He’s a Yeller
So this one actually has a somewhat happy ending. My father was always a yeller. He loved to go nuts on everyone, and scream and tower over my mother and me. He never physically hit me, but the mental and verbal mistreatment was always pretty darn rough.
It all came to a head during my junior year of college. I attended a university that was about two hours away from my hometown. My parents had ended up splitting up during my freshman year, and they were living apart at this point.
I would mostly spend breaks with my mother, for obvious reasons, but I kept trying to make things work between me and my dad. My mother decided to divorce him, which made my dad’s anger problems even worse. To the point that anything would make him go off.
Now, I was formally diagnosed with anxiety, depression, and PTSD during my university days. At the time of my junior year, I had just started taking antidepressants.
They really messed with my energy levels, and I was tired all the time anyway. Well, all of this leads up to say that at the end of one of my visits, it was my dad’s turn to drive me back to university.
Now, we were meant to leave early in the afternoon. But I woke up feeling very sick. Both my mom and I let him know that I was not feeling well and would be late getting to his house.
I stayed in bed most of that day and was finally feeling well enough to travel by around 4:00 PM. So at that time, my mother packed me up, and drove me to my father’s house. That’s where things took a turn for the worse.
Now, when I got there, he was clearly very angry. So I did my usual stay quiet and scrunch up to stay small routine. I quickly grabbed my things that I’d left at his house and we started the drive back. About ten minutes away from the house, I realized that I had left my medication behind.
I asked my dad to turn back so I could get it. His reaction was truly vile. He started shouting full volume at me. His car, I should mention, was a two-seater convertible. It was a very small car and we were very close together.
So he’s shouting at me at the top of his lungs, gesturing in my face, and I’m just trying to keep it together. The second we make it back to his house, I get out of the car and slam the door. I honestly did not mean to slam it.
My hands felt numb because I was that afraid. And in the scariest tone I ever heard, he called me a jerk. I ran full tilt inside the house and locked myself in the bathroom.
I was crying and having a panic attack. I refused to come out and he was banging on the door. I demanded to speak to my mother. He called her up. I heard him speaking to her but the sound was muffled.
He came back and said, “Your mother doesn’t want to deal with you! She isn’t coming to get you. So you better come out and get in the car. Now.” Now, my mom has had her bad moments from time to time.
And I was so panicked and upset that I didn’t question it. We drove back to my school and he dropped me off in front of my dorm. He took my bags out of his trunk, tossed them on the ground, and drove away.
I called my mom once I got inside and asked her why she hadn’t come to get me. That’s when I found out the devastating truth. She had no idea what I was talking about. Turns out my dad had never actually told her about the situation. She had no idea that I had been locked in the bathroom, nothing.
He had lied to me. And that was it. That was the final straw. I wrote my dad an email. It was long and I detailed every hurt and major issue that he had ever caused for me. But I ended it by telling him: Today I was terrified of you.
I believed that you would have hurt me or done even worse to me. And you lied to me to get your way. Something you have never done before. And something you promised you would never do. You broke that trust and now it is gone.
I told him he needed serious counseling. And he would never be allowed in my life again until he got help. I told him he would never walk me down the aisle at my wedding. That if I had children he would never see them. Not unless he changed. And really changed.
Then I went full no contact. For nine months, I didn’t call, text, or email him. Nothing whatsoever. If he tried to reach out, I ignored him. I was in therapy then and used that to help me deal with it. Nine months later, I was in a play at my university. It was a bit part, nothing special at all.
But my dad had seen it advertised on my university website and had noticed my name in the cast list. One night, after a show, I walked into the audience. I was going to go out with friends to eat.
But I got an unexpected surprise. My dad was there. He was holding flowers and gave them to me. I was speechless and a little afraid. But then my dad, on his own volition, apologized to me.
He got choked up and was fighting back real tears. He said he was very sorry for what he did and that my words had hurt him. But he also said that he had taken a step back and looked at his behavior, and he was horrified by what he had become.
He told me that he decided that he loved me more than wanting to be “right.” He had sought out a therapist and had been in counseling for the past eight or nine months. He didn’t force his company on me.
He just apologized, told me that he was getting help, and told me that he would always answer any call or communication from me if I ever wanted to reach out.
That was nearly ten years ago. I checked up on his claims, and he was telling the truth. He and I had a couple of sessions together where I went and talked to his therapist with him. My dad has never tried to justify any of his past behavior or mistreatment. He never blamed me again.
He had a darn good therapist and saw them for several years. My fiancé and I are not going to be having children. But my dad will be walking me down the aisle at our wedding. My mom will be too. My dad has helped me move across the country.
He has financially supported me and has talked me through anxiety attacks and depressive episodes. He has learned to be patient and is kinder than I have ever dreamed possible.
And it’s all because he decided that he loved me more than being right. That his love for me was more important than his anger. So if you made it this far, thanks for sticking with me!
My dad is one of the very rare problematic parents who actually became a good one through hard work and serious effort. And it was because he took a long hard look at himself and chose his daughter and love over rage. The end. Story credit: Reddit / AngelusLorelei