Thoughts On “Dad”

I feel I have to explain the last part of my previous entry, but I don’t know if I can do it in English. Well, neither do I know if I could do it in German, but I’ll try it out in English first. It’s hard for me in any language because the subject is so confusing and mindblowing.

I have been abused by my father and in result, I have never developed the feelings normal children may have for their father (or mother as well, I don’t know). I have never called him “Dad” or “Papa” or anything like this. To be honest, I avoided talking to him and if it was inevitable, I called him by his name, which at first he didn’t want to accept, but gave in to it when I was about 11 years old. Today, I call him “my father” or “mein Vater” which refers to his biological fatherhood only, not to any kind of warm or loving feeling. One of my former therapists suggested I might call him “mein Erzeuger” or “my genitor” as I like technical terms, but in this case I felt it was wrong. I don’t want to feel generated or made by him! So I got used to the term “my father”.

A part of me, which my therapist uses to call my inner child / mein inneres Kind, is still in search for a Dad. I use this term in stark contrast to the word “father”! With “father”, I connect a biological bond and of course the man who misused me. With “Dad”, I connect a sort of loving feeling, a kind, experienced man who takes care for his son, who teaches and leads him, who excuses his mistakes and who provides him with love, warmth and security. That what I connect to the word “Dad” remains a theoretical construct only, of course, as I have never experienced a Dad-son-relationship in my life.

My inner child longs for this experience. There are times when my craving for such a relationship bodily and mentally hurts.

When I met John, he did things nobody had ever done for me before. Silly little things like stroking my head, prep some tea for me, tuck me in, kissing me before we went to bed and so on. I was shaken. Well, I am still shaken by those things. It doesn’t hurt me on that deep mental level to get waxed or spanked or fucked by strangers, but I am so vulnerable when John is caressing to me, I sometimes feel like I can’t bear it. It aims right into my soul. I love it. I want it. But it totally petrifies me. I fear it like nothing else on this planet. When I got a flu, back in autumn 2011, he sat on my bed and read out a bedtime story for me, and all I could do was to first turn into stone and then cry and then hurt myself. I couldn’t take it. I still can’t.

John of course sensed the problem and tried to talk it over. He know what my father did to me, he knows better than anyone else. He said, it would be ok for him if I’d like to call him Dad, and in fact he’d like to expand our relationship by this aspect. He is very caring by nature and as he decided never to have children on his own, it would suit his wish to take care for someone. I was so afraid! I thought it would be perverted if I started to call my partner “Dad” (although many gays call their mature lovers “Dad”), because my father had fucked me. Could I still have sex with John if I called him Dad? Would that remind me of the abuse? Or might it heal a part of me in any way?

Since back in 2011, that Dad-thing is discussed now and then. I have learned to open up a bit and that it won’t hurt me to allow John to tuck me in or kiss me before he goes to work. A part of me urges to call him Dad to express that I love him from the bottom of my heart, that I trust him and am willing to learn to accept loving care. I feel like “Dad” would be a wonderful pet name for my Love. In fact, he is the only man I have ever met to whom I connect the features I think a proper Dad should have. He is stable, caring, loving, consequent, educated, patient and the most adorable man I could think of.

Sometimes he annoys and irritates me by suggesting he could decide to make me wear diapers or suck on a soother. One part of me is afraid he really might do someday. Another part of me shakes in fear that he might not. I don’t think I could bear to be so vulnerable in front of him. But not in front of John, where else? Sometimes I even fear giving in to this might make me insane, might trigger the worst memories again. And simultaneously I fear it might heal a part of me, that inner child, that still wanders in darkness and solitude and which I rather ignore than to embrace it. I’m afraid to touch this, but I catch myself calling John “Dad” inwardly.

It was very hard to write this down and it’s gotten late and I’m awfully tired now.

Love, I know you’ll read this. Please don’t make me do it just because you can.


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