Not the Grief I Imagined: On Losing My Father

Liberation After Loss: What No One Talks About When the Abuser Dies

I’m the Fussy Infant but Dayum Mom’s Hair was Rocking!

Welcome! I’m Kimberly Anne. I’m a U.S. expat in Portugal, sharing my experiences and advice for moving abroad. Expat on a Budget is my main Substack publication, while An Unscripted Life is where I reflect on a wider range of life’s moments. I’m thrilled you’re here!

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Okay, this is gonna be a weird one so buckle in!

I woke up this morning to two texts, one from each of my cousins. They’re sisters.

The texts said, “Your dad died this morning.”

You know how you imagine your parents dying and you imagine how you may feel when the inevitable happens?

This is my first go-around on that particular merry-go-round and while my father and I were not close, it’s a long and complicated story which I will partially go into further on in this article, I always imagined I’d be super sad.

About twelve years ago I tried to reach him via phone and couldn’t. I imagined him dead and started crying.

But the truth of the matter is often more complicated and varied. Now that it’s actually happened I haven’t shed a single tear, and I doubt I ever will.

I feel like crying only because I don’t feel like crying.

It’s weird because I’m the most empathetic, compassionate person in my family but maybe that’s why. Not that my sister or mother would cry, nope, they’re throwing parties.

This may sound like I’m cold and callous or a terrible person and maybe I am but let me explain some of the complicated relationship before you judge.

My father was so abusive to me throughout my entire life that if he did now what he did during my childhood, I would have been immediately whisked away and put into foster care.

You name the type of abuse and I can check the box. I even took a test a few years ago, ACES. ACES looks at ten areas of childhood trauma and the higher you score, the worse you were traumatized/abused. I scored a nine out of ten. I won’t go into the details of the abuse because… there’s no way most people could even stomach it and because I don’t need to re-hash it anymore. Suffice it to say, I’ve been in therapy for over twenty years.

But the strange thing is that when my father was alive I always said, “I still love him and I completely forgive him.” Don’t get me wrong, we didn’t speak. I hadn’t spoken to or seen my father in ten years but… I still loved him.

Unpacking it all

So why then, now that he’s dead have I finally allowed myself to feel anger instead?

At first I thought that maybe it was akin to Stockholm syndrome where for some twisted up reason, we love our abusers. But once they’re gone, we don’t have to anymore. Now maybe, I get to feel the real feelings.

But I came to an even deeper realization yesterday. While my father was alive, I never felt safe. He was my torturer for over forty years and while I escaped him physically, ten years ago, in my subconscious I knew he could still hurt me. The body doesn’t forget. I surmise that I couldn’t let myself be angry for reasons of self-preservation. My anger was forbidden when I was a child. Only dad was allowed to be angry (and show it).

The word that immediately came to mind after this breakthrough was liberation. I finally feel liberated and free. I finally feel safe, truly safe, for the first time in my life.

I’ve had insomnia since I was eight years old because that’s when I learned it wasn’t safe to sleep with him in the house. I had to remain ever vigilant. Maybe now, I will finally be able to sleep.

I’m done making excuses for him because I no longer have to.

My father led a privileged, easy life. Nothing bad ever happened to him. He was rich, he was powerful (in his circle), he gleefully stepped on others, he traveled the world full time. He had a bazillion dollar house (I’m exaggerating it was probably closer to 10 million) with a 180 degree view of the ocean.

When I was thirty he remarried a woman who was his twin in all things. She was so awful that she would swerve to hit bicyclists with her car when they were in the bike lane. She would roll down her window if she was the passenger and scream at them, “I hate you and I hope you die.”

My father would laugh and say, “Isn’t she adorable?”

NO!!! That’s not adorable, that’s sociopathic!

I have a long list of horrible things they both said to me and others. For real, I made a list to stay sane back when they were part of my life. I have a long list of my father’s negative traits and a list of zero for his positive ones.

Author and her father

Why am I smiling in the photo? I was conditioned, my entire life, not to antagonize the monsters. If I did, I’d be smacked down, hard. I became a master at pretending, at pretzeling, at lying to myself. Notice though… dad isn’t smiling. Not really.

The photo above is an important one. It was taken right after my father told me that I was a piece of shit and had never amounted to anything. I was forty-two years old at the time and one of the many hurtful things he said was, “You’re almost fifty and you have absolutely nothing to show for your life.”

Facts: I was forty-two, not almost fifty! I had just graduated from acupuncture school with a Master of Science degree. I had four successful entrepreneurial businesses including being a high-earning television producer. I had acquired my real estate appraiser’s license and worked as an appraiser. I had traveled around the world by myself. I had written and published a number of novels. And the list goes on.

But none of that mattered to him. He couldn’t have cared less. Nothing was ever good enough.

I remember one time he was at a big, fancy dinner with all his doctor cronies and someone had the idea to go around the table and tell everyone else what their children had accomplished that they were most proud of. One guy said, “My son is a successful lawyer.” Another talked about his grandchildren. And when it came to my father’s turn he told me all he could think of to say was, “My daughter has a tattoo.”

FFS!!!!!!!

Was it all Bad?

My father introduced me to travel. Does that mean he gets one point in the positives? I’m not sure yet, it’s still too soon for me to unpack this.

My father was a traveler, he loved to travel. He traveled as a filthy rich 1% white guy (tbh he wasn’t 1% rich).

He went to so many amazing places too. India, Myanmar, the Antarctic, Africa many times, Borneo, Australia, Europe of course, South America, Mexico, the Galápagos, and countless others.

When I was nine years old he took me and my sister to France which lit my travel bug. Growing up he took me to Baja California (Mexico) every year. We went on dozens of family trips, where, between the constant fighting and abuse, I got to see some pretty amazing sites.

Does he get a pass for being a provider? For taking care of basic life necessities (Maslow’s hierarchy of needs)? I’m not sure.

Because I am an optimist… my father taught me a lot without meaning to.

By modeling bad behavior he taught me to recognize it in others and to choose my own path instead of following in his footsteps.

There wasn’t a single time at a restaurant (and it was often a fancy one as he had to show off his money and power) where either he or his wife didn’t send their food back. He would snap to get the attention of the waitstaff and always treat them like dirt. I’d have to slink off on a fake bathroom run and apologize. This is just one of hundreds of examples exhibiting his bad behavior.

He also brought my mother, half-sister and me closer. We’ve never been a “close” family and we never will be—we’re all far too different. But I’m still grateful to have what we do.

When I last saw my father in 2015, he grabbed the collar of my shirt, cocked his fist back, and threatened to punch me in the face—again. I was forty-eight at the time. Three years prior he wrenched my arm behind my back so hard that I still have recurring shoulder problems to this day. I always say, at least he gave me something to remember him by, the gift that keeps on giving.

So there you have it, he died peacefully in his sleep at ninety-one years old. His new family will inherit his millions as he cut me (his only child) out of his will.

His wife used to tell me (in front of him), back when I still saw them, “I only married your father for his money.”

My dad would laugh and say, “See! Money CAN buy you love.”

I guess he was right about one thing.

Conclusion

So where does all of this leave me? Honestly, I’m still figuring it out. I don’t feel any sadness which surprises me, but I do feel something—anger, relief, liberation, maybe even hope. For the first time, I get to exist without the shadow of my abuser, my father looming over me. I get to decide what my life looks like, what I want to carry forward, and what I can finally let go of. Maybe that’s the real inheritance. Because after all this, I finally get to be free of his tyranny and live in peace.

Update

My mother has been perusing the obituaries every day they are released for over thirty years, waiting for this man to die. And, although I told her about his death the day I learned of it, it’s become a habit for her so she looked the day after he died and found his obituary. And here’s the kicker: his nightmare of a wife posted that he was survived by HER children, calling them his children (which they weren’t) and of course, never mentioned his ONLY actual child = ME!

My mother was upset and disgusted but for me it was merely the cherry on top of a burnt, collapsed cake.

When my dad abandoned us for his new family, he barely looked back. He had the luxury to reinvent himself, begin a new narrative and a new life; leaving the wake of his destruction in the rear view mirror. I doubt he ever thought about it, about me, about all I sacrificed for him and all that he took from me. This is the cycle of abuse and thankfully I no longer choose to remain a silent victim.

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If you’re interested in my “Why I Left the US and Won’t Ever Return” Series, please check out..

1. Cost of living: Article here

2. Healthcare (or lack thereof) here.

3. Safety—article here.

4. Polarization—too much hate and anger

5. Community

6. Values

If you’re interested in moving abroad, check out my free Expat on a Budget pub or podcast on Substack

The How to Live Abroad Publication is here.

• Part 1—Want to move abroad? Start here!

• Part 2—Conquer your fears about moving abroad!

• Part 3—12 Minimizing Mistakes Part 1

• Part 4—12 Minimizing Mistakes Part 2

• Part 5—A Personal Case study (re: Minimizing)

• Part 6—Your Move Abroad: The Ultimate Checklist

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—Expat on a Budget (AKA) Living Abroad on a Budget and My Unknown Adventure by Kimberly Anne

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***Disclaimer: My writing, and podcasts are based on personal experience and are for informational purposes only. I am not a lawyer. Please seek professional advice before making decisions about moving abroad. I am not responsible for any outcomes resulting from the use of this information.