I only have one memory of being invited to my dad’s home.
He gave me a slice of leftover ice cream cake and turned on Scooby-Doo. Being the rule follower I was, I immediately informed him that I wasn’t allowed to watch the show. He scoffed at such a “ridiculous” rule, reminded me that he was my parent too, and assured me that my mom “didn’t need to know.”
I had nightmares for weeks.
See, the reason I wasn’t allowed to watch wasn’t because my mom was absurdly overprotective. It was because after watching Scooby-Doo on Zombie Island (where, spoiler alert: For the first time, the monsters are real), I hadn’t been able to sleep any time I got so much as a glimpse of my once-favorite show.
Ironically, this was one of the best memories I have with my dad. That day introduced me to one of my favorite foods—ice cream cake—and for a few short hours, I felt like I was genuinely part of his family.
Maybe that’s why this memory was the first one to come to mind a few weeks ago when I found out that he’d died.
The trouble with a ‘passive parent’
Over the last few years, I’ve had Lindsay C. Gibson’s book Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents recommended to me by just about everyone I know. They all insisted that it would help me understand my dad better—and it turns out they were right.
Immediately, it was easy to find my own father represented in the pages of Gibson’s book. He was easygoing until he was criticized, at which point he immediately got defensive. He was impulsive and more or less impossible to hold accountable. He was reluctant to admit mistakes, and when he did finally apologize, he expected us to reset back to the relationship we’d had when I was a kid.
By Gibson’s definition, he was a “passive parent.” He was incredibly charismatic, fun to be around and loved his family. Unfortunately, he was also prone to emotionally and physically withdrawing at the tiniest hint of conflict—even at the cost of his children’s happiness, security and safety.
Gibson describes passive parents by saying, “They may love you, but they can’t help you.” Honestly, I’m not sure a line of writing has ever hit me harder.
I never doubted my dad loved me. That was what made it so difficult.
The impact of absence
My dad would always promise to come to things—recitals, award ceremonies, graduations—yet when the time came, he was never there. Half the time, he didn’t even bother to tell me why.
It wasn’t like my dad was incapable of parenting, either. He had two sons with his second wife, and as near as I could tell as a kid, he was there for them in a thousand ways that he was never there for me. It left me feeling as though I was the problem—that if I was just better in some way, he might finally include me.
I went out for every audition, sport, award and activity that I could, sure that I just needed to find the right one to make him finally care. Every so often, without any noticeable pattern, rhyme or reason, he would show up, which only made me want to try harder. It turns out there’s a phrase for this: an intermittent reward situation.
Seeing my dad for who he was, not who I wished he would be
It wasn’t until I was in college that I finally started to take a long, hard look at how my dad actually treated me. The rose-colored glasses came off and stayed off. For the first time, I began standing up for myself properly. For the first time, I let myself be angry.
Not that shockingly, it didn’t go too well.
Emotionally immature people don’t react well to criticism. They tend to lash out, shut down or (as with my dad) both. On occasion, he’d apologize and show brief glimpses that he wanted things to get better. However, it never lasted. He expected immediate, unconditional forgiveness, and when that didn’t happen, he was quick to return to his old habits.
By the time he died, we hadn’t had any real relationship in years.
Finding closure on your own
It wasn’t until my dad passed that I realized I’d still been holding onto some small hope that we might find a way to make things better. Gibson calls this the “healing fantasy.” Basically, the idea that if things were different—if we were different—things would have worked out.
Here’s the thing, though: Nothing I did was going to change how he treated me. This wasn’t because he didn’t care but because, like most things in our relationship, it was never really about me.
My dad loved me, but he didn’t know me. He tried his best, but that doesn’t mean it was enough. He was never going to be the dad I needed, and I was never going to be the daughter he wanted.
And you know what? That’s OK.
While he was alive, my anger and hurt protected me from falling back into the cycle of accepting his mistreatment. Now, for the first time, we can both get what we wanted. Finally, I can forgive him, because he can’t hurt me anymore.
Photo by Meteoritka/Shutterstock
