As a child, I was the first born of four. My parents both worked, my mom as a nurse, and my dad as a cook. My mother was very demonstrative with her hugs and kisses, and words of I love you, and we never had to think twice of her devotion to her family. My dad, on the other hand, found it very difficult to show any signs of affection. But I wanted it! I would be so happy after getting back a test that I got a good grade on, waiting for dad to get home, so I could share my experience with him. No dice. He’d come home, and his daily routine was to sit on the couch, read the paper, and watch TV until dinner, then watch it again until after the eleven o’clock news, then up to bed. I tried to squeeze in my grade, but was told I was blocking the TV.
I still remember that pain. To be pushed aside, made to feel less important than a baseball game, or whatever program he was watching. But I never stopped trying, which was just lunacy, since I was the one who always felt like I just got dropped on my head. This game of how can I get dad’s attention followed me all through my childhood. All through my teens and twenties, we were at a stand off with each other. Who would make the first move to start an argument? I guess subconsciously, I thought it better to fight with him, than to have no contact at all. Always knowing that after a big scene, and the escape to my room, he would follow shortly and put his arms around me as we both sat on my bed. He would tell me how sorry he was, and try to excuse his behavior with the ritualistic, “you know I didn’t mean what I said.” I accepted those apologies, and reveled in his strong arms making me feel safe and secure once again. Unfortunately, those feelings never lasted for long. But my desire to feel them never went away.
