When Father’s Day hurts

The first Father’s Day after I went no contact with my dad (the first time), someone at work asked me what my plans were. When I told him my husband and I would be celebrating our second anniversary, he was shocked.

“What? So, you’re just going to leave your dad alone of Father’s Day?” he asked, slightly joking, but mostly serious. “You’re not going to do anything for him at all?”

The last time I’d talked to my dad he’d told me, among many, many other things, that I was self-righteous and a bully. He’d told me God wouldn’t forgive me unless I started acting more “forgiving” toward him. The conversation had left me shaking, nauseated, lightheaded, and crying in the bathroom. Meanwhile, my dad had ended the conversation by saying he it was too painful for him to talk to me any longer right then.

But I couldn’t tell my coworker all that. Instead, I tried to laugh it off and provide some kind of explanation for why I wasn’t celebrating my dad without lying. I felt like I might puke right there into the tiny waste basket under my desk.

That weekend, Josh brought me to a tearoom. We got scones with jam, lemon curd, and Devonshire cream, and several pots of tea, as well as three types of loose-leaf tea from the gift shop to bring home. That man definitely knows the way to my heart.

While we were sitting there, I noticed a father having high tea with his daughter a couple tables over. They had those little tea sandwiches, and she had on a pretty dress. I squealed under my breath to Josh about how cute they were, because if I didn’t, I’d start crying right there in public.

If you’re like me, and Father’s Day can be triggering, remember you’re not alone. And please, do something meaningful for yourself today.

  1. Talk to someone you trust about the feelings today brings up for you.
  2. Stay off social media. I know for me it can be really hard to see people celebrating their dads, even though I am happy for them.
  3. Write a letter to your dad, telling him what you wish you could say to him. Then put the letter away somewhere (or burn it if you’re feeling super symbolic).
  4. Get out in nature. Take a walk and focus on what you can hear, see, smell, and feel. Be mindful of the heat though! Bring a water bottle and lather on that sunblock!
  5. Journal. Writing about your thoughts, feelings, and memories helps integrate the different parts of your brain.
  6. Do something that has good memories associated with it. Rewatch your favorite movie, go to your favorite place, or do your favorite hobby.
  7. Most of all, be compassionate with yourself and make room for your grief/anger/regrets. Don’t just ignore them. It won’t make them go away.

Or you could write a blog post about how Father’s Day is hard and things people can do to help themselves cope!

The stranger in my eyes

“I hate myself,” she said matter-of-factly. It was righteous self-hatred she explained. She was a sinner, and so she scorned and hated her flesh. After all, the Bible says that even the good things we do are as dirty rags.

My pastor and his wife had invited me over after church to eat with two of their friends. I now sat across the table from them, emersed in an intense theological discussion. Usually a fairly quiet and passive person, such a debate was far from ordinary for me. But this felt too important to be silent.

I don’t remember exactly how we got to this point in the conversation, only that I’d mentioned self-hatred as something to be avoided. I had not expected the woman to respond with an argument in its favor.

I told her I couldn’t agree. “I don’t God ever wants us to hate ourselves,” I said. “Because I know where it leads.” And I told them this story.

When I was a child, I was taught that it is impossible to hate yourself. If you think you hate yourself, that only shows how much you actually love yourself.

The first time I heard this, I was thirteen and already deeply depressed. For a moment, I felt a flash of anger. I wanted to yell at someone, to lash out against the weight of yet more condemnation. But then the flash was over. In less than a second, I’d sunk into resignation. There was no point in fighting.

There was no way out.

And so, my self-hatred grew. My mind churned criticism until I felt beaten up from the inside out and then despised myself for feeling that way. Sometimes, in the isolation of my basement bedroom, the hateful words would come spewing out of me.

That’s what happened one night when I was sixteen.

I remember sitting on my hands on the edge of my bed, enumerating my many failures. I was a coward. I was selfish. I was a disappointment to God.

“I’m disgusted with you.” I hissed the words into the night.

I couldn’t keep still anymore. I began to pace the floor, spitting accusations at myself until the angry part of me, the part that hated, consumed the sad part of me. It was strong. Stronger than anything I’d ever felt before.

I turned, stomped toward my dresser, and hit my right wrist against its edge. Hard, harder, relishing the sting of it. The hatred was a force. It was alive, snapping like white-hot fire. I was no longer me. I was something “other,” something that needed to be punished.

I imagined myself hurt, killed even, and felt a strange kind of justice in that thought, as if only then would I have gotten what I truly deserved.

It was then that I looked up into the mirror. My reflection stared back at me, and it was as if I was looking at a stranger.

It was not me looking out of my eyes.

I let out a whimper and fell cowering to the floor. “God! Help me!” My voice was hoarse. All the self-hatred was gone. In its place was terror of what I’d seen, what I’d felt. I knew, suddenly, that all hatred was wrong, even if it was directed at oneself. And it wasn’t because it was secretly “self-love” as that teacher had claimed.

The hatred I had just experienced could not in any way, shape, or form ever be from God. God is love.

How had I forgotten that?

I cried, sitting with my knees pulled tightly to my chest. I promised God, promised myself, that I would never allow this to happen again.

“Take the hate away. Fill me with your love instead,” I repeated over and over. I decided that every time I felt anger at myself, I would repeat this prayer.

Outside, the light from my bedroom windows made rectangles that stretched across the lawn, banishing everything outside their edges into blackness. I flipped my light switch off, and immediately moonlight flooded everything.

I knelt at my window. I could see the feathery branches of the tree that marked where the lawn gave way to untamed grass. Beyond that, the wind rolled over the woods, swaying the trees so they looked as if they were one being. Above, stars softly ribboned the sky. And it seemed to me as if all of it was alive and singing.

That was the night I realized that it was good—and necessary—to fight the angry voice inside my head. For so long, I had internalized a false god who stared down in judgement and disgust. And always, when I pictured this god, I also pictured my ultra-spiritual father sleeping at the other end of the house. Undoubtedly, this god was pleased with him. But not with me.

The more I tried to satiate this god, the more self-loathing I felt. Even my pain was an affront to him.

So no, I don’t think God wants us to have some kind of “righteous self-hatred.” And I don’t think he condemns us for feeling that way either. I think he says, “Look in the mirror. This isn’t who I meant you to be.”

That time my dad poisoned me

What happens when you find out that the “medicine” your dad gave you when you were 14 was poison? You start going into shock. At least, that’s what I did.

My limbs grew cold and weak, my face became ashen, and my pupils dilated. All I wanted to do was curl under a blanket and not open my eyes for a long, long time. Thankfully, by the time my husband got our baby ready to get in the car and take me to the ER, the color had started coming back to my face.

Instead, we went on a walk—a very slow and shuffling walk. My limbs were still too heavy to lift all the way. Josh held my hand firmly and warmly, and I sucked in the new spring air. This is reality now. I am safe now.

Here’s what happened: When I was fourteen, my dad took me aside to tell me of a miracle cure for everything from cancer to autism to the common cold. Apparently, some guy had discovered it while prospecting for gold in South America. He used water purification drops to cure first his guides, then whole villages, of malaria.

“The pharmaceutical companies hated him!” My dad said it like a badge of honor. “They couldn’t monetize it, so they bribed local doctors to silence him. They wouldn’t let him in the country.”

There was that familiar gleam in his eyes—the power of secret knowledge. He explained to me that I was going to start taking MMS (Miracle Mineral Supplement). I’d start with one drop a day. When my body got used to it, then I’d up the dose until I reached six drops every day.

He ordered the stuff online. I don’t know where it came from, but I remember the green and blue labels on the bottles. There were two: one was the MMS and one was the “activator” that was supposed to unleash its amazing oxidating qualities.

The worst part might have been the smell: overpowering chlorine. Or it might have been the involuntary gag that always came as I forced the stuff down my throat.

All I remember about the following week was the sickness. Nausea so overwhelming it weakened my limbs. The effort it took to hold up my head. How all I could think about was taking my next breath, then the next. Trying to focus on anything else but my roiling insides (essentially trying to dissociate).

I never actually threw up, but I did ask Dad to pull the car over so I could dry heave on the side of the road several times. Finally, Mom convinced him that it wasn’t doing any good, only making me sick.

“If it smelled like chlorine, it probably was chlorine,” Josh said when I told him about it.

“No,” I said. “It couldn’t have been. Dad wouldn’t have done anything that crazy.”

I don’t know why it took so long for me to look up what MMS actually was. It was last week—over ten years later—that I finally googled the strange medicine.

As I read, I felt the blood draining from behind my eyes.

The second hit was a warning issued by the FDA: when activated, “the mixture becomes chlorine dioxide, a powerful bleaching agent.”

Warnings from medical sites and government agencies around the world told the same story. MMS (or WPS or CD, as it is also called) can cause nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, dehydration, life-threatened drop in blood pressure, and liver failure. At least seven people have died from it.

I could have died.

I could have died. I could have died. I could have died.

I was shaking by the time I dropped my phone on our kitchen table and went to the nursery where Josh was playing on the floor with our son. I held my elbows and pressed my arms protectively into my ribcage.

“Josh,” I whispered. “You were right. It smelled like chlorine because it was chlorine.” And I started crying.

This was far more than the apricot seeds he’d wanted us to eat (he said the cyanide would kill cancer). It was more than him leaving me in his truck alone for hours when I was three years old. Somehow, this felt more invasive and harmful than any of it.

My dad sacrificed me on the altar of his conspiracy theories. He took away my bodily autonomy and forced me to ingest poison. I knew I had no choice. I could not ask for the misery to stop. Even though the gold prospector story sounded suspicious to me, I could not question.

It is no wonder to me now that I began restricting my calorie intake not long after. If my body had to suffer, at least I would be the one making it suffer.

Photo by miki takahashi on behance

I still don’t know how to process this new revelation. (Why, after all this time, does anything surprise me?) But I expect it will look like everything else: work on staying grounded, hold my boundaries, remind myself I am safe, enjoy the good things I have in my life now, and feel the grief so I can move past it.

I don’t want to feel the grief. I don’t think anybody does. But I know it is the best thing for me. It’s the best thing for all of us.

Oh, and before you ingest any miracle cures, google them.

FDA MMS articel: https://www.fda.gov/consumers/consumer-updates/danger-dont-drink-miracle-mineral-solution-or-similar-products