Over the years I’ve had plenty of nightmares. Shadowy figures, fear of doors opening, lying on my back suffocating. Plenty of those. And only with the recent spate of them, in the last six months or so, have I really acknowledged that all of them are from being abused. As is the development of claustrophobia, and a profound fear of the dark, among other things.
However. Something must be shifting: the night after my last post, I dreamt directly about my abuser, my father, for the first time in my memory. We had been estranged for over 30 years when he died in 2018. In this dream though: I saw his face. I looked right at his face. And I was grown up — a 57 year old woman with some things to say.
In the dream, he was sitting down. I was determined to stand up. And I told my father everything. I railed at him. I listed every last damaging effect that his abuse had had upon me, upon my family, my relationships, my sense of self. I absolutely let him have it. I tore a strip off of him.
I wasn’t scared. At all. I felt indeed — the opposite. I felt so strong. So clear. So just and righteous. I knew I was right, and that he was wrong, and that he had always been wrong. I told him all this, right to his face.
He didn’t understand. He tried to laugh. He tried to move away from me. I followed. I wouldn’t let it go. I listed and listed, until I reached the end of my list. Then I turned and left him, and went into the next room, where my beautiful grown up children were getting on with their lives. I told them what I had just done, and they were proud of me. We had things to do, and we did them, all without my father.
When I woke up, I felt like I could take on the world. I’d left him for good, and he would never understand. He was never going to. But at last I’d said my piece.
I credit this powerful dream in no small part to starting this blog, and to being in touch with so many other survivors and allies now, all of whom are strong, inspiring, and supportive. Together we are getting things done. THANK YOU, one and all.
In my memoir Learning to Survive, there’s a section of poems written around my father’s death. This one is about the last time we spoke, on the phone, in 1986, the very last time I tried to speak to him at all:
***
the last time
I am standing
in my first apartment
before marriage
before children
before the UK
beige carpets
second hand sofa
second hand bed
new cushions (three hours to choose in JC Penny’s)
second hand glasses and bowls
fiancé hovering
in the kitchen
in case
my arm aches
from gripping the handset
hand cramped
from squeezing too hard
you are asking me
to meet you
somewhere mid-way
somewhere
to get past this
you say
we need to resolve this
with our therapists
and I find out later
that yours wants
a Gestalt model
which suits you fine
conflict-resolution
where both parties are responsible
I wonder
not for the first time
if you have told her
anything like the truth –
I say
heart always pounding
always shaking inside
always swallowing fear
I say
you are the perpetrator
I am the victim
and
you laugh
you chuckle
you say
you’ve been reading
too many magazines
you don’t know
what you’re talking about
I stand there
trembling
I want to hurt you
like I am hurting
I try to think
how to show you
how important
how vital
how crucial
this is
I say
if you don’t do this
my way
my rules:
you will never see your grandchildren
and
you laugh again
you laugh
but you never do
see them
PATRICIA DEBNEY 