“There’s a saltwater film on the jar of your ashes:
I threw them to sea but a
Gust blew them backwards and the sting in my eyes
That you then inflicted was par for the course just as when you were living.”
Words cannot express how much pain and hardship I have endured because of you. Over the last 47 years, I have struggled with the so called ‘legacy’ you have left. I have spoken to psychologists. I’ve cried. I’ve gotten angry. I’ve medicated myself blind. And still, your hate, resentment and white rage has left me traumatised.
Even though you died 25 years ago, this Father’s day, I want to finally come clean. To be totally honest with myself and you, and say what I have always longed to say.
There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t feel some sort of anxiety. Some days are better than others. Today, on Father’s day it’s particularly bad.
From the minute I heard your car pull up in the driveway, I was frightened. Mum would yell at us to tidy up. “Put your toys away. Make sure your bedroom is tidy.” Stop having fun. Stop living. “Your Father is home!” And when you entered the house, it was game on. Be silent. Be invisible. Anything could happen. And you know what, it always did.
Like when I was 4 and hungry and banged my cutlery on the table. You slapped me across the face for my bad manners. Dad—I was 4. What stung more than my face, was the embarrassment and shame I felt because you did it in front of my Grandma. She sat there open mouthed, shocked that you could be so cruel to a small child. Yet, she didn’t say anything. Neither did mum. They always excused your shitty behaviour because you came from a hard life back in Bosnia.
When I was 5, mum woke me up in the dead of night asking me to pack some of my favourite things. I was confused. Tired. Frightened. And then when we got to Grandma’s house, for one, brief moment, I felt safe. And then you turned up, banging on the front door. Abusing us all in a drunken rage, demanding who my brother, sister and myself would rather live with. Threatening that if we didn’t choose you, you would steal us away from mum and take us to Bosnia where she would never see us again.
Every time you came home from the pub, you would pass out on the kitchen floor, right in front of my bedroom. I would hold my breath when I stepped over you. Every single time. The fear that you would wake up and grab my ankles in a fit of rage was paralysing.
When we moved to Adelaide because you cheated on mum, you promised us all a fresh start. That things would be different. We left our lives back in Millicent but you didn’t care. You were above integrity, above consequence. You did anything you wanted. As it turns out, you were exactly the same in Adelaide.
Remember when I was 7 and you took us to the Gorge for a picnic with the other Bosnian families? You couldn’t bear to go a day without drinking. God knows how much beer you chugged back over the course of the day. I can remember mum pleading with you to stop. See, she didn’t have a license and you knew that. You knew we were at your mercy. The drive back was one of the scariest and longest moments of my life. In the dark, you drove like a bat out of hell, Camel plain cigarette dangling from your lips, swerving all over the road through the treacherous landscape. I sat in the middle, between my brother and sister clasping my hands so tight the whites of my knuckles glowed. Mum’s screams filled the car. The only thing louder though, was the sound of my racing heart beat.
When I was 13 and the phone rang while we were having dinner, mum dared to get up and answer it. Without saying a word, you threw a whole long neck of beer against the wall. I can still picture the smashed glass littering the floor, the stench of Southwark Bitter filling the room.
When I was 17, I dared to challenge your misogynistic views. The TV was on while we ate dinner, a rare occurrence as dinner usually meant absolute silence. A woman accused a couple of football players of gang rape. You said it was her fault. Why would she invite them back to her room if she didn’t want sex? I sat there with my eyes fixed to my plate of food. You raged on for what seemed like an eon until I couldn’t stand it any longer. Before I could stop myself, I exploded. I stood up for the woman, condemning the men. You became enraged. How dare I argue? How dare I have an opinion? You went to strike me. I ran to my bedroom and slammed the door. No one slams the door in the Lelić household except you though. You stormed in, angrier than I have even seen you be. I tried to duck but I was too slow, wasn’t I.
POW!
Your fist was on me, nails slicing the skin above my eye, opening the flesh. You stormed out and left me there, curled up on the bed like a wounded cub, holding my hand to the cut, the blood trickling through my fingers.
The next day you told mum that I had to move out.
I have always tried to please you and mum. I got good grades, I had perfect manners, I never went out, and I never played up. Purely out of fear, I was a well behaved kid. But you couldn’t handle being challenged, and for that I had to go.
Now I am 47, my anxiety is still shit. Sometimes I feel like I am that frightened rabbit hiding under the bed in Millicent when you and mum fought. Hoping that things will get better.
It never did.
I wish you had fessed up to the trauma we experienced. The trauma that could have been avoided if only you were kind to us. I desperately wanted acknowledgement from you. Some little glimmer of love to make me feel safe and secure the way kids should feel. All I knew was fear, dad. A debilitating fear I still struggle with every single day.
There a lot of things I wish for but the biggest one is that I wish I didn’t struggle with my own parenting. That my childhood didn’t skew the way it’s supposed to be for kids. Kids should be able to fuck up, have tantrums, loose their shit because they’re kids and they know that they have loving and caring parents that understand and are there for them. I wish I knew what that felt like.
I’m unknowingly hard on my kids because you were hard and devoid of affection on me. And this breaks my heart.
Dad: if only you were the opposite of what you actually were, imagine what I would have become—powerful and self assured. Instead, I’m still the frightened rabbit that is permanently tattooed on my arm.
Your daughter,
Aisha