They ____ you up, your mum and dad
Being a big girl and moving on
The other day I met my father as if for the first time. It was a Tuesday and he showed up a few hours earlier than he was supposed to. It was a nice, sunny afternoon but I was up to my ears in writing grants so his sudden appearance irritated me. I ushered him impatiently in to my apartment and gave him tips on how to occupy himself, and he assured he would be quiet. Somewhat grumpily, I offered a tea and cookies, but he refused and said to pretend he wasn’t even there. He parked himself on the couch, my dog climbing all over him and whining from excitement.
It’s been a while since my dad’s presence caused a physical reaction – a rush of anxiety, an instinctive need to create distance – but the residue of it was still there and it was one of discomfort and awareness as if instead of a man he was a buzzing fluorescent light. I couldn’t think or work. I suggested walking the dog to a park – if the workday was going to be ruined then maybe I could salvage it for my dog who is still a puppy and bursting with energy.
My father was thrilled with the walk idea, and as we set out, he started telling me about living alone in the small town where he has a small house, and passing his days away from the distraction of television – he’s very proud of not having cable – and away from my mother. In a few months he’ll be going back to Poland but for now, his life is simple and quiet, divided into taking care of the house, nature walks, swimming, and working in the garden. I noticed his speech was more measured and his gait was less stiff – despite two knee replacements – and he was generally softer, quieter. We had a real conversation. As in: he said things and I listened and then I said things and he listened, and then he asked me questions that were related to what I said, instead of interrupting to monologue about this or that as likes to do.
And this is what I mean by meeting my father for the first time. It’s hard to have a real conversation with my father; I believe we had one once in Cuba, in 2006, on vacation, and another one in 2023, after my first puppy died. My father doesn’t know how to listen, but that afternoon he not only listened but he seemed genuinely interested and waited his turn. He didn’t even shy away from complicated stuff. For example, the topic of my bipolar-2 came up – it was piggybacked on some jokey comment about more disturbed people being out when it’s warmer – and for the first time we actually named it and he asked about what it was like and what medication I used to take, and so on, and I realized three things: One, that he knew I had it, Two, that he knew what it was. And Three, that he was sensitive to it and possibly accepted it. In the past, if mental illness would ever come up, it would be only in a context of an argument and the only indication of my parents knowing that I had it, was when they would tell me I should be locked up and that I was “mental,” “crazy,” and it was generally not a situation where it felt safe to discuss it or to get sympathy for it.
Which is actually fine. I’m over it. As much as it used to hurt and frustrate me – not to be understood – I’m no longer a big baby and so I don’t expect my parents, to make me feel “comfy” and safe. I don’t know if this has to do with becoming a parent myself and realizing my own shortcomings while being reduced to “mom” (especially in my son’s eyes), or simply with not being that invested in my childhood, which was quite some time ago. I don’t know how self-obsessed and not busy one has to be to endlessly sit in the bog of their past traumas — beyond therapy and occasional self reflection — to constantly take their caretakers’ inventory.
(At the same time, I understand that some wounds are deeper than others; recently I watched a woman on Soft White Underbelly who talked about growing up with parents who sex trafficked her and yeah, I could not see her ever getting over that and finding forgiveness.)
Anyway. I appreciated my new and improved father who for that afternoon seemed like a sensitive, compassionate friend who wanted to know about me and my past struggles. And maybe because we were finally exploring the formerly forbidden hallways of our own insane asylum, he also talked about his older brother who was once a brilliant chemist and physicist (and a violinist) and whose life went somewhat tragically off the rails. My dad even said the most taboo word in our family: “schizophrenia” (we still struggle with the word “alcoholic” but at least we acknowledge it). So that afternoon, we finally said the word — in reference to my uncle — and that was also transformative. I even learned how the illness first manifested, as a result of the brother’s experimenting with morning glory seeds, which apparently was a part of a larger experiment of trying different herbs to achieve various altered states of mind. That was done in the spirit of metaphysical adventures rather than trying to get high; he was also writing a paper on it and it was the 70s. (I immediately wondered if the brother tried to follow in the footsteps of the famous Polish artist, Witkacy, who would ingest various concoctions and paint under their influence; in the corner of his paintings, he’d list what he’d taken to achieve the high.)
The fact that my dad opened up and allowed me to open up doesn’t make me feel vindicated or bitter about the fact that it took him so long and that (cue a tiny violin played by the spirit of my bonkers uncle) he never really knew me. Of course, he knows me, just as I know him, but mostly in the context of how we are related, where I could stay bitter about things that happen in the past and he could stay disappointed in the fact that I’m certifiably crazy. But that afternoon, I was reminded again of something I try to remember whenever I have even a slightest self-indulgent thought of stepping into the bog of resentment. Which is what I want my son to know beyond the fact that I’m his mother1. Which is that my father is a human being and he’s everything that comes with it – fuckeduptedness and loveliness; his own past, his own fucked-up father and that father’s father and so on2.
Back on our walk, my dad even asked me about my books (he usually doesn’t as it makes him stressed to know it’s not a money-making endeavour), and let me finish telling him about the latest two, including Unshaming – something I’ve attempted three times and have been unsuccessful at explaining (he’d interrupt). And he reminisced about his love for science-fiction, which is something I do know about him but it was nice to have him assert himself as a guy who loves Ursula K. LeGuin and Stanislaw Lem, not just my dad. And, finally, he commented on the white streak in my hair and there was something especially tender about that, an acknowledgment that I’m getting old too — which is one great equalizer — but it was the way he said it, with both surprise and melancholy; he said, “You’re going grey, daughter.” (Then he panicked a little and added how grey hair only adds to woman’s beauty, how it makes her elegant and how European men appreciate older women – I didn’t remind him about his obsession with my mother’s blonde hair and how he didn’t speak to her one time she cut it and let it grow grey.)
And that was the final revelation on our memorable walk: age. I’m by no means totally over some of my hurts and I don’t know if one ever really gets over their problematic parents. But to be perfectly honest, I find it boring and unimaginative to be a grown adult who just can’t let go, I don’t want to be that. Whenever I do feel a resentment come up, I think of my parents’ ages when I was a child or a young(er) adult and then I think of myself at that age and I usually discover that at least some of the time my expectations for what they should’ve known and how they behaved are blown way out of proportions. Sure, I try not to make the same mistakes (as a parent), I try to do different and so on but why would I expect something that might’ve not been in their repertoire because they didn’t have the maturity or foresight – why would I expect them not to be selfish or unstable or plain wrong where they themselves had zero tools or had to deal with all kinds of stressful circumstances? It’s silly and it’s a bit ridiculous to (still) be angry with them for fucking up. Because my parents (in fact, any people previously responsible for me) do not really owe me anything anymore. I’m a big girl. And big girls (and boys and other adults) need to move on. As for the day with my dad, I thought later that if that recent shift was only temporary and if he’s going to go back to his anxious, impatient ways, that’s fine too – it was nice to get a glimpse into what could’ve been and that is a gift in itself. And that’s probably enough.
For the record, I don’t believe you need to be a parent in order to remind yourself of this. The only qualification is just the ability to see beyond the tip of your own nose.
This Be The Verse
BY PHILIP LARKIN
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
This really hit home. Maybe because you describe my dad. Maybe it's an Eastern European thing. That's how I used to justify a lot of f-ked up behaviour growing up.