I will start this blog by sharing my first pain, one I have carried with me throughout my life. All the pains I write about here are no longer mine to bear. This writing is not my therapy but a reminder for those who harbor anger toward their parents.
The stories, notes, and reflections you’ll find here have been purified through therapy, analysis, and education. You will not find the residue of my pain to poison you, but instead, distilled lessons and messages that can help you learn and grow in the richness of your own life.
I am sitting on a chair in an empty room, my hands resting on my knees. Another chair stands in front of me, empty as well, though I feel your presence, father. My heart beats faster, anticipation mixing with dread. I take a deep breath and begin to speak.
Me: “Why, Dad? Why were you like this? Why did you hurt me? Why did you scream? Why did you drink? Wasn’t I good enough? Wasn’t I enough for you?”
Silence. Yet, there’s a shift in the air. Your voice comes, low and almost a whisper.
Dad: “It was never about you, son. It was about me. I was lost. I didn’t know how to be a father. I didn’t know how to love.”
My eyes brim with tears, anger and pain rising to the surface like a storm.
Me: “Then why did you leave? Why did you abandon us? I thought you had simply given up. That you didn’t care. All my life, I’ve wondered why you didn’t stay. Why you didn’t try.”
Your voice deepens, carrying the weight of sadness.
Dad: “I was ashamed. Ashamed of myself. I was too weak to fight, too scared to face you, too afraid to tell you the truth. I didn’t want you to see me as a failure.”
A tear slips down my cheek. I wipe it away, but another follows in its place.
Me: “I’ve blamed you all my life. I blamed you for what I’ve become, for what I didn’t have. I always thought you were the source of my pain. But now… now I’m not so sure anymore. I was so angry with you, Dad.”
Your presence feels stronger now, as if you are looking at me. Your voice softens.
Dad: “I know. And you had every right to be angry. I was the reason for your pain. But, son, I was also human. I didn’t know how to deal with the chaos inside me. I didn’t know how to give you what you needed. And for that, I am sorry. Every single day since I left, I have been sorry.”
I inhale deeply, bowing my head. The weight I’ve carried for so long begins to lift, the fire within me dwindling to embers.
Me: “I never knew how to understand you. I didn’t know how to love you. All I felt was emptiness. But now… now I see. You weren’t perfect. You weren’t what I needed. But you were human. And I… I want to understand you.”
Your presence feels closer, as if embracing me without touch.
Dad: “Son, it was never your fault. You were a child, and I was the adult who failed you. But look at yourself now. You’ve grown stronger, wiser, more complete. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”
I lift my head, gazing at the empty chair that now feels alive with your energy. Words escape my lips, unbidden but true.
Me: “Father, I forgive you. Not for you, but for me. Because I want to be free. Because I want to love without the shadow of your pain. But also… I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not understanding you. I’m sorry for hating you. I’m sorry for seeing you as worse than you were.”
Your voice becomes warm, almost tangible, like a long-awaited embrace.
Dad: “Thank you, son. That’s all I’ve ever wanted—for you to understand me, to forgive me. But most of all, to find peace. You deserve it.”
I close my eyes, drawing in a deep breath. Your voice fades, but a warmth remains—foreign yet comforting.
Me: “Dad, I will miss you. But now I know—I carry you with me. In good times and bad. Thank you for everything you gave me, even the things I didn’t want.”
The room falls silent, but it is no longer empty. It is filled with love, forgiveness, and the promise of a new beginning.
