Mourning and moving on after cutting off an abusive parent.

By Ashley Carey
Art by Maddy Best

CW: Mention of domestic abuse by a parent and childhood trauma.

This is for every person whose parent(s) did not love them in a way a parent is supposed to. For those of you who had a “parent” who was a charming narcissist or abuser or just plain toxic, I see you. And you deserve a life filled only with the people who can appreciate all that you are.

It’s a deeply strange experience to grieve the living. Much like any other form of grief, it’s also quite lonely, though in a profoundly different way.

So much has been written and understood about grieving those we’ve loved and lost. It’s certainly not an easy thing to do, which is why I believe so many people avoid grieving once the funeral dies down (woof that pun was terrible. I’m kind of a walking dad joke despite not having a dad. SICK BURN, DAD).

Grieving someone who is alive is super weird, and mercifully is something many people don’t seem to understand.

The parents I was born to and the parents I have are not the same people. My mom is pretty cool. Kind of a hot mess, but in an endearing sort of way. Ever since I was 8 years old on the mean streets of the Kansas City (KC) suburbs, she’s been parenting me with my other mom, whom we’ll call Theresa, because that is her name. I was born to my mom and her first (and only, thank god) husband. Aka my dad. 

“Dad?” 

Sperm donor? 

Someone my DNA could help convict if he’s committed crimes?

He’s alive, but he’s not here. Truthfully, I wonder if he ever has been. My dad has sort of always been the villain in my story and despite being the literal child in this situation, I sometimes wonder if I’m the villain in his, too.

My earliest memories are of him telling me that my aunt had an abortion—his exact words were that she “murdered her baby.” I was 4. Around the time I turned 8, he told me that I should move in with him and stop having a relationship with my mom because as a lesbian, she’d “burn in hell anyway so I should just make it easier by ending our relationship now because I wouldn’t see her in the afterlife.”

One time, my little (technically step-) brother and I were pretending to build one of those plastic playhouses that are usually in the yard. For whatever reason, my grandmother kept it in her living room. We were pretending to hammer and build and were having a great time. My dad stormed in, absolutely enraged because he thought we were hammering on my grandmother’s walls. “We weren’t hammering on her walls,” I said. In response, he spanked me. Hard. 

“Don’t lie to me Ashley,” he said. “I’m not lying,” I said. But then he’d spank me again, as hard as he could. This back-and-forth continued for what felt like hours, but was probably 10 minutes or so.

Don’t lie to me, I’m not, hit. 

Don’t lie to me, I’m not, hit. 

Don’t lie to me, I’m not, hit… 

My grandma and step-mom begged him to stop; he wouldn’t. Finally, my step-mom yelled “Let her speak!” and then he was “sorry” and that was the end of it. I was 5.

Many times over the years, I decided he shouldn’t be in my life anymore… but in every one of those times, I knew it was only temporary. I would go no contact, hope he learned (often sending letters to help express my feelings), then would give him another chance to be my dad. It wasn’t a temporary break for him, or even for me. Because I have three younger brothers and a younger sister through my dad, and I have always wanted a relationship with each of them, I felt like I had to speak to my dad as long as any of them lived under his roof if I also wanted to be able to speak to them.

The last time I decided he didn’t have a place in my life, it was different. I realized I was no longer afraid of him, no longer had to write letters to be able to state how I felt. I tried to speak to him about past abuse. His response was to gaslight me. For a split second it almost worked until my moms said, “Ash, you came home from his house when you were 9 years old and asked what a ‘cunt-licking whore’ was. He can pretend it didn’t happen all he wants, but we know it did.”

This final separation was the first time I experienced profound grief with absolutely no hope of something more. It was also the first time since all of my siblings entered adulthood, and I truly felt I could be free.

My dad and I haven’t exchanged a phone call in years. In the past four years, we texted sparingly: only short messages on birthdays and maybe major holidays. Last year, those stopped too. And just like everything in our relationship, it was done on his terms. Or maybe it was mine? Fuck, I don’t know. I know that his birthday was in December. I texted him my standard “Happy birthday. I love you.” Or was it Father’s Day? “Happy father’s day. I love you.”. That’s not really the point is it? The point is that he responded saying that he’d like to see me this year and I didn’t reply. And then finally when my birthday rolled around, he didn’t send me our standard happy birthday text.

A similar thing happened after my brother’s wedding this past summer. My dad and I hugged goodbye, “Let’s start seeing each other again this year,” he said. I was quiet for an awkwardly L O N G time, then said, “Yeah…. Sounds good,” with absolutely no gusto. That was months ago, and neither of us has made any attempt to contact the other.

If I had to guess, I’ll see him at funerals and weddings. Maybe he’ll acknowledge me and maybe he won’t. Based on past events, he definitely won’t acknowledge his abusive behavior. Either way, I’ll grieve him.

For years, I thought of my dad every single day, usually while outwardly pretending that I didn’t. My heart hurt, but I went forward with life, feeling tremendous loss and telling no one. My bomb ass support squad fell into one of two categories: people who came from households with parents who deeply and truly loved them or people who always did such a better job of taking on the their-fucking-loss attitude without a second glance (ugh, can I grow up to be in that second camp please?).

Lately, between my friends and family, and the perspective to realize how goddamn lucky I am to have two amazing mothers, I think of my dad less. A lot of days I exist without sending a single thought of him into the void. Some days it all still feels so raw. The thing is, I’m not grieving him; I’m grieving who I believe in my core he could be with a lot of therapy, accountability, and healing. I’m grieving that the person I love will never exist to love me back. I’m grieving that as a parent myself, I know what it is to love my kids and want to become the best version of myself for them, and that he will never, ever be that.

He’s not capable.

Mostly, I grieve the person he was when he wasn’t being a complete and utter fucking asshole. That dad hosted living room dance parties that taught me to sing every word to Whoomp! (There It Is) by Tag Team. The dad who walked into the Wichita Marriott on Saturdays like he owned the place, confidence unmatched, so that his kids could swim because he couldn’t afford to take us any other way. The dad who worked outside with his hands in the hot summer sun for over 12 hours, then would play with us well into the evening . The dad who called really basic things “parties” just to make the mundane better. The dad who called me “Angel Bucket” and looked at me like I hung the moon.

That dad was the kindest, funniest, most thoughtful person I have ever met. That dad almost made it feel worth it to deal with the other side of that coin: the narcissist abuser with a hairpin trigger who always loved his other kids just a little bit more than he loved me. I choose to grieve him, because while the little-girl-me was court-ordered to spend every other weekend and summer breaks with conditional love and verbal abuse, adult-me is free.

So to my dad who hates alcohol and tattoos, cheers. I’m pouring myself a margarita and designing the rest of my sleeve. I wish you well in life and hope you know that I love you and always will. Even though you don’t deserve it.

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