I wish I could wake up on Monday mornings — the first day of the work week — without my first thought being, “Fuck you, Jim Seneff.”
Seneff is the CEO of the company that employed me as an independent contractor for 27+ years. He is the narcissist who told me on three different occasions that I would retire from his company. He is the father figure who assured me that I would always be “a member of his family.”
Yeah, I swallowed that crap. Big time. I wrote the eulogies for both his parents. I wrote the essay required for his youngest son’s admission to Wheaton College. I gave up other clients at his request.
So here I sit lower than whale shit on a cold, dreary day in the middle of winter wondering where the hell my professional career went and trying to tamp down the fury I feel towards my biological father whose absence pushed me so deep into the omnipresent-I-desperately-need-your-fucking-reassurance-abyss that I actually believed a CEO who I had witnessed abandon his own wife and kids. “He will never abandon me,” I thought.
At the time, I never really made the connection between the CEO’s abandonment and my father’s. Looking back, one would think I would have: I had been in therapy for years dealing with parental shit; I had read books about absent parents; I had regularly gone to church where I had been told that, unlike my biological father, God would “never fail or abandon” me, so “when you think about it, you actually have a father”; I had written angry letters to my father and ripped them up and/or burned and buried them in my back yard, blah, blah, blah.
Then in November 2018, I summoned the what-the-hell-do-I have-to-lose-now-that-Mom-is-dead-courage to ask my father outright: “Why have you — and Mom, for that matter — never, ever, visited me in any of my homes, including the one I’ve lived in for 30 years?”
His final response after much self-absorbed and awkward hemming and hawing was simple: “It’s too late.” Since then, I’ve asked him two more times. I’ve even offered to drive to his apartment which is 1.5 hours away, and drive him down to my home. His response each time? “It’s too late.”
“It’s too late.”
This response is profoundly disabling for a daughter. Like a cancer, it replicates and mutates her all-encompassing DNA. It dictates.
Is it the reason why I start piano lessons, but then give up? “It’s too late.” Is it the reason why I spend thousands of dollars on video equipment and don’t use it? “It’s too late.” Is it the reason why I spend tens of thousands of dollars on original art, telling myself I will one day live in a home with enough wall space to display it? “It’s too late.” Is it the reason why writing my story is more painful than actually having lived it? “It’s too late.” Is it the reason why I beat the proverbial shit out of myself nearly everyday? “It’s too late.”
Included in Sharon Olds’ volume of poetry entitled The Father, is her poem, “Nullipara,” which means, “a woman who has never borne a child.” The poem details her final visit with her unreachable father before his death. The last lines of the poem are:
. . . he will live in me
after he is dead, I will carry him like a mother.
I do not know if I will ever deliver.
You will never deliver.
All images in this post are photographs of the “Andy” tree I took on overcast weekend mornings this past September and October.
“Good heavens, Sharon. Scores of people have grown up with absent fathers and have become successful. Why do a lot of Steven Spielberg’s films have absent fathers? Tom Cruise’s father was never around, blah, blah, blah — and that’s famous people. THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS of regular folks like you grew up with absent parents and you don’t see them bitching. Grow up, already!”
Voices such as these are another way I beat the shit out of myself. They sounds a lot like my mother, by the way.
Oh Sharon, of course you get to know that your absent father caused suffering. I just don’t want your father’s deficiencies/sins/wounds–whatever to have the final word. I don’t want them to be stronger that your own beautiful heart and soul which I have witnessed. You have a birth right to flourish.
You’re right, Charlotte, my father doesn’t have the final word. I do. My DNA does. How precisely do I change my DNA? It feels more potent than my heart and soul.
Thinking, “Fuck you, Jim Seneff,” is easier than saying, “Fuck you, Dad.”
When I shared with Adrienne how every Monday morning I wake with the Seneff epithet, she said, “I wish you could stop thinking about Seneff because he certainly isn’t thinking about you.”
A major contributing factor in my fury at my father is the recognition that the dysfunction in our family growing up wasn’t just fueled by my mother, but also — and perhaps even more so — by my father. I didn’t see this clearly until after my mother’s death. In many ways, her emotional abuse was a result of my father’s emotional absence, certainly with his daughters, but looking back, also with my mother. For 50+ years, I had solely blamed my mother. I carry a lot of guilt about that, too.
I’m not sure that your father accurately manifests DNA. He very well could have twisted the DNA expression. It may well be that your DNA is perfectly fine and knows how to express who you truly are–not your mother or father’s twisted version.
Charlotte — this is a very intriguing perspective; one that I had never heard before. I’m going to Google “twisting the DNA expression.” How is it twisted? How far back has the “twist “impacted a family tree? How does that mesh with the biblical perspective that the sins of the fathers are passed down to their children, etc.? Very intriguing. Thank you.
Oh, how I loathe these men for abandoning you. I am disgusted that they are not strong in character and heart considering how much love you were willing to give them. There are no words that properly honor your pain except that I am sorry. Selfishly, these experiences have made you the person you are – and I find you remarkably inspirational. Something about this abiding pain has made you into one amazing woman. That is probably not consolation, but it is the truth.
Thank you for speaking your truth, Kelly. I wish I could weaponize it and destroy this abiding pain that yes, may make me an inspiring woman, but it also renders me mute so much of the time. I wish I could believe that being amazing could make me feel less disabled.
Oof! You had warned that reading today’s post would be difficult. Understatement of the year! Difficult because it speaks so powerfully of the anger and hurt and hatred (towards Seneff, your father, and yourself!) you awaken to each morning. Yes, thousands of people have experienced abandonment in their lives, and they seem to be functioning so well. But let’s face it, many of them, while doubtless feeling pain, do not share your passionate embrace of life and beauty and love, a passion that enlivens every cell of your body and soul, enabling you to soar to heights of creative joy and then to sink into the all-encompassing reality of the aloneness you have known. Light and dark–not just abstract concepts for you, but profound realities sewn into the very fabric of your being. Too late to express this in a memoir? A thousand times “NO!” You know I believe in you. You know I believe you will deliver.
Thank you for your courage to read this profanity-laced diatribe, Carol. But maybe I’m being too hard on myself. I was mostly sad and frustrated when I created this post. I felt like I was stuck in a plastic bag and needed to punch my way out in order to breathe. That’s how I’ve felt most of the time since the holidays which marked the second anniversary of my mother’s death.
It goes without saying that I remain deeply grateful that you believe in me; that you believe I will deliver.
I started a comment this afternoon and had to abandon it to work with my Organizing Manager on the Wyoming Chapter Plan to end gun violence. That was time consuming and caused me to lose all my original thoughts.
But, this I remember: I wish for one moment you could see yourself through my eyes. If you only could, your whole life would change … even your Mondays!
Beth — you are an example of what motherhood is all about. You love your spouse, kids and grandkids, you practice peace, you work tirelessly to end gun violence with your efforts with Moms Demand Action, you are an artist, etc., etc., etc. If I want to be seen through anybody’s eyes, I couldn’t ask for more unconditional, loyal and beautiful eyes than yours. I keep that little change purse you gave me years ago that features a huge eyeball and the words” I see you” on my altar. xoxo
(Sorry to just be replying to your comment . . . I got caught up in Rachel Maddow’s interview last night. Yes, I stayed up until 10 p.m.!)
I will ALWAYS be your just-a-bit-younger-than you mother and don’t ever forget it. (I have a t-shirt that says so with our photos … so I know it is true!)
You’re also my yoga lady, Beth! xoxo