I want to talk a little (lot) bit more about forgiveness.
You know that thing when you say a word enough times in a row and it starts to sound foreign? Like table. Say it repeatedly for a minute, then see if it still has meaning to you.
I mention that because I feel that way about certain words, and not just from repeating them. I wrote yesterday’s post about it, and I want to continue unpacking what forgiveness means to me–and why it is so fraught.
As I said in that post, I was raised to believe that my emotions didn’t matter, that I didn’t matter outside of what I could do for other people. My father was cold, emotionally distant, and deeply selfish. Narcissistic, even, in the classic sense of the word. Not a diagnosis–just how I experienced him as a father. He was obnoxiously sexist–well, let me clarify. He didn’t like anyone in general, but he esppecially hated women. Or rather, put them in a very restrictive box. I’ll give you one example.
The last time he was here, my brother, my mother, my father, and I went to Costco. While we were there or shortly thereafter, my father said it must be so hard for the housewives (and, yes, he used that word) to shop there. I was confused and asked him why he said that. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know and I should have just kept my mouth shut, but something inside me just would not let me.
This is pretty typical of our relationship, by the way. I know my father is deeply sexist. He has been all my life. I know he is going to say ignorant things about women, and sometimes, I think he does it just to get under my skin. Or at the very least, he simply does not care. I say that because he’ll often preface what he’s about to say with, “I know Minna won’t like this”–then why the fuck say it? It’s on par with, “I”m not sexist, but”–yes, yes you are. Even if you have that one female friend who totally says you’re a feminist, man.
I know my father is goading me. I know I should just let it go, especially now that he has dementia. But I can’t help myself. It’s as if something inside of me just won’t let it go. I’m sure it’s partly the neurodivergency in me, but I am a grown-ass person. I know what he’s doing. I should be better than that.