Chapter 1: The Weight of Unresolved Feelings

Reflecting on my relationship with my father, I find it filled with difficult memories. Our interactions were often contentious, and I frequently resisted his attempts at connection. His presence made me feel uneasy, leading me to retreat into my own world, where discomfort reigned.

Communication between us was nearly non-existent. I buried my anger and anxiety, wishing to keep him at arm’s length. Despite his efforts to foster a close bond, I felt threatened by his intensity and the expectations that accompanied it. I worried that I came across as unkind, which only reinforced my belief that he viewed me negatively.

His passing in 1991 marked a pivotal moment; I was 27 at the time. Throughout his life, I remained in my protective bubble, never feeling secure enough to engage openly. In the two years leading up to his death, I distanced myself completely. Although I saw him occasionally, I maintained strict boundaries, leaving him in the dark about my true feelings. My departure was signaled through a letter, but I doubt he grasped my reasons.

I had attempted to discuss my discomfort with him before cutting ties, expressing that his obsession with our relationship felt more like an inappropriate intimacy than a father-daughter bond. While I never sensed a sexual threat, his longing for closeness felt overwhelming. My attempts to articulate these feelings were met with defensiveness; he insisted that all he wanted from me was love.

Despite my compassion for his troubled life, I recognized the need to establish healthy boundaries to preserve my emotional well-being. I often wondered where his relentless pursuit would lead if I allowed myself to be drawn in. From a young age, I sensed danger, and upon visiting my first therapist, I was diagnosed with covert incest—a term that resonated deeply with my experiences.

I finally had a name for my struggles, which alleviated some of my feelings of isolation and strangeness. I constantly yearned for a father figure, but the intensity of his affection felt suffocating. He once told me I was the only person he could confide in, and that dynamic was unbearable.

Establishing that boundary was a painful necessity, yet I felt grateful for the strength to do so. Had I not, I risked being consumed by his emotional turmoil. My fixation on him was already overwhelming. Ultimately, I had to choose between a relationship with him or my own mental health.

The psychological baggage from that time has kept me on high alert in my relationships over the decades. Now, at 60, I continue to grapple with these issues. Even though he died when I was in my twenties, the impact of our relationship lingers, influencing how I navigate connections with others.

Sometimes, I find myself anticipating an onslaught of emotional demands from those around me, prompting me to erect barriers as a defense mechanism. I strive to articulate my need for space, especially to those close to me, so they don’t misinterpret my withdrawal as rejection. It’s merely a reflexive response to protect myself from feeling overwhelmed.

I have experienced marriage and divorce, and the echoes of my past haunted both unions. While there were multiple factors that contributed to the end of my marriage, my history with my father played a crucial role. I was aware of the potential fallout from the start, as similar patterns had disrupted my previous relationship.

Although I tried to communicate my struggles to my husband early on, he found it hard to understand the emotional push-pull dynamics I exhibited. I worked diligently to reassure him that my behavior was never a personal affront, but not everyone can cope with such intense emotional boundaries.

I often reflect on the little girl who felt conflicted about her father. My journals from childhood reveal my inner turmoil. Although I recognized it wasn’t my fault, I was burdened with guilt and shame. I knew he could sense my avoidance, and it was a heavy weight to balance politeness with distance.

This feeling of cruelty has persisted into my adult life, especially when I need space from others—depending on their reactions. When I can be open about my needs, I feel at ease, but those instincts can surface unexpectedly with people who don’t know me well.

Thankfully, I’ve learned to forgive myself, understanding the origins of my hypervigilance. I often anticipate that others require my attention more urgently than they truly do, a pattern rooted in my early experiences. I instinctively guard against being overwhelmed, creating barriers to protect myself.

This behavior has led me to withdraw socially, isolating myself to avoid undue pressure. Conversely, I thrive in social settings, cherishing the joy of connecting with others. Over the years, I’ve discovered additional reasons for my withdrawal that are separate from my past, but when combined, they can turn me into a recluse.

Fortunately, I appreciate my own company and enjoy solitary time. With the right people, I can engage in deep, meaningful conversations and enjoy physical and emotional intimacy.

Chapter 2: Understanding the Impact of Emotional Baggage

As I navigate these complex feelings, I find solace in resources that shed light on similar experiences.

The first video, What Happens When Girls Grow Up Without A Father? - Sadia Khan, explores the emotional consequences of father absence on daughters, offering insights into how such dynamics can shape relationships.

In another enlightening video, 'There's A Lot Of Emotional Baggage Here,' Dr. Phil Tells Family At Odds, Dr. Phil addresses the challenges of familial relationships burdened by unresolved emotional issues, providing strategies for healing and understanding.