You Had the Best of Him, I Had the Worst

My Abuser Recently Died & I Don't Begrudge Those Who Grieve Him

I was aware at a very young age that everyone else outside my immediate family received the best my abuser had to offer. I witnessed his charm, charisma, thoughtfulness, and humor from the sidelines, mesmerized that the person I feared most in the world was so different with everyone else. He was a minister and his parishioners often pulled me aside to tell me how blessed I was to have him as a father. I would stare at them, unable to form an answer.

They didn’t know the police had been called more than once because the neighbors heard me screaming in the mornings before school, but left when the officers found out he was a minister. They didn’t know that my gym teacher, English teacher, and principal tried to convince me to report him when the other students in gym class noticed that my arms and legs were covered in bruises.

(I foolishly thought I finally had a trump card and told him I protected him and didn’t report him because of his congregation and my siblings. I thought he’d stop hitting me because he had been discovered. Instead, he punched my breasts, back, and stomach where the bruises wouldn’t show beneath my clothing.)

The people he interacted with outside the walls of our home loved him. He was the dynamic pastor behind the pulpit, the man who showed up when people were dealing with a crisis, and the person who took their calls and prayed with them at all hours. They had the best of him.

I had the worst.

How I envied them for years. I didn’t understand why my treatment was so different. I tried so hard to please him. I tried so hard to make him understand how much he was hurting me physically, mentally, and emotionally. I tried to discover the root of his anger and violence and why it was directed at me. I never answered that mystery. I prayed for him to become the best dad. I tried to find a way to heal him. I tried and tried and tried to heal what was so broken between us until I couldn’t anymore.

From four years of age until eighteen, I suffered his brutality. Then he was gone. Out the door by his own choice. I thought I was free that night, but it would take more than a decade of counseling, therapy, and deep introspection to find a path to healing.

At the age of 20, I confronted him one last time, hoping desperately that he would finally understand what he’d done to me (kill my soul) and apologize so we could somehow find peace. He laughed in my face.

That was the day I decided to go no contact. I grasped that day as he chuckled and mocked me that I would never have the answers I craved. I would never have the resolution I wanted.

You make me do this, he would say as his fists pummeled me.

I can only conclude that he did believe that, shifting the blame to me absolved him.

“I will never talk to you again,” I told him on the phone that night.

I meant it. I did it for more than 30 years.

I don’t regret that choice. It was the only option I had to heal. I had to separate from him to find peace and the opportunity to build a joyful life.

I mourned him deeply and thoroughly for one year of my life in the 2000s. I mourned that he was never the father I needed him to be and never would be. I mourned his brokenness. I mourned my lost childhood. I mourned the fact I would never know what it was like to feel protected and loved by my father. I mourned until I was cried out, the anger dissipated, and it was time to let go of him completely.

I am aware that there are many, many people mourning him now. They love him and miss him. They are burdened by the pain of his passing. I don't have any ill will toward those people. I feel for them because the loss of a loved one is excruciating. I hope, over time, they find peace in their happy memories of him. To be loved in this life is a gift.

As I said before, I observed his interactions with others and wished (oh, how I wished and prayed) that he would treat me the same way. That others received the best of him used to be a bitter pill, but I forgave him long ago for that choice. I forgave him so I could heal and move on.

When I heard of his passing, I posted this on Facebook.

I meant every word and still do.