Deep wound

“

Wolf mother, where have you been?

You look so worn, so thin

You’re a taker, devil’s maker

Let me hear you sing, hey-ya, hey-ya

Wolf father, at the door

You don’t smile anymore

You’re a drifter, a shapeshifter

Let me see you run, hey-ya, hey-ya

Holy light, oh, burn the night

Oh, keep the spirits strong

Watch it grow, child of woe, oh 

Keep holding on

When I run through the deep dark forest long after this begun

Where the sun would set, the trees were dead and the rivers were none

And I hope for a trace to lead me back home from this place 

But there was no sound, there was only me and my disgrace 

… 

“

[from the song “Wolf” by First Aid Kit]

My mother was overbearing, an often too-present figure in our daily lives at home. Bustling with energy, effectively she was the head of the household. The person who made the big decisions but also the parent more involved in child-care, often with almost suffocating attention towards me and my younger sister. 

My father was quiet, almost subdued, at home. In public, instead, his friendly, joyful, playful personality would come out, and he could be very pleasant, outgoing, engaging. But at home there wasn’t space for it — the space being all taken up by my mother and her energy. 

My mother and her energy, or will-power, also took up the space between me and my father. The relationship between me and him was somehow mediated by my mother, especially the older I got. During my teenage years, the mediation was, in many ways, a blessing. With his catholic upbringing my father would certainly have been much more strict with us “teenage girls”, probably making life quite miserable for us in that phase. But still, I missed my father, I missed a closer, direct relationship with him. I sought it out, in my awkward teenage way, usually through confrontation, like the big philosophical or intellectual arguments he & I would have over the dinner table. We’d go on arguing for hours, often just playing the devil’s advocate (at least, I) just for the sake of prolonging the debate — the only way I had to interact directly with him, get close to him, be seen by him without my mother in between. Without my mother in the way. 

I’m not sure when I realized how angry I was at both my parents for this. But that anger is there, intense and deep. With my mother for being, or getting, in the way. And with my father for allowing her to be in the way of a direct relationship with me. I am still profoundly hurt by my father’s lack of courage to stand up for himself, to stand up for me, to claim a direct relationship with his eldest child. What it left in my heart is the sense that he let a woman get in the way of a relationship with me because he was too weak, too coward.

And this old wound in my heart has been reopened by my buddy Jack’s behavior towards me. He, too, is letting a woman get in the way of a relationship with me because he’s too weak, or coward, to step up for himself — step up for me. 

Of course, the ages and situation and feelings are very different in many ways — Jack isn’t my father, I’m perfectly aware of that. But he is — or was — one of my closest friends, and the only cis-man friend I have — or had — who could be affectionate towards me even physically, who could hold me in my most vulnerable moments, who could help me hold the grief around my father, with a tenderness that none of my other cis-guy friends are capable of. So, while I know Jack’s not my father and my feelings for him are completely different from those for my dad, Jack’s recent behavior towards me reawakened, at a deep, vulnerable, emotional level, painful situations I experienced with my father. Jack’s recent behavior towards me touched deep, old wounds of mine that are still painful. 

I know it is on me to do the work to get over my “daddy wounds”, and acknowledging these wounds and how they are being reopened by this situation with my buddy is the first step in my own healing. But I still cannot deny the pain, the depth and intensity of this pain. Jack, along with one other climbing buddy of mine, is the only cis-man friend I have here who has known me throughout the medicalization of my gender journey, who saw me evolve, literally undergo physical changes in becoming my authentic self. And he accepted me throughout that journey, as the caterpillar came out of its cocoon and the chrysalis turned into a beautiful butterfly. He was there, holding the cocoon, holding the butterfly. He saw, sees, accepts me in the entirety of my masculinity and femininity in ways that are unique and extremely important for me, in ways that people — especially cis-men — meeting me now & moving forward cannot understand. There is a grief in this, a grief from this loss, that feels as deep as an underground cave, as painful as the sharpest granite.

This loss feels irreparable to me now and I really don’t know if the friendship between me & Jack will survive this blow.