LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
Confessions of a Late Bloomer |
by Randy Siegel |
Finding Father's Love
I felt like a child playing hide-and-seek only to discover hours later no one was looking for meincluding myself. I had abandoned the child of my youth and all his secrets for far too long. Some memories are hard to face, and growing up with Dad was one of them. As painful as it was, I had to face my past. Taunts of "not good enough," "only sissies cry," and "be a man," rang in my ears. Despite my father's death more than 26 years ago, his voice was still clear. I grew up thinking Dad wouldn't love me if he knew I was gay. Being gay was not a part of his plan for my life. From an early age, my father knew I was different. While other toddlers clutched tightly to teddy bears and "blankies," I carried Grandmother's old purse and battered fur piece that I affectionately called my "woo-woo." Dad reluctantly permitted me to keep my "woo-woo," but the purse was more than he could stand. One morning I awoke to find my battered purse was gone. In my pre-teen to teen years, I continued to swim upstream in the masculine mainstream. I chose the company of girls over boys, preferred aesthetics over athletics and detested competitive sports. In an effort to protect me, my father felt he must shape me. To toughen me up, he enrolled me in after-school football. After-school sports did little for my self-esteem. As third-string right guard, I was on the bench far more than on the field. Once again, I felt I disappointed my father. Once again, I felt his shame. I wanted above all else not to disappoint him. I wanted to win his love. Like Pavlov, Dad doled out love based on a system of punishment and reward. To earn his love, I adopted "the heroic image." I was the altar boy, Eagle Scout and struggling student. I was positive, upbeat and above reproach. Slipping into the armor of perfection, I strove to meet every one of my father's criteria for success. I learned, as many gay men and women learn as children, it was not safe to be who I was. I masked my true self to conform to society's norms. As a child, my bedroom closet was my secret sanctuary, a temple of safety. There, I retreated into a fantasy world. My imagination, the only defense against the powerlessness I felt. Dressing up in flowing red robes, crowns and crosses, I became a man of authority, power and control. In my closet, I was king to my father's pawn. I was lord over my destiny. Flying through the house with a red robe tied around my neck, I was Superman. All my super powers I would have gladly traded for the power to create a world in which my personhood could thrive. When I was 18, my father died. Even after his death, his control over my life continued. All through college, and later as an adult, I sought to earn his love. I went to a college that he approved, joined his old fraternity and majored in business. Upon graduation, I embarked on a successful career, became active in the community and married a woman who I would shape into my mother. I met every one of his goals and exceeded even his expectations, yet it wasn't enough. I still didn't feel his love. I still didn't feel his approval. At 39, I said, "Enough!" I exploded. I shook my fist at the sky and shouted, "I did it your way you son-of-a-bitch, and now it is my turn!" Over the next four years, I came out, divorced, left my job and moved. Dropping the masks, I began to shed layer after layer of the heroic image like a snake that sheds its skin. I dreamed of Dad's old desk one night. Gone were all his papers. The drawers were pulled out, and each was clean. I am still untangling his expectations from my own needs and desires. I am still searching for my authentic self. The more I accept myself, the more I feel Dad's approval. The more I love myself, the more I feel his love. Randy Siegel is an Asheville, NC-based writer, speaker and trainer. He can be reached through Letters or RASWriter@aol.com. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 11, No. 7, June 15, 2001. |