I found out that my father had died by listening to Mom’s side of a phone call. It took a while for me to figure out that she was talking to my brother, and then even longer to figure out that he was telling her my father had died. I had to wait until the call was over to get the details – that my father had been in and out of nursing homes and hospitals for the past three years (which we sort of knew, from clues but not from direct information), that he didn’t have dementia (which is what Mom had assumed), and that there was drama around when and where the funeral would take place.
I wrote to four people after I found out – two good friends, my therapist, and my rabbi. And my rabbi rushed out of a committee meeting (reluctantly?) to call me and see what I might need from him. He already knew the backstory, about the sexual abuse and the estrangement (I hadn’t seen my father in 23 years), and he said something that really stuck with me. He said that the commandment to Honor your father and mother is often misinterpreted. The word in Hebrew is Kaved, which actually means weight or weigh, not respect or honor. It means that you should weigh the role of your parents in your life when you decide what you owe them in return; you are not required to blindly honor or respect a parent simply because they are your parent, but because they acted as a parent should and raised you with love and respect and guided and protected you. The commandment to Honor your father and mother is not meant to be a get out of jail free card for any parent who abuses or neglects their children.
I am not orthodox, like my brother and his family, and I don’t believe that my rabbi is the final word on what I can and can’t do as a Jewish woman, but it helped to have validation and support, both from a person I trust and from the tradition of my ancestors.
I made sure to tell my rabbi not to put out an announcement that my father had died or to add my father’s name to the list for the Mourner’s Kaddish at our synagogue at Friday night services. I didn’t want to receive messages from people who care about me but don’t know my situation, telling me that they are sorry for my loss and may my father’s memory be a blessing. It isn’t a blessing. He wasn’t a blessing in my life.
Jewish funerals are required to take place as soon as possible after the death, but I did not go (though Mom watched it on Zoom to support my brother and his children). And I didn’t go to sit Shiva at my brother’s house, though Mom went to visit and to offer support, avoiding discussions about what did and did not happen in the past.
I stayed home and sought comfort from my friends and my dogs and my therapist, but I was jealous of my brother’s ability to mourn our father, and all of the Jewish rituals that would support him through that process. I found myself feeling jealous of anyone who could find comfort in hearing their lost loved one’s name read out each week before the Mourner’s Kaddish, or who found comfort in saying the Mourner’s Kaddish and praising God in the memory of their lost loved one. I’m jealous of people for whom the traditional rituals work – like giving nostalgic eulogies and having friends and family over to reminisce and tell stories and share food for a week. Those mourning rituals are so beautiful and powerful, but only when thinking about the lost loved one is a comfort.
My situation doesn’t fit into the traditional framework. My father sexually abused me, and others. He was a pedophile and a narcissist and a manipulator, and he denied what he’d done and denied the significance of the things he couldn’t dispute having done, and never made any attempt to make amends. If anything, he continued to try to convince important people in my life that I was lying and he was a victim. The fact is, I still live in a world that doesn’t want to reckon with the reality that abuse and neglect are everywhere, and that they destroy lives every day.
This was brought home to me, vividly, that night, when, after writing my emails and texts and making my phone calls, I tried to distract myself with an episode of New Amsterdam on NBC. It’s a hospital show with an idealistic bent, often too simplistic, but still hopeful about making the world a better place. It’s not my favorite show, but I watch it regularly and often find it comforting and/or interesting. But for whatever reason, that night, out of nowhere, the writers chose to go down a rabbit hole about Recovered Memories.
Recovered Memories is a somewhat generic term that people often use to describe traumatic memories that have been forgotten at some point and then remembered later. A lot of how you define the term Recovered Memories depends on what your intentions are: if you want to debunk the idea that it’s even possible for memories to return after a period of forgetting, you will probably define Recovered Memories as wholly forgotten and then remembered only with the help of a therapist or a drug; if you believe that trauma can cause memories to fragment or be blocked for some period of time, you’ll probably define Recovered Memories more generally, as partial forgetting and partial remembering over time, often triggered by events in the present that remind you of the past trauma (like your own child reaching the age you were at when you were abused).
On this episode of New Amsterdam, the writers decided to take the loveable psychiatrist on the show, who is more often than not empathetic and kind, and have him testify in court that all Recovered Memories, of any kind, are unreliable. They even had him quote a study about The Shopping Mall Experiment, where the researchers said they were able to “implant” memories in susceptible adults of having been lost in a mall in childhood. The study has been debunked for any number of reasons, but the biggest reason is that traumatic memory and “normal” memory are not the same, and while being lost in a mall might be scary, it would not qualify as a traumatic memory unless something traumatic happened while you were lost.
But still, I wanted to believe that the writers on the show were going to handle the issue sensitively, and in the next scene they gave me hope when the psychiatrist’s female colleague confronted him with her own recovered memory (though not of abuse), and with the terrible impact his testimony would have on millions of women and children who had been abused and tried to testify to that in court. But then the psychiatrist doubled down on his belief that not only Recovered Memories, but ALL memories, are unreliable. He went on to specifically attack the legitimacy of his female colleague’s memories, by researching the probable season and location where the memory would have taken place, disputing her memories of the weather on that day in order to prove to her that it could not have happened the way she remembered it. He was relentless and wildly inappropriate, and the writers gave no explanation for why he would feel so strongly about this particular issue or why he would be willing to be so cruel to his friend.
By the end of the episode it seemed to me that the writers’ intention was to use this whole storyline as a way to question the female colleague’s memories of how her father had left her when she was little, so she could reassess her feelings towards her still living mother and therefore change her plans to move to London, which threatened the status quo at the hospital; but they could have found hundreds of other ways to change her mind without invalidating millions of people.
I was in shock. The violence of the psychiatrist’s attack on his friend seemed to come out of nowhere, and the female colleague’s willingness to forgive him right away was out of character and bizarre. But more than that, the way the writers were misrepresenting the research was horrifying, especially because it is well known in the field that traumatic memories often have missing or distorted nonessential details, like the time of day, or the weather, or the clothes you were wearing, and those mistaken details have no bearing on whether or not the crux of the memory is true.
The emotions I couldn’t produce in response to the news of my father’s death came roaring up as I watched this show and felt invalidated and manipulated all over again. You can’t prove it and therefore it didn’t happen. You have no pictures and I don’t want to believe you and therefore it didn’t happen. Your memories, your symptoms, your feelings, are nothing in the face of what I want to believe.
But I’ve done the reading that the writers on New Amsterdam clearly did not bother to do, and I’ve done the listening, to many people who have been abused, and I know that the brain often tries to protect us from knowing things we are not ready to deal with. I just felt so let down that a show that had seemed thoughtful and kind was no longer trustworthy.
I am still processing my father’s death, and trying to figure out how it changes things, if it changes things. I am safer now than I was as a child. I am loved and supported and listened to and believed; and I cherish the people who have brought me comfort and made my world a better place. But the mourning process is still ongoing, for the loss of the childhood and the father I could have had, and for the years spent trying to recover, and I wish there could be established rituals to help me through this kind of mourning. There are so many of us in similar situations, trying to cobble together the support we need to move forward. I can’t be the only one who struggles to create those rituals on my own, and I can’t be the only one who feels let down by a world that refuses to acknowledge the pervasiveness and validity of the need for those rituals.
If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Young Adult novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.
Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?
rachelmankowitz 
Thank you for sharing. There are many readers that you help through sharing your
journey. Stay Strong!
Thank you so much!
❤️
Sorry you went through that but you are strong to bare it on your shoulders and write about it
Thank you!
I am sorry for your loss, not the loss of your father, but the other things you lost along the way, the many griefs you’ve mourned and processed for years. I hope this hasn’t been too triggering.
Memory is unreliable, but people tend not to make up trauma out of nowhere. Repressing traumatic memories is a coping mechanism that I see most often when the trauma happened in childhood. With no tools and no understanding, those memories get boxed up for a time when you are better able to process – still not easy, and often comes with its own side effects, but everyone’s just doing their best to keep going, keep surviving, and I don’t think anyone has the right to tell someone else that their memories or feelings are wrong. Sure the details might be fuzzy, but that central theme is what haunts people, and our minds fill in the rest
Thank you for your insight!
Rachel, your self awareness and personal insight is amazing. I have memories of a friend of my father’s who I really liked and who made me laugh and giggle. My next memory is of my hating and being terrified of him. I have no recollection of what if anything happened in between, but know that the terror was real, so much so that I refused to go up for a Christmas present at a large party where he was involved in giving them out. I couldn’t even say at the time what the problem was and I think I’m quite grateful for that. In fact it is the memory of not knowing what the problem was that endures. Your survival and your writing is testament to the remarkable woman that you are and you should be proud of both.
Thank you so much!
Just like so many, I can relate. The difference though is my dad is still alive. After 30+ years of no contact we have spoken and he has apologized to me. Does his apology change anything? No not really. I survived and had a family of my own but my children missed out on having grandparents and at 16 years old I had to figure out the world on my own. Am I still angry about it? I use to be but life is too short to carry burdens. Your writing inspires me to share my own, not just for others to read but perhaps to help myself with my PTSD, anxiety, and depression. Thank you for sharing- Bridgette~ 💕
Writing through it really does help!
thank you for your inspiration to do so! 😉
I am sorry for your loss, not for the loss of your father, but for the loss of the childhood you should have had, and for the loss of the father you needed and should have had. I believe God grieves with you, for those losses.
Thank you so much!
I, too, was sexually abused as a child and not one person who should have been a protector and defender (my two younger sisters also went through the same horror) investigated. My father was a respected, well-educated engineer and had written four books – therefore it was impossible that he was doing that to his children – even though he got me pregnant twice by the time I was 15 and performed abortions on me both times and I almost bled to death and was afraid I would never be able to have a child after those non-medical abortions. I celebrated when he died. I wasn’t a Christian back then. Since becoming a Christian, I have forgiven him – although if he were still alive I wouldn’t let him near a grandchild. The only way I have moved past it is to shove the horror of the memories into a closet of my mind and shut and lock the door. I simply don’t open the door again unless Jesus calls upon me to share my story in church or in a conference or in a book. Keeping it locked away restores my peace. I can’t tell you how to recover from your horror story, but I will be praying for you. Recovery is possible. Joy is possible. Peace is possible. For these things for you – I will be praying. God bless.
Thank you for opening the door for me and our blogging friends. Your story is so important.
I love reading your posts… and I really do read all of them, and don’t just give a like ‘because’.
I don’t usually comment… but I needed to on this one in particular.
You have just debunked a ‘religious dictation’ in my life… which has had a huge impact on me, and I want to thank you for your honesty and openness, and for sharing this!
While I must admit, I am slightly confused by my thoughts at the moment, ha ha, I am grateful for the ‘confirmation’ you have provided here that perhaps in this particular area of my life, I am not ‘as wrong and disappointing’ as I have been told I am.
So thank you ❤
I’m so glad! Thank you!
It is often hard when one parent dies, For me and my mom it was dev stating when on November 15, 1967, when I was 10 years old my dad died, It changes your entire perspective on life and my mom could not really function for a whole year, Many blessings to you,
Thank you! And to you!
Rachel, I had a crap dad as well. When he died I mourned the life and relationship I could have had with him rather than the life and relationship I did have with him. Your Rabbi is very wise. I agree that parents don’t deserve gold medals just for passing on their DNA to you. Their behaviour and intent matters more.
I’m sorry for what you went through, but selfishly, I feel less alone after hearing your story.
I tend to agree with you that we cannot give our parents a “free pass” from past abuses to their children. So on the positive side of this, look how far one has grown as a person to overcome these family trangressions. Be well.
We need badges or something, so people know how far we’ve come!
My father died just over a year ago. He never abused anyone in any way that I am aware of, and in fact he was a good dad to me and my siblings when we were children. We really had a charmed life for which I am grateful.
Subsequently, at around their 30th anniversary, my father walked out the back door, left my mother and his family behind, and took off with another woman. We all managed to cobble together an awkward relationship out of some sense of duty and remaining love for him. In time he married the woman, and the three daughters from the husband she deserted (for my father) became step siblings. We were all grown by then, and considered these “his” and these “her” children, but we all got along well. My father was fair and generous with all of us, and his will specifically calls out to treat all seven children equally.
I’m still not sure why I tried so hard, in later years, to continue to support the relationship. At first he and his new wife would come for Christmas or a birthday party, then, after some years and frictions and fallings out, the relationship was entirely on me. I could drive up there for lunch. We all drove up there for Father’s Day or his birthday. I respect my father’s very successful career, and the high regard he garners from industry professionals. I appreciate the time he was my real dad growing up, and all the hugs and kisses and birthdays and vacations we enjoyed together.
But the man who died last September was not that loving and supportive father anymore.
I endured a year of my mother’s sobbing. How could the love of her life leave her after all those years, and at this age (mid-50’s) when “starting over” is overwhelming? I listened to her, a good Christian woman, swear off God. To bash Him. To ask “where was he when I needed him?” I watched her move in with my sister and try to live on the pittance he would send her. Watched her sell off the family home out of desperation. She took up drinking and smoking cigarettes (which she’d quit at 32) in a self-destructive spiral. (This did not last, as she was a fine woman after all, and this kind of folly could not be sustained)
Maybe it’s just me, or maybe just because I’m an Irish boy at heart, but I feel like my mother was one of the sweetest people I have ever known. She certainly made me feel like I was the center of the universe any time I was in her company. Maybe it’s because this life lesson helped to steel me to commitment to my family. To keep faithfully married to my wife through better and worse and sickness and health until by death we were parted after 39 years.
It’s a long backstory, and perhaps more cathartic and helpful to me than to you or your readers, but I wanted to express how little grief and loss I felt at his death. I questioned my own emotions, and wondered if there wasn’t something wrong with me that I could feel that way.
Regardless of the efforts and smiles and polite exchanges, I held a great contempt for my father for deserting my sainted mother. For deserting his family. For deserting me.
Maybe this won’t relate well to you, since your story is so very different from mine.
Kaved: to weigh their importance, significance, impact on my life and other lives around them.
My mother was, and remains long after her death, a bright shining star and guiding light in my life. A fine example of unwavering loyalty and unconditional love.
My father was kind and then cruel. My father was generous then selfish. My father made promises and then broke them. I loved him, then despised him, then tolerated him. I’m having a hard time forgiving him, and I fault myself for that. It’s not like me to refuse to understand that people are people and not perfection. His actions were far from evil, far from uncommon.
Still, I weigh these thoughts and feelings. Kaved.
My mother’s cremains are with me always, in a safe and revered place in my grandmother’s china closet. I speak to her often.
I told my sister I would accept a portion of dad’s remains only out of kindness to her.
If she sends them along, I’m not likely to keep them.
Perhaps dashing them to the four winds will close the book on this fractured fairy tale.
So I hope it helps to know that here is someone that did not feel or do those things that are “supposed to be.”
For me, the death of my father was more a relief than a loss. A relief that I no longer had to prop up the relationship and feel duty-bound to do so. A relief that I no longer need to feel like a traitor to my mother by being considerate to dad’s second wife. A relief that I no longer need to repress the anger which I still hold onto for the way he treated his family. Like old furniture you throw into the dumpster. Anger that he would expect us to accept the comfortable new life he made for himself while my mother languished in sorrow and poverty.
I’m not so far gone that I would spit on his grave.
But I know some people that might.
In the end, joy and love win out over pain and sorrow. I cleave to this.
My sincerest sympathies for you, the little girl you once were, and the emotions you must navigate now. Know that you are far from alone.
Seek peace,
Paz
This is such a thoughtful post. Thank you!
❤