive myself for not knowing what I didn't know. I can see clearly now, and this next level of healing is my responsibility.
The phone call ended with him hanging up on me. He showed me exactly who he is, exactly where he’s at, and that I was not losing my mind when I established the boundary to begin with. He hasn’t healed, he isn’t capable of having difficult conversations, he will not hold himself accountable for the impact his actions have had, and not once did he apologize.
I wanted him to be better. I wanted him to act like an adult and have a conversation with his grown ass daughter about tough topics and come out on the other side stronger, closer, and with more understanding and compassion. I don’t feel like that is an unreasonable desired outcome, those kinds of things are the things the man I thought my father was would do.
Unfortunately, none of that happened. I came with my olive branch, the benefit of the doubt, and the willingness to have a tough conversation and was met with gaslighting, victimhood, and a childish end to what could have been a beautiful conversation if we were able to get on the same wavelength for any fraction of time.
Now that I can see myself without turning away from my power, I don't rely on them to recharge me, and I'm not upset that we don't speak the same language or do the same math.
Me, living in my truth, is like 2+2=4. To them, my math is wrong. 2+2=5 in their eyes. I am a 4 until the day I die. I'll never be a 5.
And when I find myself questioning that, I always come back to the question I asked myself last year before establishing the boundary:
If Barry said these things to me or treated me this way, what would I do?
If the person I CHOOSE to be with did or said this, would I stick around and take it? Would I justify his behavior?
Nope. I'd kick his ass to the curb, toss my hair, and never look back.
The people who are love, light, compassion, gratitude, understanding - those are our people. That is family. And I’m done investing my energy in people who have no interest in healing themselves. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.
So now what?
In the aftermath of the conversation with my father, I emailed my mom. Last year, after I established the boundary with my father and sister, I was still talking to my mom for a bit. She would only take my calls at work or if my father wasn’t around at home. I was thankful that she was willing to do that, but I thought it was utterly ridiculous that she had to sneak around to talk to her daughter. Should I be concerned for her safety? Is she okay? After about a month of no contact with the rest of the family, the strain on her was too much and she said if wanted to continue to update her, I need to update the whole family. I wasn’t ready to do that, but perhaps we could take a baby step with a bit more grace than the one I attempted to take with my father.
First and foremost, I wanted to know if he’s been diagnosed with a memory-related illness or condition. If he has been, that doesn’t change how I feel or what he said or did, but it does add a layer that makes it a bit easier to understand.
In one breath, I can say “fuck this, fuck him” and be proud of myself for asking hard questions and standing my ground. In the next breath, I berate myself for not being more sensitive to how he’s aging. And on the off-chance that she’s oblivious to what has transpired here, I wanted to flag this for her, too.
As I sifted through the feelings and bodily responses over the past few days since this happened, I also wanted to know: is there a relationship to salvage here? Is there anything worth holding onto hope for?
I haven’t heard back yet, and frankly, I don’t expect to.
So now I turn back inward and reflect on what happened here.
I tried. He showed me who he is. I'll be here when/if he heals. Same as before. So while it feels like not a lot has changed on the surface, the fact that I was able to pick up the phone and ask the questions I wanted to ask was a huge growth moment for me.
Just because I didn’t get what I wanted here doesn’t mean I didn’t get what I needed.
It sucks to feel so robotic with it, because I was really hoping this would be a big misunderstanding. I was really hoping that I was wrong. I was really hoping that perhaps he didn't understand the contents of my email establishing the boundary and he's been ready to talk since it happened. I wanted to hear him say he believes me. I wanted to hear him say he's sorry, that he's done the work, and he's taking action to heal the parts of him that have been contributing to the dis-ease of everyone around him. Unfortunately, that's not what happened, and I don’t think it ever will. Unfortunately, I was exactly right. I've never wanted more to be wrong about something - that my father is this way and that the man I thought I grew up with doesn't exist.
It took a lot of unpacking to realize that the image I held of him, the image I shared with everyone else, was me latching on to moments where he was softer, ignoring the parts that hurt me so deeply. As someone who has always fancied herself pretty self-aware, this feels like the ultimate betrayal of self, to "allow" myself to be manipulated in this way, for so long, and to be complicit in it. To have valued his feelings above my own for a lifetime up until the boundary was established.
To continue to hold that hope, to continue to gaslight myself into thinking he is this way because I couldn't be the best daughter is self-torture. And I refuse to live another day wading in the waters of self-doubt when he very clearly showed me exactly who he is.
I was right when I was little. My feelings of not belonging were justified. I wasn’t - and I’m not - crazy. My intuition is strong and I know I can trust it. Now I just need to practice trusting it.
I don’t have all the answers. My healing journey is ongoing. I do know this much: I am done pouring salt into this wound. Today, I choose me. I’m leaving this story in this decade because 2020 doesn’t have room for old stories, and neither do I.