{"id":170,"date":"2026-04-07T22:24:13","date_gmt":"2026-04-07T22:24:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/?page_id=170"},"modified":"2026-05-01T18:12:48","modified_gmt":"2026-05-01T18:12:48","slug":"he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/non-fiction\/he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not\/","title":{"rendered":"He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not"},"content":{"rendered":"

Natalie Scott<\/span><\/p>\n

My dad and I only have one picture together, at least one that I can remember. It was taken when I was only a few weeks old, still a wrinkly, squishy, mostly bald baby. My dad is mostly bald too, as he had just gotten back from the army. He\u2019s still wearing his uniform, and I\u2019m wearing a black and white frilly dress (much to my dismay even then, I\u2019m sure). I\u2019m asleep\u2013totally knocked out, it seems, judging by my mouth that is hanging wide open\u2013 and my head is resting against the arm of an old brown recliner. My dad is leaning down, kissing my cheek. Unlike mine, his eyes are half open, as if he\u2019s taking in the sight of me. For the first time, I believe\u2013he was still in South Korea when I was born.<\/span><\/p>\n

That moment captured on my mother\u2019s camera is the only visual representation of my father and I together that I have. I have an old scrapbook my mother made of her and him together\u2013back when they were a happy, united one\u2013but nothing else with me and him. It\u2019s the only visual proof\u00a0 I have that once, there was tenderness between us. Once, there was nothing but love\u2013 none of this resentment and bitterness that I associate with him now. On days when I feel overcome by these aching feelings for him, I will look at this photograph for proof of what once was. My dad loved <\/em>me, even when it felt like he didn\u2019t, even when I try to convince myself today that he didn\u2019t. It\u2019s easier for us to imagine our abusers as nothing more than loveless and violent, I suppose.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I haven\u2019t seen him since the summer of 2018. I was 13 years old the last time we spoke in person. I\u2019ve spent so much of my time all the years since wondering, desperately, if he loved me. When I look at this picture, I remember that yes, he did love me, and I allow myself to remember moments later in my childhood where he expressed that love. When he took me to the arboretum for the first time and showed me all the spots in it he loved visiting as a boy. When he asked his parents for money so he could drive from Hillsdale to Peoria to come pick me up and spend time with me. When he called me from rehab, whenever he got the chance. When he wrote me letters.<\/span><\/p>\n

I remember these moments from my childhood, and they remind me that he wasn\u2019t always such a shit dad. He wasn\u2019t always screaming, wasn\u2019t always cursing me out. That feels refreshing to think about, for a moment, and then my feelings turn sour. These moments make me think now, why was he ever those things? If he loved me, really loved me, why did he hurt me so bad? Again and again and again? And if he loved me, why didn\u2019t he fight harder when I pushed him away at 13 years old? If he loved me, why did he stop trying to connect? Why didn\u2019t he try to get me back? Why wasn\u2019t that love enough? If what we feel for someone is love, truly love, shouldn\u2019t that be enough for us to stay? To keep fighting? How can we love someone and be at peace with not seeing them for 7 years? Or not seeing them ever again? Is that possible?<\/span><\/p>\n

Perhaps the answer to that last question is in the question itself. Maybe we can\u2019t love someone and be at peace with never seeing them again. I know that I\u2019m certainly not at peace with the thought of me never seeing my dad again. I know that\u2019s the reality of our situation, and I\u2019m trying to accept it, but I don\u2019t think I ever fully will. Maybe my dad hasn\u2019t either. Maybe he\u2019s not at peace. On the days where I\u2019m at my peak level of resentment, I hope he isn\u2019t at peace. I hope he hurts just as badly as I do. I hope the grief eats him alive and swallows him whole. I hope he feels just as vulnerable as I did back then.<\/span><\/p>\n

But not all days are like this. Some days, the hardest days, days like today\u2013 I want nothing more than to tell my dad that I love him. That I hope that wherever he is, whatever he\u2019s doing, I hope he\u2019s doing well. I often fantasize about telling my dad these things. I picture the ways in which I could do it. I could get in my car, right now, at any moment, and impulsively drive the 6 hours to Hillsdale. I could sit on his front step and wait for him to come home from work. The second he stepped out of his dingy, silver car I could jump into his arms in an embrace. I could lay at his feet and tell him I\u2019m sorry that it\u2019s been so long, and that I\u2019d like to try and talk things through. I could update him on everything he\u2019s missed over coffee. I could ask him all the questions about him that I never got to before. And maybe, finally, I could get answers.<\/span><\/p>\n

But these scenarios are just fantasies. I know that. My body knows that. But my brain doesn\u2019t always. My heart\u2013 still a child\u2019s heart, a little girl desperate for her father\u2019s love\u2013 doesn\u2019t always either. I let my imagination get the best of me in these moments, creating false scenarios of redemption, and when I come back to reality I feel devastated. Because even if I did go through with these fantasies, even if I did try to arrange for us to get to know each other again, I don\u2019t know what he would say.<\/span><\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know if he would accept me for the person I am. I am an outspoken queer woman, and he was never the kind of man who could tolerate loud people, especially loud women. He always had to be louder, like he was with my mom, and like he was with me. I learned about this ugly pattern of his when I got older, connecting the dots myself when I learned he never would. The thought of trying to reconnect with him just for him to silence me, again, is too much. Too scary. I didn\u2019t understand my father when he was in my life, and now that he\u2019s been out of my life for so long, I have no way of knowing how he\u2019d react to seeing me again. If he\u2019d even want to.<\/span><\/p>\n

There are so many uncertainties that I have about my dad, and I will never get them answered. I don\u2019t know anything about how my dad feels now. I don\u2019t know if he misses me. I don\u2019t know if he\u2019s sad, or if he\u2019s angry with me for walking away. I don\u2019t know if he\u2019s sober or if he\u2019s taking better care of himself. I don\u2019t know if he\u2019s taken accountability for all his wrongdoings, or if he still believes that my walking away outweighs his wrongdoings. I don\u2019t know how he would react if he were to read this right now. If he would gawk at my calling him an abuser\u2013 because I do, to my therapist, to all my friends\u2013if he would say I\u2019ve twisted the story. Made him out to be some cold hearted monster he never was. I didn\u2019t know anything about him then, and I don\u2019t know anything now.<\/span><\/p>\n

All I know is what happened. Why I chose to stop communicating with him. I replay all the memories in my head when the doubt starts trickling in, the ways he\u2019s hurt me like a mental film to remind myself that I\u2019m not a bad daughter. I just had a bad dad. I replay everything, and when I do, I relive everything too.<\/span><\/p>\n

Him screaming in my face, telling me I don\u2019t know what I\u2019m talking about. Him spitting on my skin as he yelled. Him throwing my phone when I tried to call for help. Him texting me that my mother raised a little bitch\u2013 the last time he ever texted me. Him trying to force me to kiss him, and sit on his lap when I was too old to be doing these things, when I told him I didn\u2019t want to. Him making comments about my physique, sexualizing my child<\/em> body, his daughter\u2019s <\/em>body. Him ending up in rehab, telling me he\u2019s gonna get better, and then never getting better. Him lying to everyone in his family after I left, telling them he did nothing wrong. Him harassing my family for years after I left because he could no longer harass me.<\/span><\/p>\n

These are the memories I have of my father. They\u2019re ugly and sickening, and they\u2019ve overpowered the few good memories I have of him. This is what I associate with him. And yet, still, I often find myself missing him. Still, I grieve for him inevitably. Still, I look at the picture of him and I on my bedside table, hold it close to my chest, and I ache. Still, I look in the mirror to see his almond eyes reflecting back at me, and I tell myself all the things I wish I could tell him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI saw a man in the grocery store the other day who looked just like you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI saw a Monte Carlo that looked just like yours.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u201cI\u2019m sorry your parents made you feel unloved.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHappy Birthday.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m thinking of you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry your brother died, and you never got to make things better with him.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry your childhood was hard.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI love you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I repeat this last one several times. I love you. I love you. I love you. I know that he can\u2019t ever hear me. I know that it\u2019s not him I\u2019m looking at in the mirror, obviously. I know that he\u2019s two states away. I know all these things, but still, I say these three words like he really is there looking back at me. I love you. I love you. I love you.<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019m scared that he doesn\u2019t know. How could he know? It\u2019s been so long since we\u2019ve seen each other, and we didn\u2019t part on good terms. I told him that I wasn\u2019t going to talk to him anymore or visit him again. And I held to that\u2013 I haven\u2019t seen him since. My leaving was the consequence of his actions, of his abuse. I know that. But I left, and it must\u2019ve hurt him, and I have never wanted to hurt him, not truly. I wish I could tell him that leaving him behind was the hardest thing I\u2019ve ever had to do in my life. I make jokes about the trauma I\u2019ve endured at his hands, and I write poems about how empowered I feel to have rid myself of his abuse. But the wounds are still there, because the love is still there. It makes me sick to my stomach to imagine him not knowing this.<\/span><\/p>\n

The thought keeps me up at night. Imagining him, not knowing that I still love him, eats at me everyday. I try to cope with this by telling myself that he doesn\u2019t deserve to know, and that if he wanted to know, he would reach out to me. If it was eating at him the same way it eats at me, he would do something about it. Wouldn\u2019t he? And why should I care if it eats at him anyways? Let it eat at him, let it drive him crazy. But I do care. I care so much that it feels agonizing. I care so much that he might be in pain that I sometimes regret breaking contact with him. That I sometimes convince myself that I am a villain, that I am a bad daughter. That if his heart is broken, it\u2019s because of me, and not his own fault.<\/span><\/p>\n

The truth is, though, that I don\u2019t know anything about how my dad feels now. I don\u2019t know if he\u2019s heartbroken. I don\u2019t know if he\u2019s doing anything better, if he\u2019s still in therapy, still going to AA meetings. I don\u2019t know if he\u2019s taken accountability for any of his wrongdoings, or if he still believes that my walking away outweighs his wrongdoings. I don\u2019t know how he would react if he were to read this right now. If he would gawk at my labeling him an abuser, if he would say I\u2019ve twisted the story, made him out to be someone way worse than he actually was. Here I am again, going through this same cycle of remembering and knowing nothing all at once. I didn\u2019t know anything about what was going through his head then, and I don\u2019t know anything that might be now.<\/span><\/p>\n

I have no idea what kind of man he is now. Is he a better man? Did it take me leaving him behind for him to want to be a better man? Is this how human beings work? Do we only ever want to change, to be good, when good things walk out of our lives? Was I a good thing in my dad\u2019s life? Or was I\u2013 by staying in his grip for so many years, loving him so fiercely despite all those bad things he did to me\u2013holding him back from being a better person?<\/span><\/p>\n

All of these things I don\u2019t know, these lingering uncertainties that I\u2019ll never get cleared up, haunt me. I\u2019ve spent so much of my formative years searching for the answers, and have come up with nothing. Except for one thing, that I know for certain, that I remind myself of on the nights I can\u2019t sleep:<\/span><\/p>\n

I know that I have a picture of my dad kissing me on the cheek when I was a baby sitting on my bedside table. I know that I look at this picture in moments when I am seeking comfort. I know that I can find comfort in telling myself that once, there was only love. Not violence. Not degradation. Not questions unanswered, Just love. Just a young father meeting his baby girl for the first time.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My dad loved me.<\/span><\/p>\n

My dad loved me.<\/span><\/p>\n

My dad loved me.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Natalie Scott My dad and I only have one picture together, at least one that I can remember. It was taken when I was only a few weeks old, still a wrinkly, squishy, mostly bald baby. My dad is mostly bald too, as he had just gotten back from the army. He\u2019s still wearing his… <\/p>\n

Read more He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":92,"featured_media":0,"parent":19,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-170","page","type-page","status-publish","entry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/170","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/92"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=170"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/170\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":383,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/170\/revisions\/383"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/19"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=170"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}