Linda Schierse Leonard - The Wounded Woman: Healing the Father-daughter Relationship

Healing the Father-Daughter Relationship

Linda Schierse Leonard

SWALLOW PRESS
Athens

Swallow Press
An imprint of Ohio University Press
Athens, Ohio 45701
www.ohioswallow.com

Copyright 1982 by Linda Schierse Leonard
All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

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Swallow Press / Ohio University Press books are printed on acid-free paper

Paperback ISBN 978-0-8040-1158-7

Library of Congress Catalog in Publication Data
Leonard, Linda Schierse.
The wounded woman.

Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. WomenPsychology. 2. Fathers and daughters. 3. Femininity (Psychology) I. Title.

For my Father

So many people have helped me over the six years of writing this bookclients, students, colleagues, friendsand I wish to thank all of these women and men who shared with me their experiences and understanding of the father-daughter relationship.

Special thanks go to the C.G. Jung Institute of San Francisco for their scholarship grants which financed some of the clerical work for this book; to the editorial staff of Psychological Perspectives which originally published four articles that have been incorporated in the book, and especially to William Walcott, Russell Lockhart and A1 Kreinheder for their support and editorial suggestions; to Donna Ippolito of Swallow Press whose suggestions were of immeasurable importance in the final revisioning of the text; to Elaine E. Stanton for the artistic image for the cover; to Mary Ann Mattoon who first invited me to lecture publicly on the father-daughter wound and later read the manuscript and gave suggestions; to my writing group, John Beebe, Neill Russack, and Karen Signell who listened to some of the chapters in their original form and gave me new perspectives and constructive criticism; to Peer Hultberg, John Beebe, and Kirsten Rasmussen who read the manuscript as a whole and offered valuable suggestions; to my class at the California School of Professional Psychology, Berkeley, for sharing their fantasies about fathering and feminity; to Hilde Binswanger who first inspired me to write on the father-daughter wound; to Jane and Jo Wheelwright, Janine and Steve Hunter, and Gloria Gregg who gave me emotional support and suggestions during critical phases of the writing process; and especially to my mother, Virginia Schierse, who shared with me her experience and memories of my father.

Grateful acknowledgement is made to the following for permission to reprint material copyrighted or controlled by them:

A Sword by Karin Boye, reprinted from The Other Voice, copyright 1976 by W.W. Norton and Co., by permission of Albert Bonniers Frlag AB.

What is Sorrow For? by Robert Bly, by permission of Robert Bly.

Why Mira Cant Go Back to her Old House, Mirabai, version by Robert Bly, reprinted by permission of Robert Bly and Sierra Club Books, from News of the Universe, copyright 1980 by Robert Bly.

The Father of My Country, by Diane Wakoski, reprinted from Inside the Blood Factory, copyright 1968 by Diane Wakoski with permission by Doubleday Co. & Inc.

Daddy by Sylvia Plath, reprinted from Ariel, copyright 1965 by Ted Hughes, by permission of Harper & Row Publishers.

Selections from Duino Elegies and Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke, copyrights 1939 and 1934 by W.W. Norton & Co., Inc. with permission of W.W. Norton and Co., Inc.

Apotheosis by Dawn Brett with permission by Dawn Brett.

When I was a little girl I loved my father very much. He was warm and loving and was my favorite playmate. He taught me to play baseball, and he taught me mathematics. When I was seven, every Saturday he took me to the library and charmed the librarian into allowing me to check out fourteen books a week, twice their usual allotment. Because my father hadnt had a chance to finish high school, and because he valued learning so much, he communicated that value to me, and along with my grandmother, he spent hours and hours with me, helping me study and learn and improve my vocabulary, playing quiz games with me, and so on. In winter he took me sledding, and I discovered the magical brilliance of snow in the night and the excitement of the fast ride to the bottom of the hill. He also took me to the horse races where I experienced the thrills of racing and gambling. My father loved animals and so they became my friends too. And when we went on walks together, we always met new people because my father was so friendly and outgoing. I was my fathers daughter, and he was so proud of me that I always had a sparkling, glowing smile. My mother was very special to him, too. Every weekend he took us out to dinner at different ethnic restaurants in the city where we lived, and then my father would often take my mother dancing until late in the night. Though we didnt have much money, life seemed to be a great adventure; there were always so many new and interesting things to see and do.

But then, somewhere, somehow, all of this started to change. My father began staying out late at night, and when he returned, Id often be awakened by his angry shouting. At first this happened only occasionally, but soon it became once a week, then twice, and finally almost every night. In the beginning I was confused and wondered why my mother was nagging my father so much on Sunday mornings. I felt so sorry for him. But by the time I was nine years old, it became quite clear. My father was the neighborhood drunk! He couldnt hold a job, and I was now terribly ashamed of him. A photo was taken of me at the time, and the contrast between that picture and my former glowing self was remarkable. Now I looked like a forlorn waif. No longer smile and sparkling eyes, now only downcast eyes and drooping mouth. For the next several years my feelings about my father were very confused. I loved him. I suffered for him. I was ashamed of him. I wasnt able to understand how he could be so wonderful one moment and so terrible the next.

One evening stands out vividly in my memory. My father often came home late at night when he was drunk and threatened to hurt my grandmother (his mother-in-law). My mother and I often had to call the police to get him out of the house. Usually I was the one to make the call. Sometimes if my father was so violent that I couldnt get to the phone, in my fright I would run out on the porch screaming for help. On one of these especially violent nights the police arrived to find me sobbing and huddled in the corner. One policeman turned to my father and said, How can you do this to your daughter? The memory of this strangers concern and his question to my father echoed in my mind for many years. It may even be that at that very moment, somewhere deep in my psyche, the seed to write this book was planted.

As I approached adolescence, my confused feelings towards my father congealed into hatred. No longer did I love him, or even pity him. Repulsed by his behavior, I hated him intensely. I lied about him to my teachers and friends, and it was impossible to invite anyone to my house. No one except our immediate neighbors knew my father was a drunk. And no one else, I pledged, would ever knowif I could help it. I disidentified with him completely, trying to become his opposite in every way I could conceive.