When I Accused My Father Of Hating Me, He Didn’t Deny It
No answer was an answer.
Kseniia Titova/ Shutterstock My father hates me.
I’m not being dramatic. He told me so.
My mom had sent me an email that she received from him, which had a link to an article I wrote about trying to understand how he was still alive and able to continue his campaign of abuse against our family.
I wanted to know how. I wanted to know why when so many good people died young, he was able to keep living even in his poor health.
It made me angry.
Not that he was alive. But that he was alive and continued to hurt us — me, my mom, my brother — on purpose.
Like he took joy in it.
Like he lived for it.
Then recently, I found out how awful he was being with my 88-year-old mother.
No, not just awful.
The kind of mean where you shake your head in disbelief, wondering how anyone could be so cruel.
In fact, it was so bad that I went into strategic planning mode to get her away from him. Now, I can happily report that my mom will never have to endure his abuse again and can enjoy her remaining years in peace and joy.
But even with the anger I sometimes feel toward my father, and the heartbreak I live with because of him, I still don’t hate him.
I don’t even wish him harm. And I said as much in the article I wrote about him.
The article that not only did he read, but sent a link to my mom (for reasons we’re still unsure about), to his attorney friend (maybe he wants to sue me for telling the truth?), and to one other recipient: My ex-husband.
I can imagine their conversation:
Ex: I can’t believe she wrote that about you after everything you’ve done for her. She’s so ungrateful.
Dad: She’s so mean and nasty.
Ex: Agreed.
By the way, did I tell you my ex-husband is a diagnosed narcissist? And that my children and I are still recovering from his abuse?
And when I told my father about the pain my ex-husband was inflicting and pleaded with him to stop talking to my ex because it was hurting me, my father’s only response was, "Well he’s always been nice to me."
Sigh.
But I’m used to this
I’ve accepted my father for who he is. And I know he’s not going to change. Unless it’s for the worse.
When I saw my father in person a couple of months ago, he immediately pulled up my article on his iPad.
As he held it out for me to see, his face was the angry red I remembered from childhood, when he’d clench his teeth so hard I swore I heard enamel shred.
"You think I’m the devil?" he said, staring me down.
No! I wanted to say. My piece was about me wondering if you’d sold your soul to the Devil. Because why else would you be so evil to your own family?
But I choked. As I did every time I was in his presence.
At that moment, I wasn’t a 55-year-old woman. I was a 15-year-old girl, scared of her dad’s temper, of his criticism, of his inability to show even an ounce of love or compassion for his only daughter.
I hadn’t expected him to pull up the article simply because I didn’t know he read anything I wrote.
Then I realized, he didn’t.
He didn’t read my work. He didn’t even read the article. At least not in its entirety.
He cherry-picked the words I used to describe him, then ignored the other parts where I explained my heartache as a daughter who would never understand why her father didn’t love her.
What he said or I said after he first confronted me, I can’t remember in detail. Sometimes the wounds of my father put me at a loss for words.
I tried telling him to read the whole article. To read where I said that I didn’t hate him and I didn’t wish him any harm.
But he didn’t hear me.
While gripping his iPad, he looked at me with disgust — which was a look I had seen many times over the years whenever I dared disagree with him, confront him, or tell him he was hurting me.
He always got indignant over my pain at his hands because how dare I hurt over something he did or said.
This time, however, I wanted to push back at his outrage. I wanted him to finally admit how he felt about me.
So, I pushed.
And to his red face and clenched teeth, I said, "You really hate me, don’t you? Just admit it. You hate me."
Our eyes locked. My heart broke. And he said:
Nothing.
Which said it all.
Suzanna Quintana is a writer, recovery coach, and founder of The Narcissist Relationship Recovery Program. She is a certified holistic health counselor and holds bachelor’s degrees in History and in Women & Gender Studies.