So I deleted the story before I posted it, and began to realize that even though I’m 40, and should be past all this, it still hurts, and I’m a deeply broken person.

The thing about trauma (and it likely is trauma) is that it often just doesn’t go away on its own and you need to do work on it. So, why should you be over it?

Should is a loaded word as it pretty much always comes from what you learned as a child. You should do that. You should be like this.

That “should” probably comes from your father when he told you how you should be as a child.

It sounds like you aren’t over it now, but that’s ok. It’s ok not to be over stuff that happened in childhood. But the important thing to understand is that you can get over it with work. Being aware of that is the first step on that road.

You aren’t broken. It sounds like a broken man raised you.

I grew up without a father; no positive male influence. It took me a long time to reach a point where I could accept it wasn’t me that was broken, it was the negative thought cycle I was habitually stuck in.

Taking a step back and seeing the good in the world, the small moments, for what they are (which I think you are doing?) Rather than viewing positive moments as a reflection of my own negativity, I am learning to view these positive moments as positive. Realisations of what I didn’t have but knowing I am living my life better than the ones that came before me.

A deeply personal anecdote - I am an alcoholic. I’ve been in AA for a while now, and have been sober for that time. I’ve grown and moved on from needing alcohol to feel normal.

My fathers side of the family, including him when he was alive, are unrepentant alcoholics. I don’t feel bitter or hateful anymore - instead I see it as being the only one in that family tree to actually break out of that cycle.

I have needed to spend a lot of time in therapy to help me reach this point.

Best of luck - you aren’t broken. just hurt

What a lovely post. Thank you for sharing it.

I’m 60 years old, my father passed many years ago. I have still not come to grips with all the complexities of our relationship. My wife knows that if we ever see a film or TV show where a parent, but particularly a father shows any form of approval for something their son did, I will turn into a blubbering mess.

That said, more rational me knows that there were many ways in which my father was a good dad, if am willing to take the time to look for them.

I have three sons and a daughter, my greatest hope in life is that they won’t have the same issues with me as a father that I did with my own dad.

Thanks again for this amazing story about how even small things we do can have a great impact, and not necessarily on those we expect them to.

“Have you ever realised just how broken you are?”

This question implies the experience of some kind of epiphany, but I’ve had a life-long keen awareness of exactly how fucked up I am as a result of having a shitty father.

My longest held ambition was to be a better father than my father was.

I’m in my 50’s. Both my parents passed this year. I didn’t go to either funeral. I felt nothing but anger at them. I did finally start going to therapy. My parents were different in their abuse but the same in that they never once in my life apologizes for any wrong they committed. It was physical abuse until I became physically stronger. Then it was nothing but mental abuse for the rest of my life. Admitting it hurts and admitting that its the source of your anger is good for you.

My parents like many didn’t “believe” in therapy. For good reason as it turns out. They knew they are guilty of abuse and feared exposure. Give it at least a couple of tries. If you don’t like the therapist you see. See another one. Be prepared to hear things you will not like. Acknowledge your pain is driving negative emotions and keep trying to not let it rule you.

The best luck is the luck you make.

A lot of us have stories like that.

When i was 4 or 5, i had a Tender Heart carebear that i LOVED. I took it everywhere with me. One of my first memories ever is my dad calling it “slender fart” to the point of me bawling my eyes out. He has never accepted that this fucked me up in a very deep way. The person i looked up to for protection was hurting me. For fun. I’m in my 40s now, and anything i start to develop an interest in, even to this day, comes with a sense of dread. “How can this be used against me?”

Irony of ironies, my dad now has in inoperable brain tumor. I’ve basically retired early and moved back in with my parents in order to be around if they ever need anything, which is every day. It’s crossed my mind more than once to return the favor and fuck with his addled old brain, but then, would i be any better than him? No, that misery he tried to breed in me stops and dies with me.

FWIW, that father may have grown up with a father just like you. He just made different choices. Just like you can see that those are different choices. You could and probably will make different choices too, it’s the only way we ever change. It’s not by retroactively having perfect circumstances. It’s by choosing to be better each day moving forward.

Also, as a 40+ year old myself it’s always important to take a clear stock of the ways you’re similar to your parents (I find more every day) and also the myriad ways you are your own individual.

A few weeks ago, a mom was at the hardware store with her young son – he was about five years old.
For some reason, we crossed paths a few times, And each time she was talking with her son about the things they were buying in the projects that they were buying them for. But what Caught my attention first was he asked her ‘What if we can’t do it?’ and she responded with ‘Well then we learned how because we can figure it out.’
This woman was endlessly, encouraging towards her son, and it was clear that she was setting him up to have an attitude of feeling like he was capable of tackling things in life. Which is something that I didn’t get us a kid - I was often told that I couldn’t do things or the things were beyond my capability and that if my mom didn’t know how to do something that it was basically impossible for me to figure out how to do it as well.

I was so impressed by their interaction, that when I saw her later while I was checking out, I actually said something to her and after she figured out I wasn’t trying to pick her up, she took a moment and like… just looked satisfied. I was happy with the interaction.

Beyond the fact that I mostly grew up without a father and my mother was very self focused to the point that it was pretty detrimental to me, I also grew up with undiagnosed ADHD that I only learned about in my early 40s. I am constantly discovering ways that I feel broken in the world, so you are not alone.

Yes, I can relate. Not only that but it’s more common than you think.

Broken is a good word to describe the feeling, but not the reality. If you can afford it, taking with a good psychotherapist (I would choose a psychodynamic one as opposed to something like CBT), can help you use the unbroken in yourself to heal that feeling and the perspectives that emerge from it.

It’s important because the perspectives that emerge from it create even more unpleasant feelings. It’s like a cascade.

My man - thanks for sharing your story with us. You made my day better for it.

And as I typed to a wrestling community what I intended to be a beautiful story, I realized it’s only beautiful to me because of my own repressed perspective.

It was a wonderful story even without the full context. I don’t know what the online wrestling community is like, but unless they’re a bunch of jerks they’ll enjoy it too; whether you decide to share it with or without your personal context.

Never knowing my father, i was raised by a stepfather. He never spoke to me. Other than to demand i perform some task and then explaining how badly i had completed it… He never spoke to me. He never taught me how to. Ride a bike, throw a ball, shave, drive, or any of the things a dad should teach a son. I know almost nothing of his life… He never spoke to me

My dad broke the cycle. Late in life he told me a story about myself.

We were in a park. I ran up and asked for something and he said no. I ran off and then came back, asking again but in some other way, this time he let ne do whatever it was.

His mother, a deeply religious schoolteacher, was sitting nearby, and after I ran off she criticized him for changing his mind, told him parents should never do that.

I think he told me that story for at least one reason.

Any person’s awareness can benefit others.

Becoming a parent has been one long strong of these moments. By doing the right things for my child, I get reminded of just how bad my childhood was, and it’s hard. But I’m determined to give them a better life than I had, to break the cycle.

Those who break the cycle are often the only ones aware of its existence in the first place. We aren’t broken, friend; we merely bear the weight of generations of broken men who’ve been falling downwards on top of those who come after.

It’s important to remember, though, that everyone has their demons. Childhood trauma caused by an abusive parent who was broken because of the war. Stuff like that. It’s an echo.

I learned of my father’s death weeks after the fact. My involuntary reaction was an emotionless, “huh.” I think I was forty eight years old at the time.

I hadn’t spoken to him for over thirty years, and had suffered decades of nightmares that he’d found me.

After learning he had passed, the nightmares finally ended, but the lifelong fight or flight tendency to keep to myself and never rock any boat remains.

My sister has said that she’s jealous of my daughter because we have a pretty close father/daughter bond - something my sister never knew and never will.

In my fifties now, I generally avoid human interaction as much as is physically possible. While I could cite other reasons as to why I’m this way, I can confidently point a rigididly extended index finger at dear old dad as the foundation of it all.

My parenting duties complete, I mostly just exist waiting for the sweet sweet embrace of death when I’ll no longer have to go make money for the man or pretend that I enjoy the saccharin sweet small talk of co-workers who don’t give two shits about me or anybody else, but professional decorum for the win, right?

I don’t even look forward to weekends because those are just two day stints of solitude doing chores so I’m ready to go make more money for the man on Monday.