A letter unsent: Dear Dad

I had this letter sat, but it wasn't finished so I never sent it.

Now my Dad is dead too.

Dear Dad,

 I have written and re-written this letter about a hundred times. There a lot of things I admire about you, and things I would not be were it not for you. We love to read, adore music, have a keen interest in alternative medicine (I am a trained and qualified masseuse). Love to cook and eat beautiful meals. Have to do things our own way even if it gets us into confrontation. We get absorbed into our creative projects and are unashamedly ourselves regardless of the consequences.

For me though having my children was the biggest creative project, the biggest artist achievement I could create. I was always aware that your creative path was paramount, that A and I were not your focus. Not that I ever questioned your love for me. Not once. Nor mine for you.

Your jokes were often at other people’s expense, with a cruelty and world view I just don’t subscribe to. My dislike of a person can be just as extreme but their gender, race or country of origin doesn't really colour it.

I have always been proud of our Irish heritage and my daughter carries the O’Malley name. Your desire for a son was not exactly a secret. I always felt I had to earn your time and affection.

The things that drive me nuts about you (and there are plenty) are off set by what I love. Still it was dealing with A when I already had more than most people deal with in a life time that really kept me away. The main reason I didn't visit mum when she was in hospital was not being able to magic up train fare and the fear. Fear that A would turn and bait me over and over again until I ended up in hospital again, like last year.

I like peace and quiet. While I am no longer afraid for my temper it could see me drop dead.

A’s best bait was our “idyllic childhood”. Funnily enough I don’t remember it that way. I remember being scared and angry. I remember hiding anywhere I could for as long as I could so I didn't have to go back into that house. I remember being 8 years old and wanting to die and hating myself for being too afraid to jump. I remember how mum told me I had never been abused. That I had a vindictive imagination. That I was a puppet and a toy. A liar.  Until I thought I was crazy. Until I was so angry and hard I kept everyone away. I remember someone I thought of as a brother try and kiss me when I was 13 and being terrified and alone because who would believe me? I avoided him at all costs, even refusing to get into a car with him, unless I sat behind him even though he taught everyone else to drive.

I was 18 when I began to try and deal with it. Try and unpick everything. It took a long time and the first time I was vulnerable I got hurt again. TK was and is the best man I have ever known. Marrying him was healing and soothing in so many ways. I could be the mother I always wanted to have. Yet nothing is all sweet.

After Kara died I had no skin. When mum called me and started a fight (why did she and A have to do that?) I told her everything. I confronted her.  I told her about my abuse. She said “I believe you believe that is what happened”. As though I could forget the smell of him. As though anyone would want to make that up, least of all a tiny terrified little girl. I would no longer pretend it had never happened to me. I allowed contact for E's sake but one day she took her to the farm. When I found out I began shaking violently until I was sick. I told her she was never to take her there again.

I felt like a step-child. Time and time again I was just amazed at how little I was thought of. How little time, thought or knowledge was given to me . From A ruining Christmas days after Kara’s funeral and mum saying “she’s having a hard time”.

To only being a rest stop where mum had a coffee and a pee on her way to or from visiting A for weekends or days at a time. To not being invited to A’s wedding. To being dragged from a funeral of one of my best friend’s mum “because A’s upset”. To mum screaming down the phone at me in hospital over and over again.

I always try and treat everyone with beingness until they lose the right. I am even a forgiving person. Far more so than most of our family. I wasn't angry at mum. I just couldn't allow her to keep screaming at me. I was sad to learn she was ill (though a couple of weeks late on the news by all accounts).  I grieve for her and honoured her passing as best as I could. Being excluded by A and being told over and over again I “wasn't family”, hurt again. For the most part I leaned on my friends and family. Wrote poetry and made beautiful things because that is how I deal with pain rather than spreading it like a cancer.

I have to resign myself to the fact that the little blonde girl I protected with every ounce of my spirit is gone. It’s odd how everyone thought she was like Dai, to me she was always like a little Nanna (your mum).

I spend my life healing and helping people. Making beautiful things. Writing and meditating. Creating recipes and sharing the love and joy of food with those I care about.

I don’t want or need anything in my life that makes drama, pain or nastiness. I don’t need to parent or make peace between people old enough to know better. Life is too short to be miserable because other people say you “should” be. I don’t know how long I have, I might have another 50 years. I might get another close call like I did this summer. All I know every day (even the painful difficult ones) are a privilege I do not intend to waste.