I maintain minimal contact with my father, reaching out only a few times a year during significant holidays, primarily through text messages. The last time I heard his voice was over a year ago. This situation often fills me with guilt. Am I treating him unfairly? Hasn’t he suffered enough? I question the validity of my memories regarding his actions that contribute to our estrangement.
During the holiday season, this guilt intensifies. I imagine my father alone in his cluttered apartment, and I can’t shake the feeling that I might be the reason for his loneliness. To cope, I have developed a mental checklist that I go through whenever doubts arise.
This internal checklist is well-rehearsed, though I don’t visualize it entirely until I mentally tick through its components. Each item emerges at the right moment, guiding me through my thought process. It begins with unsettling memories of inappropriate comments he made about me and my friends—his gaze lingering too long on young bodies and remarks about their attractiveness. I remind myself that he made those choices; he knew what he was doing.
I recall a moment when I was 14, experimenting with nude sunbathing on our flat roof. My father suddenly felt the urge to do yard work and I sensed his eyes on me from below. I quickly covered myself and descended. For years, I blamed myself, thinking my actions led to his curiosity. Now, I recognize that he attempted to invade my privacy; he was aware of his intentions.
Another vivid memory involves my older sibling, who once confided in me about a secret involving her friend and our father’s inappropriate behavior. Although I doubted the details due to my sister’s friend’s history of deceit, I could sense something had transpired—something that didn’t sit right.
The two most significant components of my checklist always emerge last, once I’ve recalled other memories. These memories seem too heavy to carry openly. The first is from when I was about 15. I awoke one night to find my father hovering over me, claiming he was just fixing my covers. This was odd because he had never done that before. It took time for me to accept that he had tried to touch me while I slept.
The final item on my checklist is my father’s internet history. Back in the late ’90s, the family computer sat in the common room, and I discovered a cache of disturbing websites. The evidence was clear—page after page of child pornography. This should be enough to justify my decision to cut ties, but it often comes to mind last.
I’ve learned from conversations with other trauma survivors that I’m not alone in needing a checklist. A friend of mine severed ties with an abusive mother who sends heart-wrenching emails begging for reconciliation. My friend must review their own list to counteract the guilt that surfaces when reading those messages.
Another friend, a survivor of sexual assault, also employs a checklist. Her first steps remind her of the reality of her experience and affirm that she did not provoke her attacker. Self-blame is a common response to trauma, and these checklists are essential tools to counteract that cycle.
Even when logic tells us we have done the right thing by distancing ourselves from toxic family members, trauma can distort reality and invoke doubt. Our checklists serve as lifelines, guiding us through the haze of guilt and confusion.
After reviewing my own checklist, I may always grapple with guilt about my decision to cut my father out of my life. However, I am confident that I have made the right choice.
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Summary
This article explores the emotional complexities of maintaining a distance from an abusive parent, detailing a personal checklist that helps the author validate their decision. It highlights the impact of trauma on relationships and the necessity of coping mechanisms to combat guilt and self-blame.
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