When Pain Collides at the Door
On July 23rd, I got home from work at 6 PM, already tired, and found my father sitting near the entrance. As soon as I walked in, he asked me to buy something he saw on Facebook, saying he needed it because he couldn’t walk. I suggested, gently, that he should go to the hospital, especially since he has insurance, but he flatly refused.
He said even if it kills him, he’s not going. That not being able to walk is reason enough to avoid it altogether. He added, in a manipulative kind of sweetness, that since he’s speaking “nicely,” I should just do as he asks.
I told him, honestly, that everyone in the house tries to speak kindly to him, but he speaks aggressively to all of us. Always. It’s like he’s forgotten how to communicate with care.
That’s when things spiraled.
He told me that if I really wanted him to die, I might as well get a gun and shoot him.
And I replied, “I’m hurting too. I’ve been hurting because of you for over 20 years.”
He dismissed that pain and said, “It’s okay that you’re hurting.”
But it’s not okay.
I told him that no one in this house is okay. We are all carrying wounds, most of them caused by him. And yet, somehow, he makes it seem like only his pain matters. I’ve spent too long pretending mine doesn’t.
Just because someone else’s pain is loud, doesn’t mean yours is silent.
Have I been minimizing my own suffering to survive someone else’s?
