He's the source of feeling like the most loved and special person in the world. He's also the person from whom I got a lot of my informal training in this field: Reading moods, feeling the unspoken in the atmosphere, managing others' vulnerabilities and cruelties, knowing when to fawn versus fight, a resonance with others' pain, always rooting for the underdog, and a desire to heal for others what can't be healed in my family.
In therapy I live for what I'll call droplet moments: Can I give these people a droplet of connection, remind each other of their bonds and love, even if just for this one moment? Can I get a tough and traumatized parent to say to their kid, "I love you and I'm so proud of you and I am sorry for how I have hurt you"? Can I get a teen to let down their guard just enough to let their parent know, "Even as I'm kicking away from you, I still need you"? If I can help them pull back the curtain of their psyches to give them this one beautiful moment, they'll remember it for a lifetime. They'll reference that moment over and over and over again when days are hard, because the experience of being loved gets stored in our bodies in ways we don't fully realize.
I'm giving my clients the healing my dad and I never got. Those droplets in therapy are when I feel like singularly the most powerful version of me, and simultaneously connected to our collective human experience of love, hurt, and yearning.
My dad does not say I love you. He shows his love through criticism. Here's a life lesson he's taught me since I was nine and started getting praise from school teachers: Never get too comfortable or big-headed in what you're doing. Never brag. Never think, for one moment, that you're good enough - because there is always, always someone out there in the world who is or does this better than you. If you ever hold up favorably against others, it's only because you're comparing yourself to the ants, and why would you even think they're worthy of comparison?
But he would also wake me up gently in the mornings for school, sit by my bed as I gradually stirred because he wanted me to have a loving start to my day. I would open my eyes and his face, full of tender adoration, would be the first thing that I would see.
We did mazes on airplane rides together. Can the reindeer get through the maze to find Santa? He said, But look! - the reindeer can jump OVER the wall to get to Santa in the middle. You don't need to restrict yourself to these lines. So I learned that if I have my will, there is a way.
He has never said it, but I suspect that he takes a certain stealthy delight in the fact that I do what I want and don't take his sh*t. I can see it in the way he chuckles at my daughter's antics. I imagine he must see a piece of me in there.
At 41, I'm still trying to impress him. My writing has been something he's taken pride in. He's long had a dream that one day I would publish a book, little stories about how this immigrant family made it in America. Doesn't that dream make so much sense? Picture it: Him, an immigrant with lesser-than status in part due to English language deficiencies, knowing that his daughter published a full-*ss book in English. A book - about us! I can see how in his eyes, there wouldn't be a more fitting way of showing the world we made it.
I don't show him my writing, especially not in this format. There would be too much for him to criticize and pick at. He thinks social media is dumb and for the sheep. He thinks my grammar is incorrect. Maybe this would all be too revealing and he'd want to set the record straight. He still thinks he knows what's best for me and that I'm a half-step away from failure if I don't follow his guidance. He'd think this is soap opera slop that I've drummed up for pity or attention.
I don't want his criticism to shrivel me up, to make me fearful of putting my words out in the world. But even if he doesn't read all this, I know that in some way I'm still writing for him, continuing to stretch my fingers for a rush of pride and affection that I know will never come.
And what about that book? Who knows. Over the years, his dream has become mine. But, would it even matter if I did? In truth, he'd probably find some other reason why it still wasn't good enough.
But maybe in another world, one in which we were both less weighed down by the weight of our intergenerational inheritances, where he felt connected and valued, where life was gentle enough that he didn't have to toughen me up - maybe there he would say, "You did so good and I am so proud of you." And in that world, I would take it in and breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that finally, it was good enough.