11 months after my dad's death, I think I've gotten pretty good at walking on some fine lines. I remember when he first died, and I felt a lot of anger. There was some internal conflict - I really, really wanted to be able to cry about his death. I don't know why I wanted this so bad. I guess it's what normal people do when their dad dies. But I was still really mad at him, I wanted to write a mock obituary where I outed him as the disgusting pig that he was. A big part of me was and still is glad he's dead. I also remember feeling really giddy, but guilty, about the fact that my mom was more than likely going to end up back in our country, having lost all of the material things for which she traded my dignity (and she did end up going back there for some time, things-less and broke).
After a while, a lot of that anger died down. What was the point? He was dead. It slowly transformed into a somewhat sad feeling - not sad that he died, but sad that the unlikely scenario of true change on his part was now completely impossible, and sad that his life was so... pathetic. I don't mean pathetic as an insult. I mean, his life was pathetic in a way where you would almost feel bad for him, had he not willingly committed so many evil acts.
Let me explain it better. There was a tiny baby boy born to some low-class Eastern Europeans in the 70's, and their poor treatment of him created an actual sociopath. He didn't stand a chance even from birth. All he ever accomplished in life was living illegally in the US, until he emotionally and materially manipulated his only child into getting him a green card, months before she stopped talking to him forever. His wife resented him, and he had no meaningful relationships with people who truly loved him and appreciated his company. None. I suspect he probably had alcoholism-induced dementia before he died. And everything he owned, which was mostly cheap Chinese crap, ended up going to some Mexican single mom who got their apartment and everything in it, after my mom transferred the lease and moved back to Europe. The only thing that's left of my dad is a box of ashes, and the bad memories and scars he inflicted on his wife and child. This can all only be described as "pathetic". He was the loser he always talked about being, I guess.
We had to put our 17 year old dog down about a month ago. She was a good dog, although near the end of her life, I was getting very overwhelmed and exhausted with having to take care of her. My daughter adored this dog, I kept them apart but my daughter loved to watch her through the baby gates, one of her first words was the dog's name. The dog was only a part of my life for about 2.5 years, since she was originally my husband's dog. But when we put her down, I actually cried. I was far more emotional about an elderly epileptic dog who I kind of hated taking care of, than I was about my own flesh and blood father. And the only person to blame for this is my dad.
The "fine line" here is having empathy for the abused little boy, who grew into a lonely and extremely adult who probably fried his brain with alcohol and porn to the point where he couldn't even identify the feelings that caused him so much distress, but also being glad that the dangerous sociopath who terrorized my mother and I for nearly three decades is dead. It's hoping that the little abused boy found peace, but that the adult man who abused me so cruelly for so long has finally been punished. It's being able to be angry about the abuse, but to feel at peace with the fact that he can never hurt me again and the fact that even he was put out of his own misery by dying.
I feel fine with the fact that I don't miss him. Actually, I think it's outright odd that it's been nearly an entire year since he died. I still remember our last interaction, I was at their house and I was very pregnant, and he tried to kiss me goodbye. I told him no, and he stormed off angrily cussing under his breath. A couple of weeks later, I remember his dot on Google Maps approaching the area I live in (I've talked before about how we all shared our locations), and he tried calling me a few times. This was before I officially went no contact with my parents, but I ignored the calls, and sat in my house panicking. He must have taken the hint and I saw that he went back home. I felt relieved.
Almost every encounter I had with him as an adult made me feel dread, panic, and discomfort - I don't miss it one bit, but I'm sad it had to be that way. Every time I see my daughter run up to my husband after he comes home from work, or run to him when she trips and gets scared because she finds his presence comforting, I am reminded of what it's supposed to be like between a dad and his daughter.
I think a lot about what I'm going to do when my daughter starts asking what my parents were like or what my childhood was like. She knows my mom, and I keep my mom on a leash, but I still don't really know what I'm going to tell her about my dad. I don't think she'll ever figure out that something is weird about my relationship with grandma - a part of the leash I'm keeping her on is very strict boundaries about what can even be mentioned in front of my daughter. But I'm glad I get to tell her some partial truths about how my dad was an Eastern European electrician who loved trucks, and that she doesn't ever have to experience what he was really like.
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