Madness is doing the same thing over again and expecting a different result

To be abandoned once is unfortunate. To be abandoned twice is carelessness, to plagerise a quip from Oscar Wilde. To be abandoned thrice, however, is a tragedy. And it is how I find myself on, thankfully, a golden autumnal Monday morning, with the weekend's storm fresh in my mind and on my puffy face, as I find myself unable to go to work. I am, as they say, sick at heart. 

It all started with a discussion about Christmas, always a touchpaper for early fireworks as loyalties get kindled and emotional embers get stoked. It would have been nice, I'd thought, to be able to go away to escape it all. Last Christmas morning was spent in hysterics after my sister made unreasonable demands on us to arrive, a two and a half hour journey from London, by midday or else Christmas would be spoiled. It was for me in any case, although, when we arrived at two, lunch was not yet served. 

This year, by common agreement, was to be a quiet one. Katie has a six month old and has recently returned to work. My mother, as is common, has fled across the Atlantic to commiserate with the other snowbirds avoiding their families in parts of Florida not ripped apart by hurricane Matthew. But because we are hoping to go there at Easter, (although the value of the pound makes it less likely by the day) and are having the second half of our summer holiday in Devon this October, there's not much left over to throw at jollifying Christmas away from home. 

And so we were planning an 'at home'- the waifs and strays of Crackneyshire might pop in for lunch, although, being waifs and strays, they can also be massive flakes – but at the very least,  I can take advantage of not missing out on all the good telly by being at someone else's house. It would be fine, if not extraordinarily festive. 

But then, I stupidly messaged my father last week, full of cold and angst; honest, for a change that I'm drinking too much and not succeeding well enough, (I, not-so-secretly, blame both these things on him), when to my surprise, he responded positively. He asked his Korean wife to message us (all invitations must, historically, go through her), inviting us all to Christmas and to stay over for Boxing Day. And I suddenly felt like all I wanted in the world was to to spend Christmas at home – though of course in reality it's not been my home now for over 20 years (and given I'm not quite 36, you can do the maths on why I blame him for the other stuff in the first place).

But the problem with having a narcissist for a father is invitations always come with conditions attached, and Christmases past have always been an exercise in power relations. I once mildly asked if we could forgo gifts as Tom had recently lost his job. He lost his temper at that, leading to another Christmas spent sulking. Often it just presents an opportunity for showing off his wealth – his new family dressed up to the nines in fur and designer leather, amid an awkward exchange of lavishly wrapped nonentities, and toys that couldn't be more poorly chosen for the sometimes peculiar tastes of my children- the grandchildren he barely knows.

So when I messaged back saying, please can we talk about things first, given how things have gone previously – let's not just pretend we can play happy families once a year after 364 days of ignoring one another – I should have known it wasn't wise. Dad doesn't do talking – one of the reasons, perhaps for marrying someone with barely a word of English. And I can't help but get upset after years of blame and of feeling outcast, for all I've tried, over the years to make it up. But, too old to be a victim of the subtle ways he punishes me, I wanted to express that I was worried that, by never addressing these things, they inevitably erupt after a glass or two of wine.   

Of course, it rubbed him up the wrong way, by asking him to take some responsibility for how I feel- he lost his temper at that too and said we should probs my never speak to each other again, to which my response, as it has been in the past, was to be mildly suicidal at being cut off once more.

But I agree with him. We clearly shouldn't. I can't appease someone who won't be reasoned with. I can never recast in his mind something that, let's face it, happened when I was a child, into something for which he was at least partially  responsible. In his mind, he was a good father (after all, he picked up the pieces when my mother left, for all she says he gave her a black eye, like he gave my sister years later) and I was a bad daughter (for climbing out of windows to visit my boyfriend aged nigh on 16 because I wasn't allowed out the front door), and that's all there was to it. And, of course, my adult vices are a sign and symptom of my inherent badness rather than as a result of his treatment of me since. 

Why I still seek the affection of a man who abuses me into hurting myself I don't know. As Tom says, by allowing myself to keep getting hurt by him inevitably hurts the people who do love me. I spent the weekend in hysterical floods, twenty years of grief pouring off me like magma, my children not knowing where to look at my swollen face and hollow sobs, which occasionally erupted into loud shouty swears.

But the fact is that, rather than feel lucky to have a kind and understanding husband, and two children that, though they have seen me at my worst, know very well I'd be there for them at theirs, I just feel bereft not to have an extended family that's more supportive and hasn't been for so much of my life. And the real danger is if I don't escape it soon, I risk repeating the cycle all over again.