Dear Vix,
I am a 53-year-old, white British, heterosexual male. Exactly 30 years ago, my father confessed to my mother and myself that he had been going with sex workers. In spite of being a young adult at the time, it destroyed my life. I turned to drink. My mother asked me if she should divorce my father. I do not believe in divorce. She is still with him now.
All these years later, and it still impacts upon my life. I find it difficult to trust other men. I relate better to women. More recently, my father has even tried to deny it ever happened, even though my mother hasn’t slept in the same room as him since!
What really upset me at the time was how my father had used his supposed lack of money as a weapon against the family during our formative years, whilst all that time paying for sex! More recently I have also suffered with mental health issues. How do I forgive my father for what he did to my mother – and to me?
Still Hurting
Dear Still Hurting,
How do you grieve someone who’s still living? That’s what I was left wondering when I read your letter: about the thorny relationship many people have with family members, especially caregivers, whom they both love and are deeply disappointed by. Sometimes, the struggle is strongest when they pass – because people are left wondering how to mourn those they both love and hate. And sometimes, that mourning process happens while they are still alive.
The conclusion I came to while thinking about your situation and your goal was: peace. Peace for you, a certain kind of inner peace that stands apart from needing to “forgive” someone for not knowing how to love you or your mother properly. This might sound controversial, but I don’t think it’s always correct when we tell people they should automatically “forgive” someone who’s wronged them. Why should they?
Do people always, unequivocally deserve our forgiveness? Not necessarily. There are so many factors that come into the decision to forgive: the nature of the wrong, how hurt you were or still are, how much it has affected your life – and who stands to gain from this act of magnanimous absolution. I certainly don’t believe it’s mandatory that you forgive someone simply because they ask for it – not unless it brings you peace, too.
I look at the harm your father’s actions 30 years ago have caused you: you have trust issues, you struggle with alcohol (please read this piece for more on how to tackle this) and you’re now experiencing mental health problems – and I wonder, are you really asking how to forgive him, or are you looking for atonement?
And if you are – if you want your father to acknowledge the heavy price you paid when he chose to do what he did all those years ago – then isn’t that perfectly valid? It would make sense to me if you wanted your father to understand the consequences of his actions. To see them validated; for him to be forced to acknowledge his harm. The harm that has been eating at you for decades.
And while your mother’s approach is a common one (many people decide to sweep over the damage, at least on the surface), I don’t think it’s working for you to ignore this any more. What’s hurting us, inside, usually finds a way to come out.
I am going to suggest something that’s quite bold, but has the potential to be life-changing: I’m going to suggest that you confront your father. That you tell him how much his infidelity (and the impact of his financial betrayal, too) affected you as a young man. That you’d like him not only to acknowledge what he did – but to bear witness to your pain.
How would you feel about telling him all of this, face to face? If it feels too overwhelming, then I’d encourage you to consider writing him a full, frank, and deeply honest letter. But I have one tip, and that is not to focus on antagonistic “you” statements (“you did this”, “I blame you for this and this and this”) – no matter how deserved they might be – but to make the crux of the letter about the “I”. Focus on your own feelings – and your hurt.
People usually get defensive when they feel attacked; that’s why, in arguments, we often end up with a “tit for tat” situation, where one person points out what they feel the other did wrong, and the other counters with a different grievance altogether. But this letter can – and should – be different.
I’d like you to write exactly in the way you wrote to me here: from where you are right now. A 53-year-old man who is still suffering because of his father’s historical actions. Write from your perspective today – tell him of the shock and pain you felt 30 years ago, and how it still lingers.
A word of warning: when you embark on this, please bear in mind that you might not get what you hope for. At best, your father will own it and accept it and apologise. At worst, your father won’t be able to accept that he did such a grievous wrong (because it comes with shame), and you’ll get defensiveness and bluster – or he might ignore it entirely.
But you know what I can say, with certainty? That speaking your mind in full will make you feel so much better than you do right now, keeping it all in. That what is really eating away at you, today, is the weight and pressure of not saying how you feel.
In not saying, and continuing to not say, you are effectively being forced to maintain a “don’t ask, don’t tell” pretence; a facade of happy families when your memories tell a very different story. So, release some of the pressure. Get it out. Tell your truth. I believe you’ll feel cleansed and purged afterwards. And you might just get a bit of peace back, too.
To seek help for drink or drug addiction, try contacting Mind UK or Frank or read more here.
Do you have a problem you would like to raise anonymously with Dear Vix? Issues with love, relationships, family and work? Email dearvix@independent.co.uk
