Sins of the father

Had I left it too late to tell Dad how I felt? Bullied by my dad

Gritting my teeth against the pain, I bit back a scream. Thwack! With a terrifying whoosh, my dad, Mick, whipped back his bamboo cane again, andé

Thwack! Stinging pain exploded across my bare legs.

I whimpered, gulping back more sobs Ð screaming made Dad lash me harder and longer.

Brutal beatings

It was 1963, I was only 8 and my dad was caning me for eating some of the tomatoes growing in our garden.

In fact, he’d beaten me for as long as I could remember.

Brutal, daily beatings that were utter agony.

A toolmaker, my dad was an angry, violent man.

No matter how hard I tried not to annoy him, he’d find an excuse to cane me anyway.

Ôcome here, you,’ he’d growl, his face twisting in rage.

Sometimes, in desperation, I’d steal the canes from the kitchen, break them and bury them in the garden. Ôplease let that stop him,’ I’d pray. Who was I kidding? He just bought more canes and the thrashings kept coming. I was petrified of him.

Vicious

When I was 11, Mum got a fulltime office job, so I was in charge of the housework and cooking. If Dad didn’t like his dinner, he’d throw it across the room.

But it wasn’t just the vicious beatings. Dad was controlling, emotionally abusive Ð cruel.

He never cuddled me or said he loved me like a father should.

He’d bully me instead, put me down.

Ôwhy can’t you look nice like your friends?’ he’d taunt if I tried to dress up.

Once, when I was 16, I met a boy, and Dad started quizzing me about intimate things.

I didn’t know what he was on about, I barely knew what sex was. But Dad dished out eight to 10 lashes anyway.

My childhood was hell, but I survived. Just.

Free at last

In 1975, aged 20, I left home, married and had my two kids Steven, now 38, and Kerry, 36. Free from Dad’s violence, a weight was lifted from my shoulders. But, although his beatings stopped, I was still terrified of him. Years passed. Mum and Dad got divorced in the late 80s. Despite everything he’d done, Dad was still my flesh and blood, and I couldn’t stop

He never cuddled me or said he loved me It couldn’t be my burden forever

loving him. So I still visited him, put up with his temper, his put downs and surly behaviour. Still, I rarely took the kids, desperate to protect them. Steven and Kerry grew up, I became a proud grandma. When Dad got heart problems in 1996, I rang a few times a week to check he was OK. Then, one morning in January 2006, he didn’t answer his phone. He’d collapsed at home and been rushed to hospital.

Gone

My dad was dying. I felt so conflicted. I’d never confronted Dad, and that haunted me. The anger, fear and sadness bubbled under the surface, and I couldn’t visit him in hospital. I’d always been spiritual, so 10 days later, I felt Dad, 81, pass away before I even got the phone call.

Suddenly I was devastated.

I never made my peace,

I thought, weeping.

Or told Dad how much he’d damaged me.

Letters

It couldn’t be my burden forever. For my sanity, I had to let him know. I began writing Dad letters – decades of anger and fear spilled out. Everything I’d never dared say when he was alive. Then I went to visit him in the chapel of rest, alone. In his coffin, Dad looked like a different man. Peaceful, no anger twisted on his face. And, for the first time, I felt I could be honest. Before placing each letter in his coffin, I read them aloud. ‘I was so afraid of you,’ I read. ‘I just wanted you to love me.’ Tears flowed as I told him how much physical pain he’d caused, how deep the emotional scars were scored into my soul. All of a sudden, I felt his presence, standing beside me. Listening. It was an unprecedented moment. Here he was, hearing me tell him the bitter truth. It was comforting, not scary. Tucking the letters in beside Dad, I said goodbye. ‘I still love you,’ I told him. I wished I’d done it while he was alive, so I could hear his response, but it gave me the release I needed to move on.

Dad’s visit

A year later, at a spiritual development circle, the medium smiled at me. ‘Your dad’s here,’ she told me. My heart thumped, fear and hope pulsing through me – a bit of that old terror remained. Was he angry about my letters?

Had I made a mistake about being so honest?

Or did he want to make amends after all these years?

What did Dad want from me?

I survived my childhood