My dad says I’m weak

Hearing the love

You’re weak.

Dad’s words slapped me like a brick. What did you say?

You’re weak. Another slap.

What do you mean I’m weak? I retorted, hoping I’d misunderstood.

I hadn’t. You’re too emotional, you’re a drama queen.

Dad continued, oblivious to my bubbling rage: That’s why I don’t say things to you, because you’re weak.

Of all the things anyone has ever said to me, this was by far the worst. I’ve survived depressions, manias, a locked ward, an utter breakdown, and achieved success beyond my dreams. Yet my own father labels me “weak” without a hint of a doubt.

I’d never felt so insulted my entire life.

What is strength?

Here’s the thing: I don’t think I’m weak. In fact, I think I’m really quite strong.

Granted, I didn’t rescue myself from the throes of bipolar disorder—to this day I take medication for it morning and night. But for the post mortem of my battered psyche and piecemeal reconstruction of my identity, I take full credit.

In a process that has lasted a decade and will continue for several more, I have at great pains uncovered the values and beliefs that had led me to the metal bed to which I’d found myself strapped ten years ago, and worked hard to replace them with healthier ones.

All I am is a good student. I am multifaceted. I can never fail. Failing is human, and so am I. I don’t need friends. Good friends are paramount to a good life. I have nothing to say. My story is worth telling. I am unlovable. I am loved for exactly who I am. I am invincible. I am happy with myself, yet I can always be better.

This, to me, is strength. The ability to destroy and rebuild oneself at will. The willingness to change what’s not working. The determination to live despite all that life throws at you.

So when my own father says, to my face, that I’m weak, every fibre of my being rebels against his indictment. And my first response is rage.

Hearing the love

I hear it as an attack on my character. That’s what made me so angry.

It’s a few days after and I’m recounting the incident to my therapist in a video call. My therapist waits for me to finish, then, as she always does, therapises by way of questioning: What could your father have said that wouldn’t have offended you?

My brain stirs into action but no answer comes. I stall: That’s a good question.

Helpfully, my therapist narrows her inquiry: What phrasing would you not object to?

This engages my writer’s brain, which immediately spits out synonyms: Psychologically vulnerable. Even emotionally vulnerable I’d be OK with. Because of my condition.

Remove the focus on your father’s exact wording and what do you hear?

Concern. I think some more. Love. A lightbulb flickers. My father is just very worried for me. His comment comes from a place of love.

My therapist smiles her encouraging smile and as we move on to discuss how I’m coping with visiting a terminally ill parent, I feel my resentment melt away.

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It’s months later and I can still perfectly recall the moment dad softly, but surely, said I was weak. The shock of it will never wear off, but with some distance and reflection I now hear what I hope he was really trying to say.

I watched, helpless, as you fell depressed one time after another in a faraway land. I worried endlessly as I found out, after the fact, you could no longer attend classes and your friends had to take you in. When you came home and began to lose your mind and everyone said I shouldn’t, I agonised over whether to commit you. Then, when I did, you refused to see me, and after you were released our relationship was never the same. I miss the girl who jumped on my bed every Sunday morning and demanded to play. I barely know the person you became, the daughter who chose her partner over me. I miss you so much and worry about you incessantly. Will you stay with me? I love you.

What do you think?

I’ll probably never find out what my dad truly meant. Even if I asked, I doubt he’d be able to articulate feelings he’d repressed his entire life.

How do you speak love?

I speak love to my parents by sending heart emojis, to my friends by messaging them, to my partner by assaulting him with back hugs and professing my love every five minutes. Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with someone to say “I love you.”

Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val