Father's Day.

It's complicated.

TW: This post deals heavily with childhood trauma + abuse (physical and sexual). Please read with caution to and for your own well-being. <3

I was barely awake for more than an hour this morning, before I started crying.

Sunday’s are ordinarily a favorite day of mine, very peaceful and reflective, and I often get to see both of my partners. But today, where I’d ordinarily find some solace, I can only feel confusion. And grief. And a pain so old and so familiar, it’s practically stitched into me. My shadow.

It must be Father’s Day.

I wish I could say I had an ordinary childhood. I wish I could say that mine was filled with nothing by joyous and care-free days, full of ordinary experiences and ordinary feelings and ordinary memories of scouts, school and sunshine. But mine wasn’t an ordinary childhood. I did have plenty of ordinary experiences, true, and I was an ordinary kid, by all appearances. But inside my house, there was a secret shadow world going on, and every person in the Turner household had two lives that they lived, every. Single. Day.

For the sake of this post, I’m going to focus on the me-child + the father figures. My mother and brother were both obviously involved, but their stories are their stories, and I can only speak for them in terms of what I saw, not what they experienced.

An additional note: I will refer to my childhood self with she/her pronouns, as I identified as a girl at that age, though I am now non-binary (they/them).

Anyway.

Ordinary Jessy could be shy, but once she warmed up to you, she was all bubbles and laughter. She loved making faces and imitating sounds (this was the point in my life where I learned how to make my famous R2-D2 scream). She LOVED Barbies and Polly Pockets, but also enjoyed playing with her brother’s marbles and Matchbox cars. She could be stubborn, but ultimately, just wanted her parents to love her, and for others to like her.

Shadow Jessy was someone else. Shadow Jessy was a flinching, fearful mess; she desperately wanted comfort and for things to be okay, but she knew that she wasn’t actually safe. Not while Secret Father was around.

But Ordinary Father, he was warm and vibrant, and made Jessy laugh (something she very much enjoyed doing—and it’s still a favorite pastime of mine). He played silly games with his kids, encouraged creativity and curiosity, and introduced me to a great many passions, such as movies, music, art, and experimental cooking with mixed results. He was an artist, and a good one; I often watched him in his basement studio. He could be extremely generous and sympathetic, often giving food and water to homeless people; he even worked in a shelter for a time. He was, by all appearances, a stand-up guy.

I don’t keep any pictures of my dad, but this is the one painting of his that I’ve held on to, though it normally lives in a closet (some things, we can hold on to, but not look at all of the time).

Shadow Father, on the other hand, was someone else. He also did not have an ordinary childhood, and carried around his own pain that was so old and so familiar, it was practically stitched into him. He was bitter and resentful, callous and cruel, prone to violent outbursts that often ended with emotionally or physically violent results, that were usually at the expense of someone else. Like my mom. Like my brother. Like me.

TW: CHILD ABUSE (physical and sexual)

I don’t know how many times Shadow Jessy was hit. Sometimes, it was spanking (by hand or paddle for me, though I think he once used a belt). Sometimes, I was smacked. Sometimes, I was sent to my room without any physical punishment, but those were only on the good days. The ordinary days.

And then, there was the sexual abuse. I won’t dive any further, other to say that it happened to Shadow Jessy, and that I am still dealing with it. Even though both Ordinary + Shadow Father have long been gone. Over 25 years ago, he went into cardiac arrest after a heart aneurysm surgery. It was two days before my 13th birthday.

Grief is already complicated and nuanced, but I find myself asking myself every year: how am I supposed to feel about my dad? How can I celebrate a father who did such fucked-up, irreparable things to not just me, but my family? How?

And yet, it’s the damnedest thing, because I did love him. I loved Ordinary Father. And I also now understand + empathize + sympathize with the fact that he was a product of a very miserable childhood. Hurt kids grow into hurt adults, and the cycle continues. He never got the help that I did—that I’m still getting—but I also don’t know if it was even offered to him, or if he thought he didn’t need it. I don’t know. He’s dead, so I can’t ask him. I don’t know if I could do that, even if given the chance.

And yet.

On the flipside, I know some incredible fathers. My stepdad, Todd, is one of them. When my mom remarried, I moved with her into Todd’s house. It wasn’t an easy transition, but his gentle manner and quiet patience won me over. He never, ever made me feel unsafe or unloved. There was no Shadow Step-Dad, only Ordinary Step-Dad. I’ll forever be grateful to him, and I try to remind him of that as often as I can. I certainly will today.

So, to all of you Ordinary Fathers: thank you. Really. Thank you for just doing your ordinary best. With all of the mess in this world, with all of the uncertainty and shadows, it’s honestly extraordinary.

And to all of you that feel some kind of way about Father’s Day—I see you. You’re not alone. Be gentle with yourselves, and do whatever you have to do to get through today.