Forgiveness

One way for me to heal from all the pain and trauma I’ve experienced from a loving and supportive, yet destructive and deceitful father, is by assuring myself of his good intentions. Deep down, I know he is sorry for what he’s put me through, though he’s never apologized or accepted responsibility for his actions. Now he has Alzheimer’s so there may never be a true, meaningful reconciliation, but I need to move forward. Writing has always helped me to process my feelings so I wrote this monologue at the IWWG Conference this past summer. I hope it will be helpful to others who struggle with forgiveness and letting go of deep pain inflicted by loved ones. This only acknowledges a few of the difficulties I’ve faced as my father’s daughter, but it’s a start.

I Forgive You (Final Version)

A Monologue by Christina Dunbar

AT RISE: CHRISTY enters her father’s room on the Alzheimer’s unit of Veterans Care Facility.

CHRISTY

Hi, Dad. It’s your daughter—Christy. No, not your sister. [Slowly.] I’m Christy, your youngest daughter.

[Nods head.] That’s right, dad. I’m your daughter. The Oscar to your Felix. Remember the Odd Couple—your favorite show with the neat freak Felix and Oscar the slob? We used to refer to ourselves as the “odd couple” when it was just the two of us living together. You tried and tried to get me to straighten up my room, but finally you gave up and told me to just keep my “damn door closed.” [They both laugh.] We certainly were an odd pair: a 40-year-old swinging bachelor and his teenage daughter. You even wrote a novel about it!

[Dad seems surprised at this achievement.] Yes, Dad. You actually wrote five novels. And I’ve read all of them. [Beat.] Well, except for the one you wrote when—well…when you were incarcerated. [Jogging memory.] About twenty five years ago. For insurance fraud.

[Takes father’s hands. Leans in.] Dad, I want you to know that I forgive you. I’m not sure how much you remember, but I want—no, I need you—to know that I know you never intended to hurt me. I know you feel bad about the time I almost didn’t graduate from college, because you hadn’t paid off the bill and didn’t tell me.

[Gentle, but firm.] No, you didn’t, Dad.

[Lightens.] But I want you to remember that you are also the one who encouraged me to go to college in the first place. You used to brag so much about my grades that even the bank tellers knew my GPA! You were always so proud of me. You saved every newspaper article that mentioned my name. You kept all of my report cards and programs from every play, musical, concert, and competition. No matter what it was, you were always there with your camera dangling from your neck, ready to capture the moment.

Yes, it’s true that you made some decisions that set me back, like when our house went into foreclosure and I had to declare bankruptcy. The bank froze my accounts so I didn’t have access to any money and my credit was shot for seven years. [With difficulty.] You also took out credit cards in my name and didn’t tell me. You never apologized either. But I figured you were too embarrassed or ashamed to admit it. Or maybe you figured you’d pay me back once your novel was published. Who knows? [Softening.] All I know is that you never intended to hurt me.

[Reminiscing.] Do you remember writing me every week at college? You’d include a crisp twenty dollar bill and a funny cartoon or a newspaper clipping about a friend or a topic of interest. God, how I looked forward to your letters!

Yes, you did that, Dad. Every week. You were also the one who hauled my ass back and forth from college. Remember those trips in your brown Thunderbird? We’d listen to a cassette mix of your favorite songs. [Sings.] Bad, Bad Leroy Brown. Baddest man in the whole damn town. [Dad joins in and they laugh.] I think you loved that song so much, because you were one of the baddest teenage boys in your hometown—filling your mouth with soda and chips and pretending to puke as cars passed by. You were quite the rebel. I remember the five of us kids dancing around the living room with our stuffed animals when you played that song. Those were good times. That’s what I want you to remember.

You’re a good dad—a bit reckless and impulsive—but you keep life exciting, that’s for sure. Never a dull moment with you.

You know, a lot of the good in me comes from you. My love of animals and books. My passion for music, reading, writing, scrapbooking. My creativity and my zest for life. Yes, Dad. There is no question that I am your daughter Christy and I forgive you.