Only the Sick Hate Their Benefactors

I got a lot of backlash for my latest blog post when I talked trash about my father. One guy even said that “only the sick hate their benefactors.” And maybe he is right: maybe I am sick.

My girlfriend hated the fact I posted it too. But I had to publish it. I had to somehow get it out of my body. Out of my mind.

“Still, you don’t have to post it to thousands of strangers,” she said. “This is something you need to talk to him directly. You are violating his privacy!”

Maybe. But he is not here and I am unwilling to carry this burden any longer. So, fuck you dad. I’m done carrying this for you. It’s all yours now. 

For me it’s time to move on.

On the flip-side…

A lot of people reached out to me and told me how “brave” I am for posting this type of stuff, which is kinda nice, but never was my motivation for sharing it.

I posted it because a couple of months ago I realized that although my life was great when you looked at it on a superficial level, something still felt “off” on the inside.

I dug deeper and recalled early childhood memories, after my father left, where I blamed myself for everything that has happened:

Did I make him angry?

Am I the reason he never came back?

Was I not good enough?

Is this ALL MY FAULT?!

And because I was way too young to cope with shit like that in a healthier way, I came up with some first-class protection strategies:

  • I built a big, mental brick wall around all these bad and uneasy emotions.
  • I started to only show others the parts of myself which were considered admirable and nice, so I would give no one any more reasons to leave me.
  • I never fully committed to my love relationships. I figured it’s better to leave the backdoor open and “be in control of the pain” instead of being the victim of my circumstances. So when something bad happened, I simply ditched and saved myself any further pain and disappointment – like my father did.

And for the next 20 years I lived in this anxious and paranoid “everyone is out there to get you” type of way. Until eventually, everything I tried to suppress for such a long time rose back to the surface.

But this time I was old enough to “get it”…

In an ideal world…

Everyone should be able to express his joy as well as his anger freely – without the fear of facing life-threatening (often mind-made) consequences.

In reality though, the vast majority is living in this emotionally crippled, good over bad, “we are not talking about this!”, never fully authentic way of stumbling through life.

Life should be rich in both types of emotions – good or bad. It should be filled with joyful moments and equally distressing regrets. There should be moments of happiness and bliss, and also times of great anger and despair.

When I made myself believe that one side is more appreciated than the other and as a consequence started to suppress my bad sides, I began to go down these self-sabotaging roads. I was desperately striving for the “good” in hopes of avoiding the “bad”.

Happiness over discomfort.

Pleasure over pain.

Achievement over failure.

But what if the flaw in our thinking STARTS right there?

The fanatic desire to be happy made me feel resentful for the times when I was angry or sad, pushing me further away from the joyful and rich life I initially was looking for.

But what if accepting even the messiest and darkest sides of us as valid parts of… well… ourselves… will set us free?

What if a simple “fuck you dad” finally allows you to embrace even your most unlovable sides and (maybe even for the first time) let you experience a fullness and depth of life you never had felt before.

Yes, only the sick hate their benefactors.

But now I am finally on my way of recovery…

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