My Dad - by Janet Bentley

My dad wasn’t born a child molester. Once upon a time, my dad was an innocent child with a desire to be loved and valued. I received a letter from my aunt after asking her for more information about their childhood. During his early teens, his life took a detour from what it might have been.

In childhood, he took on the pain of his family.  My grandfather, who I fortunately never met, was incredibly abusive to his mom and would beat her frequently in front of he and his sister. When his mom came home from the hospital after giving birth to his sister, he forced her to have sex with a stranger for $100.

Both he and my aunt were shuffled around and abused in various foster homes, my dad bearing the worst of it.

After a string of different men in their mother’s life, many of whom were physically violent, my dad was forced to leave home at 15 years old. He lived under the pier with some very dangerous people. My aunt was raped by the same man who had made my dad leave.

After a series of crimes, my dad was given the choice of prison or the Navy and he chose the latter, only to be dishonorably discharged for drug abuse. He had always suffered bouts of depression and this had prevented him from holding down a steady job. When I was born, he was apparently very proud and would tell people to “look at this beautiful little girl I made”.

My aunt said that she believed my dad turned to booze and drugs to stop his pain.

My most frightening and painful memories come from my dad. Although his experiences cannot and must not be allowed to condone his abuse of me, it does give some insight into where the seeds of his own dysfunction were sown.

Up until I read this letter from my aunt, I had never been told that my dad was proud of me. How I wish I could have heard it from him.

I grieve for the childhood my dad never had and for the ways his abuse lied to him about his place in the world. I grieve not only for him, but for how his pain caused an avalanche of misery in my own life and the lives of my siblings.

I grieve that my dad wasn’t a hero to me.

What I have learned in my trauma work over the past several years is that I can move through that grief to a new place of strength. That strength continues to come from reparenting that little girl with love and acceptance and giving her all the things she longed for - from within myself. It has been a long and painful journey to this place, but now I get to live in the present (more and more of the time!) and experience so many moments of peace and happiness with the people I love and surround myself with.

I get to discover who that little girl is and what the adult she grew up to be enjoys. How fun to allow myself to experience good and fun and love without the walls of defense that she built so high and so strong. That is a gift for which I am forever grateful.

PS I know that I have done and continue to do the hard work, but I feel I would be remiss in not acknowledging the compassion, wisdom, support and guidance I have received from my trauma therapist. I can say from experience, it is worth finding someone you can trust and connect with.