By: Diecer Delfin
My family and I are originally from the Philippines. Growing up I dealt with domestic violence and my father use to do shaboo, (Filipino term for meth) and crack. His drug habit would make him paranoid and when that happened we all knew it, especially if he wasn’t home by a certain time of night. We knew that he would come home drunk or high and start wailing away on my mother. My two sisters and I couldn’t do anything to help her: we were too small. I remember my oldest sister hiding us to protect us from my father. There was one instance when my oldest sister confessed to us that my father and his friend were doing drugs at our house one day and his friend tried to rape her. So I wasn’t the only one that was traumatized in our house - it was my sisters as well (especially my oldest sister because her memories are more vivid.)
Going back to my childhood I realize that I learned what depression was at an early age. I can recall wanting to die so that I wouldn’t have to suffer through day to day life. This is at five or six years old. I can’t even imagine a child feeling that way. For me no day was safe. Not birthdays, not holidays - there were no safe days in my childhood. Something always happened. That’s affected me as a husband. I find myself expecting the worst. My wife always has my back and reminds me that I’m not my father.
As I look back at my adolescence I realize that I didn’t really have a mother or father figure. It was just me and my sisters. My sisters and I talk about our childhood a lot and how messed up it was.
When we were still living in the Philippines I remember my dad coming home with the intention of chopping my mother up with a machete. My mother grabbed my sisters and I and hid us in the bushes. She left us there and told us she was going to call for help. Later my aunt “my dad’s sister” came and got us. At this point we had no idea where our mother was. We didn’t now if she was still living or not. That day lives in the back of my mind.
I can vividly remember my father often waking me up early in the morning. High on drugs and coupled with his OCD kicking in. He gave me the choice of mopping the floor or being beaten. We lived in a rural area and he would tell us that he was going into the city to look for a job. Twenty-four hours would go by and the neighbors would notice that he was gone so they would call me in and tell me to eat with them. There would be days when my father would send me to the public market to beg for food. “Who does that as a father?” So yeah, I can’t help but be angry.
Our family immigrated to Chicago just before the attacks on September 11th with hopes of living a better life. My parents sold their land so we could have money to survive on when we got here. When we got to Chicago we thought that we turned a new page and that things would get better but as the years went by things continued to happen that would tear our family apart. Though my sisters and I remain close we are currently all living in different parts of the country. Even in Chicago my father continued to do drugs. The beatings didn't stop.
My mother was the provider of our family but provided very little “if any” emotional support. She handled her “responsibilities” as a mother but she was never present as the “nurturing” mother. As I grew up I started questioning things. A lot of doubt crept into my mind on top of all of the anxiety that I experienced every night. The nights continue to be hard for me. When 9:00pm hits I always feel like something is gonna pop off.
I go through depression to the point that I’m seeing somebody to help me deal with it but you can only talk so much. I to try to make sense of things. The physical effects are always there no matter how much I try to alleviate it. I use medication and photography to help me cope but the things that I have experienced will never leave my body and I have come to terms with the fact that there’s no escaping that. I have to find a way to make piece with things.
I’ve had some really bad lows in my life and I have thought about suicide a lot. Just being so fed up - replaying the same thing every day; even when I don’t want to - it just invades my mind. Some days I don’t even want to go outside and deal with people because I feel like they can sense everything that I’ve been through.
I know one day I’m going to have a child of my own and they are going to want to know about my childhood; “what am I going to say?”
To this very day I try to make sense of the things my dad did. The way my mother would talk down to me out of anger. She would call me worthless. That’s part of the reason that I enlisted in the army. She was at the table eating dinner and I came home and laid the contract on the table. I told her “I’m gonna be out of here.” The army was my way out. Living in Chicago and looking back everyone is still doing the same things now that they were doing at an early age. I knew that I had to get out of Chicago in order to establish myself.
I can’t help but get angry when I think about my past. I do know that I need to talk about it because if I don’t it builds up. With that all being said and despite the unfortunate things that I had to see and experience I learned at a young age what not to do. I learned resilience early in life.
My father never asked for help, I wish that he knew he needed it. To this day it’s hard for him to take accountability for his actions. When I talk to him now I don’t see him as my father. He helped give me life but that’s it. I completely shut myself off from him. I’ve already discussed with my wife and sisters that I don’t think I will want him around my kids once my wife and I decide to have them. We’ve given him so many chances and things always end the same.
My dad is manipulative. I can remember him giving me a camera and I loved it! I told him he was the best dad ever. Then we got into a disagreement and he took it away. That was his thing - he’d buy us things only to use them against us and eventually take them away. That messes with you.
He would take me on “joy rides” around the city. He’d come to a sudden stop and tell me to wait in the car. I would see a woman open the door. At that age I was so naive that I didn’t realize what was going on. Now looking back I’m able to put the pieces together and I’m like man. Me and my sisters are ashamed and embarrassed that we are linked to him because we are nothing like him. I guess I still need to learn what “real” forgiveness is.