I never expected my dad to keep his promises. He never seemed to keep the ones he made my mom, so what would make me any different? My sister was a different case for a while. When we were young, I’d ask her for things my parents were too busy for. “Will you play a game with me?” As the youngest, it was all I ever really wanted from my family members. 

“Well…if you help me clean my room, I promise I’ll play with you.” She would start. By the time the room was finished, things had changed. “I said I’d play with you, but I didn’t say when.” 

“When will you play with me?” I fell for this too many times to count. 

“Later.” She’d say. And eventually I learned what this meant. Later means never. By the time I was seven or eight, I finally stopped asking her for things. I have found that if someone is not honest with an honest person, there is no point in trusting them. There is no point in calling them out on a lie, because they will just lie better. I tried this with my sister for a while. She became a very good liar. This is why it was very difficult to understand why at twelve years old we were headed away from safety and back to my dad based on a better lie. 

Whatever the reason my mom had come up with in her own mind to make sense of what we were doing, it wasn’t good enough. I hated going back. I hated knowing what happiness was just to see it taken away. I hated not being able to decide for myself what we would do. 

My dad greeted us at the door when we arrived. He pulled me in for a hug with the same force that made it clear I had no choice in the matter. I didn’t want a hug. I didn’t want anything to do with him, yet here I was: trapped once again due to brute strength. 

My parents started going to counseling. First, they would go and my mom seemed hopeful. Then, they came home and usually had an argument. I don’t remember how  long they did this, but my dad seemed to be armed with some new phrases that made my mom furious. “You just don’t accept me for who I am.” he would say. She would start to yell, “Now, now, we shouldn’t raise our voices.” He’d say. It made me furious too. Is it her fault she is yelling after years of beatings? Is it her fault that, after he calls her worthless, fat, lazy, and a bad mother, she doesn’t accept him with open arms? I wasn’t sure what was happening during therapy, but it was not helping.

One day, she told my sister and I that we should come with them. Since it was clear nothing was in my controle, I followed along. I walked into this huge building which reminded me of my dad’s office. It was cold and intimidating. Once we got to the right place, there was a couch set up like you would expect in a living room, but it was in no way enough to pretend we were anywhere other than a cold, heartless office. 

“Your dad seems to think you might be upset with him. Can you girls tell your dad what it is that bothers you about him?” The strange man asked. 

My sister sits silently next to me, nervously squirming occasionally. “He lectures us a lot.” I finally say. We weren’t allowed to call his fits of anger anything but “lectures.” When we did, it would send him into a rage. I couldn’t imagine what he would do if I called it anything else in front of a stranger. 

“Good.” The man said, “So do you think we can agree that maybe you girls could listen more when your dad has something to say and maybe he could try not to talk so much?”

That’s when I zoned out. Listen? When he calls me lazy? When he says I have no future? When he threatens my life? My mom? My sister? Listen when he says I’m selfish for wanting new clothes? Listen when he says we will be homeless in a week and then buys himself a $200 suit? Listen when he talks about how ugly I am? Because our family’s problems are apparently because we don’t listen…

Apparently that is when my mom also realized therapy wasn’t working because she didn’t go back. Before we left, he did challenge me to write down some of my feelings. He also pointed out that, to my dad, “Different equals wrong.” It was a helpful way of understanding why my dad could not love anything but himself. 

I guess because therapy was over, my dad assumed he was cured and could go back to being cruel again. He slowly and deliberately broke every promise that brought my mom and us home again. I don’t know why my mom stayed. Her promise to him was that she’d leave if he did the things he was doing. I guess I should have realized sooner. She didn’t keep her promises. 

Note: This post in no way reflects my current feelings towards therapy. While this recounts a bad experience, it has been helpful to me at other times in life and can be a helpful means of overcoming difficult situations. Also, this is a true story about events that have not been embellished. While comments are welcome, they are screened to maintain the integrity of the site, prevent foul language, and prevent spam. All comments submitted from real readers will be published even if they are disagreed with.

If you or someone you love is experiencing domestic violence and seeking help, please visit the Domestic Violence National Hotline.

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