About Myself - Part 2

As an adult, I can now discern between right and wrong and often find answers to the myriad questions I had as a child.

Following my mother’s passing and the events of her memorial service, I made a conscious decision to confront the realities of my life and the enduring impact of my abusive father.

Facing these truths and beginning to address them was a profound awakening.

I resolved to free myself from his influence and spent countless hours in prayer, pleading with God to help me release the chains of resentment towards my father and to embody the person He intended me to be – one of love, compassion, and forgiveness.

Confronting these experiences brought forth many old wounds and revealed countless scars that had never fully healed.

Throughout my life, denial and a lack of self-worth have fostered a defensive demeanor.

While my father may not deserve forgiveness, I realized that granting it was essential for my own emotional well-being, as forgiveness has a profound healing power.

I have no desire to see him again or to maintain any form of contact. After all, how can one miss a loving father who was largely absent throughout my life? One can't miss what they never had.

Yet, every day, I found myself crafting fantasies of a father who would always be present – a hope that, in reality, was misplaced.

These illusions were a coping mechanism, a way to navigate the trauma of abuse.

I long to be able to unequivocally declare that I forgive him. Not to extend any benefit of the doubt or to appease him, but for my peace of mind, to liberate myself mentally and restore my physical and mental well-being for the remaining years of my life.

I've come to understand that while a fairy-tale ending is conceivable, it's not plausible, and I had to confront the reality and prepare for the outcome, however difficult.

Primarily, I had to face the fact that my father would never acknowledge his wrongful actions towards our family. While he did make attempts, I perceived them as insincere, as I could never trust him again, nor would he endeavor to make amends for the lost years.

The few times he sought forgiveness, I couldn't believe the sincerity or honesty of his words, as the trust had been irreparably shattered.

One cannot compensate for 56 years of loss in just a few years, bearing in mind that my father is already 87 years old.

I went through an emotional storm of giant sea swells, tsunamis, rapid waters tossing and turning me across sharp-edged rocks during the learning process in teaching myself to detach myself from my father. 

At times, I longed for a shortcut to bypass the storm, but I persevered, taking baby steps through the tempest and confronting it head-on. Embracing this reality was arduous, as I grappled with a constant inner struggle.

I experienced a constant tug-of-war with myself at each end of the rope. Still, ultimately, it brought immense relief, knowing that he could no longer inflict pain or disappointment upon me.

Although a part of me will forever yearn for the unconditional love and guidance of a nurturing father figure, as an adult, I aspire to acknowledge that I can transcend the negative impact my father's abuse had on me, forgive him, and move forward with what remains of my life, because I am no longer reliant on him.

Now, he is old, yet still as aggressive and miserable as I've known him to be throughout my life.

I suspect I will always harbor the desire to have a composed conversation with him, to convey how his actions wounded me when he yelled and belittled me, how degraded I felt each time he raised his hand against me, and to assert that I refuse to tolerate any further abuse from him.

Over the years, I endured every conceivable form of humiliation, enduring decades of childhood bullying, physical, and emotional abuse.

I could no longer tolerate him controlling me or stripping me of the little bit of dignity I had left. I yearned to set my boundaries with him and make it clear that if he couldn’t respect me as an adult, there would be consequences.

I wish I could make it crystal clear to him that what he had done to me was unacceptable and disgusting, and how much I hated him for it.

However, with immense disappointment, I came to the painful realization that the desired calm talk would NEVER come.

I've learned that verbal abuse can manifest in two ways – direct and indirect. The direct approach was when he called me insulting and humiliating names or blamed me for things I hadn’t done.

He reveled in using verbally aggressive language and making implicit or explicit threats, especially when I confronted him about his infidelity and absence as a father to his children and husband to my mother.

To justify his behavior, he passed unfair and condescending judgments on my actions, attempting to undermine my confidence and integrity.

The indirect approach and tactic he used were to always show a contrary stance or instigate arguments. He knew exactly which buttons to press. I will never forget his dramatic acts and unpredictable, aggressive outbursts.

The hardest step I ever took was to blindly discover who I really am.​

Regrettably, it was only after I started being honest with myself about what I’d been through that I realized I didn’t have to be like him.

I didn’t have to cause havoc and hurt anymore, nor did I have to do anything to garner attention and love. I just had to be me.

It was a shock to realize that years of denial were the cause of my aggression and defensive attitude.

Unfortunately, throughout the years, I had only caused hurt, tears, and unhappiness, not only to my family, but to friends and loved ones as well.

Instead of drawing people closer, I was pushing them away. I lost everyone and grew up feeling unloved and a waste to society.

How could I make up for it? I couldn’t…never…it’s all water under the bridge. But I could pray for forgiveness and ask God to make me the kind of person that others love to be around. I could ask God to help me be the person I could live with, and I could ask God to help me be the person that He wants me to be.

I’m in my sixties now, and every day I’m learning to detach myself emotionally from my father. I have to recognize that I can overcome the negative impact of his abuse by fully acknowledging it, forgiving him, and moving on because I am no longer dependent on him.

Slowly but surely, I am retrieving my self-esteem again. Still, I will only allow people into my life who I can trust and who have respect for me, regardless of my past, while I distance myself from those who don’t have any respect for me or others at all.

At age 61, after hours and hours of therapy, and still experiencing great difficulty in understanding everything that happened during my childhood, the memories will haunt me forever. I guess a part of me will always remain numb.

How would I describe myself today? Still alone, but not lonesome. Loved by people? Maybe, maybe not. Does it really matter? The love I have for my four-legged kids and their unconditional and devoted love towards me is more than I could ask for. I don’t want it any other way.

Do I mind growing old alone? At this stage, no. Maybe as I grow older, it will change, but I doubt it.

For now, no one can hurt, humiliate, or degrade me. No one can make me feel worthless or useless. I can’t trust anybody because nobody can be trusted. My life is simple, and I’m content with it that way. It’s just my dogs and me.

I’ve become known as someone who will not think twice to give a straightforward, sometimes tactless remark or comment where it concerns any form of animal abuse or animal neglect, especially dogs.

I’m very optimistic regarding everything that involves dogs, even though I know deep down that I am sometimes fooling myself. After all, one person alone can’t change the world, and certain people’s actions, behavior, and beliefs.

I try to live by the constant pursuit of happiness, which I exclusively find in my dogs, and I believe that without them, life wouldn’t be as great as it is today.

I’ve always been a dog lover, and they have given me everything in all aspects of life beyond anything that my imagination would have ever entailed.

They are my reason to persevere when I want to give up on life, they are the voiceless souls who are always there to comfort me, they are the ones who have taught me that you can always “wag your tail”, even if you don’t feel up to it, and yes, they allow me to just be myself without any judgment, prejudice, or haunting regrets.

Life in itself has brought a million, if not more, obstacles across my way, but in the end, when you exit the storm, you are, and I quote Christopher Robin’s words: “You are braver than you believe, stronger than you may seem, and smarter than you think.”

I like to watch and listen to people, and what they write, analyze their actions, and interpret what they’re thinking. But, I tend to think too much positive or too much negative, wrecking my brain over things that don’t even concern me. So, I enjoy my home, the nature surrounding it, and my dogs.

I believe in self-improvement and striving to create a better version of myself. I try to live a life with no regrets.

My mother would have expected that from me. Without my mother, who provided unwavering encouragement, support, and motivation, I wouldn't be in the position I am today, nor would I possess the confidence to face the future head-on.

Life is a precious gift, and it should never be squandered, not even from its inception.

Beyond my dedication and passion for animals, especially dogs, I yearn to delve deeper into understanding the behavioral intricacies of dogs, regardless of whether they lean towards the positive or negative spectrum.

Every dog's behavior harbors a set of reasons and purpose, even that of the incessantly barking little rescue dog across the road. The culpability for his incessant barking largely falls on his two despondent owners, who seem averse to the effort required to discipline their unruly pet. However, I refrain from delving further into this matter, as it tends to stir up unsightly emotions within me.

I find great joy in expressing myself and embracing my uniqueness. I cherish being the individual whom others hold in high regard, and I equally relish being the subject of disdain, all because of my unwavering honesty and straightforwardness.

At my core, I am a deeply contemplative, emotional, and soulful individual.

I can easily lose myself for hours pondering the profound complexities of life and humanity, pondering whether dogs truly ascend to heaven, and contemplating what divine judgment is passed when witnessing the cruelty, desolation, and abuse inflicted upon His creatures.

Yet, I also possess a lighthearted side - I revel in silly jokes and find myself frequently adorned with a smile or laughter. If you seek to elicit a laugh from me, simply regale me with something delightfully foolish!

While I am intrigued by the concept of physical exertion and activities such as gym workouts, running, hiking, or strolling along a mountain trail, the actual execution of these activities holds no appeal for me.

My mother and I once reveled in these activities together, but since her passing, my enthusiasm for such pursuits has waned. It will simply never be the same without her. I guess I have to work on this, because as I am getting older, I can feel it in every part of my body.

The Truth About My Current Life

If I’m being honest, I wouldn’t call my current life vibrant or overflowing with joy. What truly keeps my heart beating are my beloved Yorkies, my rescue meerkat, and my writing. Those are my safe spaces, the places where love still feels uncomplicated, where I am seen without having to beg for acknowledgement, where I can still breathe.

I do have a life partner, and we have shared many years together, but emotionally, she has never really been there for me. We are two completely different people trying to exist in the same story. I am someone who can speak my truth, who can put feelings into words, who aches to be understood. She cannot meet me there. I can sit with her for hours, pouring out my heart, explaining my fears, my loneliness, my pain… and when I’m done, she will casually change the subject to something practical, like a chore that needs to be done, as if my vulnerability never mattered in the first place.

We tried couples counselling. It was a disaster. Nothing changed. Eighteen years later, she still cannot put her arms around me when my world collapses. Instead, she tells me I should be grateful because I have food in my stomach and a roof over my head, as if survival should be enough to replace tenderness, connection, and emotional safety. I’ve tried telling her that I would rather feel loved before I feel full, rather be held before being reminded that I’m “lucky to have a house.” But those words never land anywhere meaningful.

Eventually, the space between us grew so wide that it became physical too. She lives her life inside the house. I live my life in the granny flat. Conversations rarely happen anymore, because too often they end in conflict. We have grown apart, drifting into parallel lives with nothing left to talk about except necessities.

The truth is, the only person who ever understood me deeply, who loved me without limitations, who knew how to comfort me when my world broke apart, was my mother. That kind of love is irreplaceable, and losing it carved a permanent empty place inside me. My partner’s way of “caring” has always been practical; making sure I eat, occasionally bringing me chocolate or biltong, gestures that may seem kind on the surface, but never reach the emotional spaces inside me where I ache to be held, seen, and emotionally safe.

There are days when I desperately wish we could simply talk like two human beings without it ending in arguments. Days when I wish she’d meet me halfway. Days when I long for peace, softness, connection, something meaningful between us. We’re getting older. Finances are difficult. Life is heavy. And she refuses to shift, compromise, or build a life that allows us to live with dignity, emotional safety, and some sense of harmony.

So here I am, still standing, still breathing, still fighting, but mostly surviving rather than truly living. And yet, even in this emotional desert, my Yorkies, my little meerkat soul, and my writing hold me together. They love me without judgment. They remind me that I still matter. They give me something to wake up for. And maybe that is what keeps me going.

But here is the part that aches the most: I have so much love inside me. So much tenderness still left to give. I am not empty, and I am not incapable of loving. If anything, I overflow with it. I have tried over and over to show her care, support, and genuine concern, especially because she is not well. She suffers from Lupus, high blood pressure, and diabetes. I have watched her cry in pain, and I have tried countless times to comfort her, only to be pushed away with the same cold words: “Leave me, I’m fine.” There is only so much rejection a heart can take before it numbs itself out of self-preservation. Eventually, I withdrew, not because I don’t care, but because I was shattered by trying.

Now I find myself at the point where I simply don’t care about her well-being anymore, and that confession doesn’t come from cruelty; it comes from exhaustion. From years of emotional starvation. From being pushed away repeatedly by her stubbornness, pride, and refusal to let me love her in the only way I know how.

I have begged her to move into the granny flat, to give us both space, dignity, peace, and still her privacy. But she refuses. Her reason? “What if you have an aggressive outburst again?” She clings to the past like it’s the only proof of who I am, refusing to see how hard I am trying every single day to not be like my father.

There have been so many moments where she has provoked me, and I have done the hardest thing I could: I turned around and walked away. But she refuses to see that. Instead, she mirrors the same traits that traumatized me growing up: stubbornness, control, always needing to be right, always needing the last word.

So yes, I have withdrawn emotionally. Completely. But knowing myself, that wall will not stand forever. Because that is not who I am. I am not built to live numb. I am not built to pretend everything is calm, peaceful, joyful, and full of laughter when it isn’t. If she were willing to loosen her grip on the past, if she were willing to say, “What if this could work? What if we could make life better for both of us?”, life could be beautiful. It really could. But she won’t. She refuses to even try.

Deep down, I truly believe we have drifted too far apart. She is stuck in her world. I am stuck in mine. I have no idea how she truly feels, because she simply does not speak. She throws every responsibility back onto me, as if acknowledging her part would cost her too much.

And now? This is not what I imagined my later years would look like. I did not imagine my pension years to be this lonely, this emotionally heavy, this depressing.

She knows how I feel. She has heard me. She has seen my tears, my heartbreak, my loneliness. And yet… she continues living her life exactly the way she prefers, even if it means I continue slowly fading in silence.

Back to where I was before I digressed.....

The years I have dedicated to breeding, from 2009 to 2024, have ushered in profound personal growth, surpassing that which I had experienced throughout my entire life.

Though I have amassed a wealth of knowledge, it pales in comparison to the boundless love and loyalty that dogs have bestowed upon me.

Previously, I was reticent to invest myself fully in anything, as it invariably led to pain.

However, I can unequivocally declare my profound affection for Yorkies, for it is impossible not to cherish and value something that leaves such treasured, lasting moments.

Most of all, I have been reminded every day how powerful God is when He created these perfect little bundles of love.

When the time is right for a change in your life or something new, you’ll know it, because you will follow through. Something will push you to the point of finally being able to find the motivation.

My mother was always the one motivating me in everything, but now that she’s gone, her legacy has become my motivation.

Although it took me 9 years to reach this stage of motivation, one morning I woke up and decided, “Today is the day I am going to write and finish my life story and share it with the world.”

Life is short, so get in touch with what is important and who you want to be, then start making things happen. One step at a time.

Many days, I still fall into a deep depression, and lie in the deep, dark pit, for days, and whine about all of the things that put me there. I kick and scream a little bit, but eventually I would pick myself up and try again. 

Deep down, I know my purpose in life is to rise, not fall, and stay down for the world to kick me in the stomach.

I know I am becoming a survivor, not a victim.