In the dark bunker where we are both trapped, my dad struggles against the chair he is roped to. He wriggles one arm free from beneath the ropes, reaching for me, his hand ready to grip mine. Can I do it? Will I rescue this man who has hurt me deeply? I jolted awake in my apartment in Olympia. I was not in a bunker. The year was 1992. As I slowly realized that I was safely tucked into my own bed, the dream still haunted me. My dad had never asked me for help in real life. He'd never reached out to me the way he had in this dream.
Dad had always been the stoic, self-reliant type — a product of his 1950s rural childhood. He grew up on a farm in Minnesota where he woke every morning at 4 a.m. to milk cows and muck out stalls. I'd heard plenty of gritty stories about the chores, the one-room schoolhouse, and especially the outhouse. Sadly, in addition to the usual rigors of farm life, my dad was abused by a cruel father who spanked him with a two-by-four, backhanded him if he spoke at the dinner table, and beat his dog to death with a hammer. Growing up with a monstrous father wasn't the best training for my dad who was expected — as all men of his time period were — to raise children. Dad thought he'd done pretty well because he'd done better than his own father. The rest of the family had decided he'd failed miserably.
And now I'd had this dream about him. Did I want to reach out to him in real life?
My real life was a real mess. At 18, I'd fallen in love with Elle, followed her to the Pacific Northwest, and pined for four years after she married her boyfriend. I was now a few months away from graduation at Evergreen, the liberalist of liberal arts colleges, where I hooked up with men as a consolation prize, ghosted steady girlfriends, and smoked tons of weed. As I sat at my table in Olympia, pen and paper ready, I was haunted by a phrase from my past. In my teen years, our family therapist told me, "You can't make it with a man until you make it with your dad." Her cringey Freudian credo had disturbed me ever since. Certainly, I wasn't interested in marrying a dude. But I hadn't been able to sustain a long-term relationship with anyone. What if Cringey Therapist was right? What if I needed to reconnect with my father to avoid the curse my dysfunctional family had cast upon my love life?
The dad in the dream seemed open to a truce. Dream Dad reminded me of the good Dad who had appeared from time to time over the years. Good Dad had helped my older brother make a first-place-winning Pinewood Derby car. Good Dad, instead of punishing me for breaking a glass recipe holder on my walk home from second grade art class, built me a new one out of wood. Good Dad, when my gay uncle came out in 1979, said, "I don't care if he's gay. He's my brother and I love him." Good Dad was honest and sensitive. Maybe if I wrote to my dad and told him about the dream, I could help him move through this traumatic past. Maybe Good Dad would stay good, for good.
"Dear Dad," I wrote. "I had a dream about you." I described the dream, acknowledging his brutal childhood and offering to get to know him better. "I don't want to worry about the past," I wrote. "I just want an honest effort in the future." And then a fear crept in that he would mock my letter. That he wouldn't even read it. I sat for a moment reviewing my letter. Wait a minute, I thought. Why am I doing all the work?
While I could empathize with the pain of my dad's childhood, it had been used by my dad as a way to excuse his own cruelty. To break the epigenetic curse, I couldn't carry on this tradition in my own letter. I couldn't let dad off the hook again. I left my letter on the kitchen table and headed out the door. I took a bus over to the campus art gallery because, as a prank, I'd entered my bong in the college art show, and it had been accepted. I wanted to see how the curators displayed it. To my delight, the bong, titled "Tortured Love Bong" was given the corner position in a glass case. It could be seen from anywhere in the gallery — just like the "Mona Lisa." Because the "Tortured Love Bong" was a sarcastic tribute to Elle, and an expression of the angst I felt as her friend-zoned wannabe lover, I'd intentionally made the bong as crappy as possible. The lopsided tinfoil bowl was affixed to a plastic milk jug with a wad of green chewing gum. The exterior was a papier-mâché collage of bitter phrases such as "Find your soulmate." Smoky bong water had given the whole thing a brown "patina." As I admired my sarcastic prank artwork, I suddenly understood how to finish the letter to my dad.
None of this angst was my fault. There had once been a time when I could express my feelings without sarcasm. Directly. Honestly. With some vulnerability. Once, when I was 9, I'd written my dad a birthday card, which I'd signed, "your loving daughter, Molly," and he'd mocked it in front of my two brothers. No wonder I was smoking weed out of a milk jug instead of dating the woman I loved. I'd been terrified to tell her I loved her and had not done so before she got married. My childhood trauma was punking my adult love life. I had a grudge. I had many grudges. I wanted a reckoning.
I returned home and started a completely new letter. This time, I wasn't accepting his horrible childhood as an excuse. "Dear Dad," I wrote, "you have hurt me deeply. I want apologies for the following events." I started with my clearest grudge: the time my dad dragged me down the hallway and kicked me in the chest for waking him up. My dad wasn't as abusive as his dad. In my 18 years with him, I could count on one hand the times my dad had been violent. However, this had happened and, when it did, it was scary and left me anxious, wondering if and when it would happen again. So I wrote down that grudge, and then, in rapid order, I scribbled down every other grievance against my dad, remembering how all of these horrible moments had been duly intensified by the lingering fear of being kicked again: the time my dad woke me and my birthday slumber party guests at 6 a.m. and forced us all to do yard work. The time he mocked my expression of love on his birthday card. The time he called me "fat." These were moments throughout my childhood when my father was cruel in ways no parent should be. His mistreatment of me shattered my self-esteem. Struggling with clinical depression from my teen years onward, I lacked the confidence to go into the world and expect any goodness from it. I felt unloved and unworthy. I'd been angry at my dad for years, and now I was facing my sadness. It was painful to feel small and helpless again as I embodied the memories I wrote down. I did it anyway, until I reached nine grudges. I tried to think of a 10th grudge, but couldn't, so I stopped. Letter #2 didn't have the careful tone of Letter #1. It didn't matter to me that my demands might drive my dad away. It didn't matter that his own childhood had been so rotten. My father had been cruel to me, and he'd never owned up to it. I scrawled out the last line of the letter. "You might as well apologize," I wrote, "because you'll have to see me every Christmas for the rest of your life." I imagined staring him down, holding up a hefty turkey leg, and taking a chomp. I felt powerful.
I put Letter #1 and Letter #2 into the same envelope and sent them to my dad in Phoenix. I'm still not sure why I sent both. I probably wanted Dad to see my offer in full: I proposed to pull him closer with Letter #1 BUT also let him know that before I'd be willing to do that, he had to earn my trust by responding to Letter #2. I wasn't sure what I'd get back. I could see my father's response going either way, because he was such a mixed bag: a hothead, a cheapskate, and an anger-addicted fool who lashed out in moments of violence, but also loyal to the core — enough to love his gay brother. I was hoping he loved me too ... at least enough to write me back. I tried to let go of my expectations for his response, because it was very possible he would not respond at all. What mattered more was that finally I'd been honest. What mattered was that I'd tested whether my dad could be capable of a real relationship. I'd taken that crucial risk.
Three weeks later, I received a letter from my dad — two full pages in his handwriting. I worried it was an angry rant. I read his first line, "Dear Molly, I love you and am proud of you more than I can describe." I couldn't believe it. My dad owned up to his bad behavior in this letter. He apologized with one paragraph for each of the nine grievances. He offered to talk more at Christmas when I came home to Phoenix, and we did. As we walked together on a cactus-lined path in a city park, he told me, "I tried to do this with my dad before he died, but he wouldn't do it. I didn't want to make the same mistake with you." This was the beginning of my dad's stint as a good dad, which has lasted years.
In 1993, he loaned me money to go to the gay march on Washington. The trip was meaningful, because that's where I finally realized that it wasn't just my family holding me back from a fulfilling love life. Dating a married woman was the real problem. I needed my queer community. In 2001, Dad came to Seattle Gay Pride with me. He loved all the free merch at the local organizations' booths, and walked around opening his bag at every single one of the booths like a little kid on Halloween. Over the years, we've taken some great backpacking trips together. We've traveled to the White Mountains in Arizona, the Carson National Forest in New Mexico, and even the Grand Canyon. On that Grand Canyon trip, I found the grocery list he'd written for the journey and have kept it ever since. Like his apology letter, this list with "instant oatmeal, crackers, beef jerky…" is written in his familiar cramped handwriting and infused with his care and love. It's precious to me.
Having a good relationship with my dad when I was an adult didn't give me everything I'd missed out on when I was a kid. What it did give me is a sense that people with childhood trauma are not doomed. My dad had done better than his dad. Much better. So now my future looked brighter too. Without an adult relationship with my dad, I might have maintained a cynical attitude about him as a mean old bastard and myself as damaged goods. I can't say we ended the cycle of intergenerational trauma. It was too late for that. However, my dad did own up to his mistakes, and I did forgive him, which allowed us to stand at the bottom of the Grand Canyon together, watching as a recent rainstorm tore open four new waterfalls, the water gushing from the red rock walls and roaring into the canyon. Both of us watched this marvel, excited as children on Christmas. If my dad hadn't been willing to take a good look at himself, we never would have been able to spend this time with each other in a state of wide-open joy. And isn't that the whole point of love? Of life? To stop hurting each other long enough to stand together, in peace, and soak up every single microsecond of all the goodness of being human on this planet right here, right now, before death makes it impossible? I have immense gratitude for those moments with my father.
I know that family estrangement is on the rise, and also that it's shifting. Instead of parents deserting their queer kids, it's adult children who don't want anything to do with their families. As I watch the Psychology Today experts hash out these issues, I wonder where these Ph.D.s. were back in the early '90s when their profession was failing me so badly. Like a good Gen Xer, I figured out my issues on my own. I had to piece together homespun Jungian dream analysis and pop art criticism to reconcile with my father. I don't regret writing my letter. It's one of the best things I've done in my life. The acolytes of cancel culture would probably say that one should always cut off all contact with a violent father. But what about a father who owned up to his mistakes and was not committing violence anymore? Where's that guy's place in cancel culture? I've met many people who say they've always wanted to write a letter like this to their father. And others who did write their letter, but did not get the response they wanted. Maybe I just got lucky. My hunch paid off. And the conditions were right. I wasn't living with my dad when I wrote the letter, nor was I in danger of him repeating the behavior he apologized for. Make no mistake, domestic abuse survivors should definitely cut off contact with an active abuser. In many cases, it's best to avoid a violent partner or parent by packing a bag without warning, moving far away, and leaving no forwarding address. These measures can be lifesaving. But many of us live in a gray area in regard to a formerly abusive parent. In that case, if a parent signals that they are ready to get honest, maybe you should address your grievances. If you're a regretful parent, I hope you can appreciate the depth of love and goodwill that a sincere apology might bring you.
It's been 34 years since my dad replied to my letters. During that time, I married my wife, Rebecca, with whom I've spent 22 happy years. Dad's 81 now and though he still struggles with anger management, he's been a pretty good father and an even better father-in-law. It's as if writing that letter to me taught him how powerful it is for a father figure to say the right things, so he does it now as much as possible. He tells me he's proud of me. He tells Rebecca he's proud of her. I'm not sure how I would feel now if I hadn't received an apology from my dad. I'd like to think that I'd still be glad I'd taken the risk. Ultimately, if you're going to write that letter, you've got to let go of the response of a dad who might be in denial or too angry to accept the message. You have to write that letter for yourself, so you can feel better having recorded the truth. You have to write that letter so you can live honestly, even if no one else will.
Molly McCloy's ideas about using humor and agency to write about childhood trauma have been featured on Pipeline Artists and a radio interview for KJZZ's "The Show." Her memoir, "Nine Grudges: The Spiteful Origins of the Happiest Dyke on Earth," is available from Red Hen Press. Find out more at mollymccloy.com and mollymccloy.substack.com. Do you have a compelling personal story you'd like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we're looking for here and send us a pitch at pitch@huffpost.com.
