Underneath my yellow skin

The cruelty of dementia only intensifies

I intended to write a post about dementia, which I still will. However, today on Ask A Manager, there was a post from a man who is in the same industry as his well-known (and well-loved) father. The letter writer (LW) is estranged from his father, and he wrote in because they are both up for prominent awards in different categories. People seem to assume they’re in entertainment, which does make sense. Anyway, the LW did not want to take any pics with his father (which he feared the organizers would want for marketing/promo reasons), and he wanted a diplomatic way to tell the organizers that he didn’t want to be seated at a table with his father, either. I learned in the comments that Angelina Jolie’s children are speaking out about how awful Brad Pitt is (some are his biological children and some are not). I am not surprised by it, but it just brought out a feeling of profound sadness as did reading the comments.

So many people with abusive parents with whom they were either estranged or low-contact. In a weird way, it was comforting to know I wasn’t the only one. Also, to see a steady stream of ‘it’s not your problem’ as to the question about what to do in this situation (in response to managing the father’s emotions or other people’s reactions to the situation.

It’s hard. It’s isolating. It’s lonely. Having very dysfunctional parents, I mean. In my case, it’s tempered by the fact that my father has dementia–which is just getting worse by the day. I talk to my parents on the average of once every other week or so, but during the trying times, my mom has been known to call me several days in a row.

I have accepted that I am her therapist/emotional support person. I do what I can to not let it bring me down, but I would be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that I heave a small sigh of weariness as soon as I hear her voice. Not to mention a constriction in my chest. I have to put up a shield as best I can and not let it get to me too much.

Side note: I gave up on my parents being parents to me a long time ago. I never expected it from my father because he has never been a good parent. In fact, I would say he hasn’t been a parent at all except monetarily. He once hounded me to know if I was grateful for the money he had spent on me/given to me, and  I was in a very rebellious state at the time (mid-twenties), full of seething resentment over so many things. I was so very angry, and I was not having any of his shit. This is me saynig that I was a brat at the time .I will fully acknowledge that I was not at my best.

However, with his next line, he destroyed any illusion that he wanted to be my father. Or rather, that he knew what being a father meant. He looked at me with such hatred in his eyes and said, “Why should I love you then?”

And with that, I saw him for who he really was. There was no way to hide the man behind the curtain any longer. I mean, I knew before then that he did not love me and that he never really wanted to be a father, but it was unspoken and merely felt. See, in our family, we don’t say that shit out loud.


My heart shattered in a million pieces. Not because I thought he had loved me at any point in my life, but because it was so clear that I less than shit on the bottom of his shoe. I couldn’t even hold onto the illusion that he loved me.

Weirdly, though, after I got over the shock, I was able to mourn, grieve, and move on. It was better to know the truth about my father than to hold out any hope that he would actually be a father to me. Hope is a terrible thing when there is nothing to hope for. It’s better to accept the truth and move on.

This is why even though my father and  Ihave never had a relationship and he was at the very least emotionally abusive to me when I was a child, my relationship with him has always been less complicated than my relationship with my mother. He and I didn’t have one, basically. There’s some freedom in that, by the way. The most difficult part of it is that he remained married to my mother.

Now, in his dementia, our relationship has completely changed. Well, in one way, but not another. He still does not know me nor will he ever. He does claim to love me, though, and I believe he loves the concept of who his daughter is or should be, but not me. My parents cannot love me because they do not know me. That’s a whole different post.

He mostly knows who I am, but he does slip from time to time. What he doesn’t remember is that we don’t live in the same country so we can’t see each other easily. He also doesn’t remember that I drive, so he asks me about that repeatedly–along with the weather. I am much better than my mother in just answering whatever makes him the happiest/what he wants to hear.

This is something my mother can’t/won’t do. Tell him what he wants to hear, I mean. She claims it’s because she can’t lie/that he can tell if she’s lying, which is frustrating. I’m trying to get her to see she’s not lying because he won’t remember what she’s told him ten minutes later. In addition, it’s a kindness to him to tell him what he wants to hear because it’ll ease his mind. This is also another post for another day, but it ties into this post. How dysfunction doesn’t end when something life-changing happens. I realized that when I had my medical crisis–well, I realized it well before then, but it was intensified and made clear when my medical crisis happened.

We like to think that when something life-changing happens, we automatically change with it. We don’t. And with that, I’m ending this post.

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