After the Christmas blow-out fight when I was 25 years old – when my mom finally realized my dad was crazy and decided to get a divorce – my dad and I didn’t talk for several years. I felt no desire to be on the receiving end of the John-Bibilos-battering-ram. I heard from my brother that he blamed me for the divorce. Uh huh. Because he wasn’t responsible for his own choices and behavior in the marriage, right?
Part of me could write him off. Another part of me felt defensive and hurt. This open wound was at odds with my commitment to heal and awaken.
So, taking advantage of the safe space away from him, I dug in and explored the many complicated threads of my relationship to Dad. I did so much healing during that period of time, I can’t possibly remember it all. It seems like a blurry watercolor painting that has too much water, likely because I kept revisiting the same themes, each time from a different vantage point.
Here’s what stands out in this underwater watercolor painting: I got really clear that his projection onto me was just that – his projection. It was about his wounds and trauma. Though I never deserved to be on the receiving end of that projection – no child does – I could take his hurtful words and actions and let them go. When necessary, I learned that I could return his unresolved pain to him. These hurts and complaints are yours, Dad. I can’t take this on for you; that won’t help you. And I can’t be the ghost you think I am. It was liberating to untangle myself from his projections that were really about the many people in his childhood who hurt him so badly.
I also made space for my own deep grief about his suffering. The wounded little girl in me identified with the wounded little boy in him. He’d had a horrible childhood. I saw fully how he suffered and wished it was different. I cried about that quite a bit (maybe that’s why there’s so much water in the watercolor painting).
Then I got to take responsibility for all my hurt inner children. I got to love each age of me completely and totally. I got to tell them everything they needed to hear, like how they/I didn’t deserve the abuse, how they/I were strong, and how they/I survived. Over time, each little hurt and story unhooked until there was just freedom and love.
At some point, I forgave him. Apparently, I was very ready because it felt effortless, like there was no act of forgiving happening. It was just done. I wasn’t interested in holding onto any story anymore. He taught me the costs of holding onto story; he was a mighty teacher that way.
On Easter Sunday in 2003, I woke up knowing it was time to reach out to him.
I sat on my green carpet, picked up the (corded) phone, and dialed. “Hi Dad, Happy Easter.”
“Sonya? Sonya! Oh! Oh! Hold on, let me take this call in the office.” He was at work, managing a restaurant, so he put me on hold while he walked into the office.
He picked up, “Sonya! I’m so happy to hear from you! Happy Easter!” His voice shook with emotion.
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too, Sonya.”
Apparently, he had forgiven me too, at least enough for the moment. We chatted and caught up about life. It felt almost… normal. I told him about meeting Mike (my fiancée at the time), and over the next several conversations, we agreed that Mike, my brother, Dad, and I would all meet in Las Vegas.
A few months later in Vegas, we hopped between casinos, going with Dad’s flow. Some of that was an old coping strategy; do what the angry guy wants and maybe he’ll be less angry. But, honestly, Dad had only a few things he enjoyed – gambling, eating, and watching baseball. If we wanted to bond with him, that’s what we needed to do. So we wandered through endless noisy casinos with flashing lights and slot machines. He taught us to play Blackjack and Pai-Gow. He was in his glory, laughing, chatting with the card dealers, positively thrilled that his kids were learning to play his favorite games. My dad, 300-and-something pounds, loved a good buffet, and long meals occupied hours that saved us from the racket and cigarette smoke of the casinos.
Being in his presence for the first time in years was familiar, disturbing, and totally new. His body was a walking wound, a physical manifestation of all he stuffed down and kept in his unconscious. He was unaware of his size and weight. He was addicted to cigars and addicted to gambling. His hair was a mess, his clothes sloppy. But he was different for me because I was different. I wasn’t tangled up with him; I had distance and reflection. Seeing him with more clarity was easy, hard, and sad.
At one point, driving to another casino, Dad was in the front seat of his car with Mike, regaling him with funny stories of my childhood. In one story, Dad said some guy at the DMV was in love with me when I was in my late teens. I didn’t recognize or remember any part of the story.
I turned to my brother next to me in the backseat and whispered, “I don’t remember this at all! Am I losing my mind?” Charles shook his head. “It never happened.”
It was a lightbulb moment: There was a Sonya-in-my-dad’s-head and some of the things she said and did overlapped with me, but other things I’d never done or said. I realized that had been the case for most of my life. All the times he was accusing me unjustly were because the Sonya-in-his-head had done the things he was accusing me of doing.
And just like that, something broke free in me. I didn’t need him to see me accurately or understand me anymore. I understood what was happening; it was something he couldn’t control and wouldn’t control anytime soon. His mind was formulating stories to fit some emotional narrative. That narrative wasn’t about me. I was an actor he cast in the movie in his head, but he was in charge of the script.
Later in the trip, walking into Hard Rock Casino, my brother put his arm around me and quietly said, “Wow, you are dealing with this really well, Zen Master Sonya.” He was both teasing me and respecting that I had changed.
This was the high point. In a short period of time, maybe months or a year, we got glimpses of some of the best of Dad. His moments of wisdom, his sound advice, his (accurate) predictions for the financial future, his loving good wishes – these were gems I held close to my heart. More than anyone I have ever met, he swung between extremes. Nuts and wise. Irrational and wildly intelligent. Hateful and enormously loving. Charming and disturbing. He could predict the future for others, and couldn’t accurately see what was right in front of his face.
My dad started rapidly declining, physically and mentally, and he obviously didn’t start from a great place to begin with. This boulder was picking up speed as it rolled downhill, and that boulder was coming for all of us.
