When the Wound Comes From the Beginning: Living With a Violent Legacy

Father, my heart is heavy

I have a question for you

Why did you hurt me so deeply

When all I wanted was true love?

I was just a child

Innocent and pure

You took away my smile

And left me feeling unsure

I trusted you, completely

But you betrayed my trust

You left me feeling empty

And my heart turned to dust

I hope one day you’ll see

The pain you caused in me

And you’ll ask for my forgiveness

And set my heart free

I never got to call someone, "Daddy."

People struggle with the absence of a parent, even when that parent was simply distant or uninvolved. But what happens when the absence isn’t the worst part—when the presence itself caused deep, enduring harm?

My father didn’t just leave. Before he did, he taught me all the wrong lessons about what it means to be a man. He taught me that men take what they want. That they yell and intimidate, strike women and children, use people sexually, then disappear—without remorse or consequence. He taught me, as a child, that chaos and violence were just how men are.

I didn’t learn otherwise until I was well into adulthood—almost 35 years old. Now, at nearly 40, I’m still untangling the knots of those early experiences. The pain he caused doesn’t just fade because time has passed. It lives in my nervous system. It lives in my relationships, in my fear, in the way I try to protect myself even when I’m not in danger. It lives in the voice that questions whether safety is even real.

I’ve read through the court records from my parents’ divorce. The trauma my mother experienced with him is undeniable, and I can empathize with that. I witnessed it. But my empathy doesn’t erase the abuse she turned and directed toward me—psychological, financial, and physical. The cycle continued. And when I tried to speak up, the system didn’t believe me. I was the one who ended up with the charges, the blame, the silence.

Still, this post is about him. My father. The first link in a chain that nearly broke me.

The last thing he said to me—six years ago—was, “I’m moving to [City removed], and I’m going to make sure I ruin your life.” That was the final message, the final threat. And the terrifying part is… I believe him. Because for a short time in my early 30s, I tried to get to know him. What I found was worse than I remembered.

He talked casually about stalking other family members for decades, detailing the layouts of homes he hadn’t stepped foot in for 20 years. Somehow, he knew the exact layout of my childhood homes in both Nevada and Wisconsin. There was no obvious explanation—technology wasn’t like it is now. The thought that he might’ve been there, physically, haunts me. I’ll never know if my mother allowed him in, or if he found another way.

What I do know is this: I will never feel safe from him. I carry that fear every day, and most people around me will never fully understand the weight of that. They see the symptoms—my caution, my anxiety, my overreactions—but they don’t know the source. They don’t know how hard it is to build a future when your past is always lurking, just a step behind you.

My father’s legacy isn’t just the abuse. It’s the silence it created in me. The way I second-guess my reality. The way I brace for pain even in moments of peace. My mother added to that silence, and continues to feed it through others, indirectly.

But naming it here is part of my healing. Speaking the truth—my truth—is how I slowly reclaim power, one piece at a time. I may never fully feel safe. But I can feel heard. And maybe that’s the beginning of something better.