It Probably Only Took a Fraction of a Second

To destroy the bond between a father and a daughter

My father is ashamed of me. He told me so. I’m still not sure exactly why.

He called me on a Saturday. I was feeling pretty good. I was chasing my toddler around our living room. My Neighbor Totoro was on in the background. I picked up my phone when I heard it ring, “Hi Dad! What’s up?” The voice on the other end says, “Uh. Yeah. I gotta talk to you about somethin’.” From the way he started the conversation I could tell it wasn’t going to be pleasant but it took a beat for my mouth to catch up with my brain. “Okay,” I said. Then my heart hit the floor when he said, “I just want to tell you how ashamed of you I am.” I remember bits and pieces of the conversation after that. Voices were raised, things were said, I hung up. But those words…

Those words just stayed. They plague me still. I’m unable to forget them. Like fire, his words are forever burned into the air between us. They’ve sucked up all the oxygen and left scorch marks behind as evidence that something destructive took place.

It probably only took a fraction of a second to process, but time has a funny way of slowing down when you’re rejected. And when you’re rejected by a parent, time is suspended in this unreal extended nightmare state. You know, the kind that gives you night sweats. But unlike a nightmare, where fleeting anguish is instantly extinguished upon waking, I didn’t get to experience the respite that waking up offers. I continue to carry my wounds around with me in the conscious world.

I have mulled his words over in my head every day since then, testing inflection and emphasis to see if it would sting any less when said another way; a cruel thing to do to myself, to be sure. I just want to tell you how ashamed of you I am. I just want to tell you how ashamed of you I am. I just want to tell you how ashamed of you I am. Nope. You can’t take the sting out. It still hurts. My own father said that to me.

It probably only took a fraction of a second for me to process that my father was ashamed of me. I wonder how many seconds it took him to process that his only daughter is not ashamed of herself.