It’s such a shame that so many women today have grown up without the love of a father. For whatever reason, they have been left with a daddy-shaped hole in their heart that cries out to be filled. Mine is just one of many sad stories of  a father’s love lost, and the repercussions this loss can have on a daughter. In my case, God brought my father and I back together just weeks before he died. It was a time I will always treasure but it will never completely make up for the 33 years we were separated.

My book, Back in Daddy’s Arms, is a bittersweet and poignant true story with a touching ending. It was written to offer hope, healing and inspiration for others suffering the emotional wounding of growing up without a daddy’s love. It is dedicated to those who never grew up being ‘Daddy’s little princess’. I hope you enjoy the following excerpt.

Goodbye, Daddy

The little girl tries to be brave and not cry, but the fear in her eyes is unmistakable––as real as the sound of glass shattering against the other side of the door.

The man shouts in rage once again, ‘I’ll kill you’.

The younger ones sob louder and louder until their cries become an unbearable and deafening noise in their young mother’s ears.

‘Shh, shh’, she tries to reassure them in her comforting mummy voice, ‘It’ll be alright. Let’s sing a song. Are you ready?’ There is a familiar tremble in the woman’s voice and the children recognise it––fear. Instinctively they know there is no song in their mother’s heart.

It is a small bedroom. The mother pushes a large timber duchess up against the door with her hips. First one corner, then the other, very quickly until the unit rests against the door affording some protection, but for how long? The mother plants herself on the floor at the other end of the duchess and pushes her back firmly against the solid timber––still no match for the unfolding fury on the other side of the door. She is thinking all the time. What else can she do to keep him from breaking down the door and killing them all? Her strength is no match for his alcohol-induced might. She knows only too well his capabilities. She pushes the baby’s cot against the opposite wall with her feet, then firmly presses against the timber edge. This affords her little more protection but soon her feet cramp and her body aches.

More of the madman’s shouts assault their ears. This time there is another noise as well. No! He has a knife! A blade of some sort and he is thrusting it repeatedly into the wooden door. The baby begins to cry in her big sister’s arms.

‘It’s alright,’ the girl says trying to comfort the child. The three younger brothers huddle around their big sister, the terror in their innocent eyes all too clear.

The mother remembers the rifle she had found earlier. She’d done what she could to render it useless and hide it. But what if he found it? He would surely use it this time.

As the hours pass, the stifling Townsville heat torments them in their prison. Beads of sweat roll down their faces mixing their tears into a salty cocktail, exacerbating their already unquenchable thirst. The mother’s tiredness is obvious even though she tries to hide it from her little ones. She speaks again with an outward calm but there is that inward tremble in her voice again.

‘Go to the window and call out to the neighbours. Ask them to phone the police.’ The children do not respond, frozen to the spot in fear.

‘It’s okay, children. Go ahead. Go. Quickly.’

The big sister assumes her responsibility. Her tiny frame moves steadfastly to the window of the high-set house. Bravely she calls out, ‘Help, help! Please call the police.’

Time moves in slow motion as they wait in hope for help to arrive. Then a car pulls up outside…doors open and close…footsteps come up the front path, then the stairs…voices…shouts. The children’s crying is muffled behind their hands. The little brothers bury their faces deep into their big sister’s side. A strange voice close by––the mother hopes it is a policeman.

The voice is comforting. ‘It’s okay, you’re safe now, can we come in?’

The young mother closes her eyes momentarily and gives thanks then slowly draws herself to her feet, limbs aching from too long in their unnatural position. This policeman had come just in time, her strength had waned; she would have given up. She knew that they had all been only minutes, even seconds away from death. Fighting back tears, the mother lovingly hugs each of her little ones and tells them to trust the policeman.

The little girl feels safe in the stranger’s strong arms as he scoops her up and carries her out of the room. On the other side of the door she notices big chunks had been chopped out. In places, the knife had hacked all the way through and into the timber duchess. Broken glass covers the polished wooden floor. No wonder the policemen want to carry her and the others to safety…     

As this scene unfolds in my mind’s eye, my heart goes out to this little girl and her experience resonates deeply within me. I want to hug her and reassure her that it’s going to be okay. I feel her pain as she pines for her daddy. She doesn’t know when she will see him again or even if she really wants to; he can be so mean and cruel. Still, she loves him regardless.

Out of all my childhood memories, this has always been the most painful. I have run that movie in my mind thousands of times over the years and each time tried to comfort that little girl inside but I was never totally successful in my plight––until now. This is our story.

© Sharon Leigh Hill (All Rights Reserved Worldwide)

Daddy and I - reunited after 33 years

With Fathers Day approaching in the USA, I’ve found myself thinking about the years that I missed out on with my father. We were separated when I was young after he went into an uncontrollable alcoholic rage and tried to kill his family. After 33 years apart, we found each other just weeks before he died. I grew up wondering why my father never contacted me. Didn’t he love me any more?

Fathers are vital to their daughters.  The way a woman feels about herself is very much dependent on how she was treated by her father as she was growing up. Without a father’s unconditional love, girls can grow up to have low self-esteem and self-image. The lack of a father’s love can leave a girl with serious self-worth issues, especially if she perceives that her father abandoned her. Girls who’ve grown up without a father’s love can subconsciously crave male attention and seek to fill this void in unhealthy ways. Feeling ‘not good enough’ for a good loving relationship with a man, they are vulnerable to becoming involved in abusive relationships or becoming promiscuous. They are more at risk of teenage pregnancy due to experiencing puberty earlier and becoming sexually active at a younger age. Women who have missed out on their daddy’s love are also more at risk of developing depression.

I just wanted to share a snippet of my story to help other women or girls to full appreciate their relationship with their father, and also for fathers to realize just how much their daughters need them. The following excerpt is from a chapter that I wrote for a compilation book titled The Path to Success. Please enjoy my story and enjoy Fathers Day.

Back in Daddy’s Arms (excerpt from The Path to Success)

“Daddy, you’re my true love.” Gracie spoke these precious words to her Daddy as he tucked her in and kissed her goodnight. My daughter, like most other four-year-old girls, loves fairytales, stories of princesses and princes falling in love and living happily ever after. Her Daddy is her ‘prince’, and her ‘true love’. It warms my heart as I think about how different my little girl’s experience is from my own.

My father was a violent alcoholic. His addiction not only destroyed his own life, it almost took the lives of those he cherished the most in the world. I was the eldest of his five children–two daughters and three sons. His drunken, abusive rages confused the little girl that I once was. I knew he loved me, yet he could be so mean and cruel. It was a contradiction too hard for my young innocent mind to understand.

There were many happy times in my childhood, but sadly, the happiest were when my father was not at home. As a soldier in the Australian Army, he was often away. He spent extended periods of time overseas in Borneo and Vietnam. I missed my Daddy, but I didn’t miss his abuse. Each time he returned, our home became the war zone again, and after his return from Vietnam, things only escalated.

I remember his masculine smell, the sweet, piquant fragrance of Old Spice, mixed with the warm tones of Californian Poppy, blended with subtle wafts of Brasso and boot polish, topped off crudely with the unmistakable reek of Bundaberg rum. But my most vivid memory is of the night that I lost my Daddy from my life.

I was eleven years old. My father had been drinking and an argument once again ensued between my parents. This time however it escalated to the point that my father became so enraged, he was intent on killing us all. My mother hurried us all into the bedroom at the end of the hall and barricaded the door with furniture. She positioned herself, using her body as a wedge to prevent the door from being opened, to protect her little ones from the danger that threatened them on the other side.

We could hear him outside trying to get in, hacking at the door with a bayonet – the sounds of glass smashing and his terrifying threats to kill us all. Our fear was somewhat eased by our brave mother’s soothing words, but after several hours, we could sense her strength waning. That’s when terror truly set in.

When the police finally arrived, we all cried tears of relief. I felt safe in the policeman’s strong arms as he carried me across the blanket of broken glass, but my heart had also been broken. I now felt safe, but at what price? My Daddy and I became separated from that day forward. We didn’t even get to say goodbye. I was left with a void in my heart and a feeling of unworthiness that would haunt me for many years.

Within two years, my mother remarried and I had a new Daddy. He not only broke my heart, he deeply wounded my soul through the sexual abuse I suffered at his hands.

As time passed, I tried to put the past behind me, but the Daddy-shaped space in my heart cried out to be filled. So many times I craved for my father’s love, but it was nowhere to be found. My life became a journey of trying unsuccessfully to fill the empty space in my heart and becoming more wounded in the process. I found myself in unhealthy and abusive relationships, and even questioning my own dismal existence during a two-year battle with chronic depression, until I finally turned to God and true healing began to take place. In God, I found myself back in my Daddy’s arms.

But this is not the end of the story. I received a phone call that would change my life forever. At the time I was working on my book which I had decided to title Back in Daddy’s Arms–an autobiographical book focusing on my loss of my Daddy and my discovery of the love of my Heavenly Father. At that stage, I had no idea of just how much more there was to the title of my book, and my story. My father was in a nursing home with only weeks to live. After over thirty years, God gave me the opportunity to be reunited with my Daddy.

As hard as it was to visit him, I knew in my heart that I must. I had been going through a real transformation in my own life and I believed that my father deserved a chance to heal his own wounded heart.

Memories flashed through my mind; I saw him grab my three-year-old brother by the hair and hurl him violently against the wall; I heard his vicious, hateful words, his threats…my little brother’s cries…my mother’s desperate screams…her comforting words to her precious little ones, through her silent, desperate sobs of despair…

Yes, he had made some mistakes, but so had I. He had already missed out on so much–watching his five children grow up and have families of their own; being a grandfather to his thirteen grandchildren. He did not deserve to die a lonely old man. I visited him in the hope that it would bring some joy into the last days of his life, but I didn’t anticipate just how much these visits would do for me–for that little girl inside me who had just wanted her Daddy’s love, her Daddy’s hugs and kisses, that special love that only a Daddy can give.

He was a grumpy, frail old man. He looked much older than he was, certainly much older than I remembered him, but my heart recognised him. I remember looking at his bony, nicotine-stained hands and thinking how they were once the chubby young hands of a little boy trying to tie his shoelaces and write his name for the very first time. They were the same hands that had caressed his beautiful young wife and held me, his first born baby daughter, but they were also the hands that had caused so much pain to those he loved.

Yet the man I saw that day was no threat to anyone anymore. In fact, he gave me the most special gift. I was given the opportunity to tell him I loved him and forgave him for not being there for me. I shared with him about what God had done in my life, how much God loved him and wanted to forgive him. My father was convinced that he would spend eternity in hell, but I was with him when he made his peace with God and the weight of his self-condemnation was lifted from his heart. And this time, we got to say goodbye.

“I love you too,” he said as we hugged. It was the first time I remember him ever saying those precious words to me, and as he spoke them I realized that I was back in my Daddy’s arms.

(From ‘Back in Daddy’s Arms’ in The Path to Success compiled by Sandy Forster)

 © Sharon Hill (all Rights Reserved Worldwide)

Sharon Hill - Author

I would just like to share a piece that I’ve written as part of a uni assessment. Having had a very difficult battle with depression, I understand how it can not only affect the life of the sufferer, but also the lives of every member of the family. It is a terrible illness that is very hard to describe but I have done my best in this piece. In my book, Back in Daddy’s Arms, I share more of my own personal battle with depression. I hope my writing helps others to develop more of an understanding of this dreadful illness. 

The Darkest Shade of Blue

As I lay down, I feel the cold breath of despair wash heavily over me. Sleep invites me towards it––a welcome escape from the noisy crowd in my head and the heavy weight pressing down on my chest and stomach. My body involuntarily curls up, taking on the characteristics of an unborn child, totally dependent on someone else to provide its every need. But I can feel my umbilical cord twisting and tangling. Life itself is draining from me. Perhaps I am already asleep and this is a dream. I desperately try to wake up, but the more I try the more I realise this is my reality. Now I must sleep to escape its cold, hard stare. My soul––shrivelling, dry, lifeless. My essence––vanishing. Disappearing inside myself. All that remains is a broken shell…

My first encounter with clinical depression was the most terrifying experience of my life. The term ‘depression’ is misleading to many, after all, we’ve all felt down, sad or ‘depressed’ at some stage and managed to get over it. How bad can it really be? In fact, mild depression bears very little resemblance to severe, clinical depression. In its most virulent form, depression is dark, terrifying, paralysing and potentially deadly. It’s more than just feeling sad or blue. Clinical depression is the darkest possible shade of blue––the shade that teeters on the edge of total blackness. 

According to the World Health Organisation, depression may soon be a major disabling illness worldwide. Around one in five women and one in eight men will personally experience depression at some stage in their lives. Even more disturbing is the fact that children are now increasingly diagnosed with depression. And it’s estimated that up to one-half of sufferers don’t seek help.

Despite what is known about this condition, there is still a huge stigma attached. Not only is the sufferer ashamed of their condition, their shame is perpetuated by society’s profound lack of understanding. Along with their shame, they often feel they are sinking into the quicksand of madness. And the fear of madness can be worse than the fear of death.

So where does this severe form of depression come from? There are no definite answers but there seem to be countless influences on depression, ranging from religious beliefs to weather changes. Some of us are genetically predisposed to depression with evidence showing that more than one half of a person’s vulnerability is in their genes. A person with a sibling or parent with severe depression is more than twice at risk, with that risk increasing to about five times if that relative fell victim before the age of twenty.

The possible explanations for why women are more likely to become depressed include hormonal fluctuations, women’s disadvantaged social status especially as stay-at-home mothers or sole parents, and women’s general tendency towards bodily shame and excessive self-analysis. In other words, women tend to be much more self-critical.

Studies have shown there to be lower rates of depression among church-going believers, but it seems that even your chosen religion can affect your risk of depression. Jews have a higher rate of depression than non-Jews, and Pentecostal Christians have almost twice the rate of depression to other Christian groups. The Old Order Amish in the USA, whose peaceful lives reflect their opposition to any forms of hostility, violence and aggression, have three times the average rate of depression.

There are certain life events that trigger around two-thirds of depressive episodes. The other one-third of episodes appear to come from nowhere.  No matter the risks or causes, no-one is immune.

The intense pain and suffering associated with clinical depression is indisputable. In his book, Malignant Sadness, Lewis Wolpert  described it as the worst experience of his life, even worse than watching his wife die of cancer. Dr John Horder described it as being even worse than his experiences of renal colic and heart attack. Is there possibly any other condition or experience that involves more suffering?

It is, without doubt, an illness inconceivable by anyone who has not found themselves in its terrifying grip––a frightening and paralysing despair, bordering on madness. To many, suicide is the only escape; ultimate victory comes at a supreme price and a tragic loss to loved ones.

What is it like to find oneself in the depths of severe depression? Many, in their efforts to describe it in words, have found even their best attempts to be lacking. Throughout history, philosophers, writers and poets have attempted to portray the dark terrors of the most severe form of depression. They have found that the ‘indescribable’ can only be depicted through the metaphor. It was Winston Churchill’s ‘black dog’; Julia Kristeva’s ‘black sun’; William Styron’s ‘darkness visible’; and John Milton’s ‘cascading darkness’. Emily Dickinson’s eloquent description of a depressive breakdown in I Felt a Funeral in my Brain is packed with cleverly chosen metaphors. Marie Cardinal in her autobiographical novel, The Words to Say it, gives a poignantly honest and descriptive portrayal of her long struggle with clinical depression which she calls the ‘Thing’. Her chosen metaphors include ‘a monstrous crawling of images, sounds, and odors’ and ‘a devastating pulse’. Then between the metaphors, writers carefully place the subtle gaps and silences, containing that which is ultimately inconceivable. There are no words to describe it, only concepts that come together to give the reader a glimpse of what it might be like.

The depressed desperately need to be understood, but to have personally experienced the suffering of depression is the only way to truly know and understand. The support of family and close friends is also vital but how do they help someone whose illness is inconceivable and whose behaviour is misunderstood?

The depressed person is already carrying an unimaginable weight of shame, guilt and self-condemnation. Their illness is neither of their choosing, nor is it their fault. It is a serious and almost inexplicable illness, often more frightening than death itself. Sufferers of depression need as much love and support as does a cancer sufferer. Please don’t be hard on them. Avoid telling them to pick themselves up and get over it. To do that is paramount to telling an epileptic to take control during a fit.

The depressed need their loved ones to love them unconditionally and forgive them for their mistakes. The world of the depressed is dark and unimaginably terrifying, but even the tiniest flicker of light can guide them out of their world of darkness.

© Sharon L Hill (All Rights Reserved Worldwide)

Sharon Hill - Author

Each one of us has a story inside–a story that is unique, inspiring and best of all true. Many of us have already heard that quiet, still inner voice whispering to us that our story needs to be told. But why would we want to share our personal stories? Why share the private details of your life to family, friends or even strangers. ‘I’m a private person,’ you might say. I know I did. Perhaps you don’t see yourself as a writer or maybe you don’t consider your life to be that interesting. There are plenty of excuses not to do it. But there are also some very strong reasons why you should.

Telling your story may not be an easy journey but it can be so worthwhile. In fact, I believe that it is something that everyone should consider doing. Whether you decide to commercially publish, self-publish or just have a few copies printed for close family and friends, sharing your story could change lives and surprisingly, one of those lives could be your own.

I first heard that quiet, still voice around ten years ago. It just came suddenly as a thought, ‘One day I should write a book about my life.’ I ignored it and it went away for a while. It came back occasionally, only to be ignored once again. Then after several years I noticed the prompting in my heart become stronger and stronger to the point where I could no longer ignore it. I asked myself, and I asked God, ‘why?’ After all, I wasn’t a writer and at that stage had no aspirations to become one. All I felt was that it could help others who had been through similar circumstances as I had. Perhaps sharing my story could bring certain issues into the light and give hope to others who were living their lives with hearts full of shame, unforgiveness, and a lack of self-love. What I’ve discovered since is that writing my story has not only helped others, it has brought me so many rewards.

1.  Personal emotional healing

Many of us have emotional wounds that we’ve buried away and tried to forget about. But they still affect our lives in many ways. When I first began writing, I believed that I was healed from the wounds of my past. I was okay. I had survived and moved on successfully. Once I began writing, I realised that I still had a long way to go. Through my writing, I gave my inner child a voice. I became that child again and feelings that were hidden away in my subconscious gradually revealed themselves. I acknowledged the feelings that my memories evoked and with the help of a good counsellor, healing took place. I believe my biggest victory was that I learned how to forgive.

2.  Healing of relationships

How many of us have been separated from loved ones, often through no fault of our own? Many of us have strained and difficult relationships with loved ones because of misunderstandings or traumatic experiences.

At the time I began writing, I’d not had any relationship with my father for thirty-three years, and I had no intention of even searching for him. But fate intervened and I found myself visiting my father in a nursing home. He was terminally ill and died before my book was finished. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’d been writing my story and working through some deep emotional wounds, I dont think I would have been able to spend the time with him as I did. I believe it was a gift for both of us. I know that his heart was more at peace when he died, and I know that the experience brought me so much more than I could have ever imagined.

Also, my relationship with my adult daughter had been strained for many years before writing my book. Now we are much closer. My story helped her to really understand me, to see where I had come from and to know how very precious she really is to me. For many years she had blamed me for every negative situation in her life. Our relationship was very unsteady, but this last mother’s day she sent me a card in which she had written, ‘you are such an inspiration to me’.

3.  Leave a legacy

If someone asked you if you would like to read a book that your great-great-grandmother had written about her life, what would you say? What a wonderful opportunity to get to know a family member you had never met. Through my book I was able to share some of the life lessons I’ve learned along the way. I know that I can pass on this wisdom to future generations, not only to those I know and love in my lifetime, but also to those I will never meet. They will come to know me through my story and I will have the opportunity to share my heart with them.

4.  Moving forward

Writing my story has helped me to discover and challenge my limiting beliefs. It has also helped me to realise my true potential. I was always one to try to please others and I was always concerned with, this limited me and stopped me from doing what was really in my heart. Since writing my book, I have had a revelation that was best articulated by this quote: ‘Do what you think and say what you feel because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind’. I’ve been unable to find the original source of this quote as there are a few slightly different versions, but they all say the same thing–don’t be concerned with what others think, just be you.

My other limiting belief was that everything I did had to be done perfectly. This was a hard one to deal with but I had to overcome this mindset to get my book finished. I had to accept that trying to do it perfectly was getting in the way of completing it. If I continued to strive for perfection, it would very likely end up in my pile of unfinished projects. So I made it my goal to strive for excellence rather than perfection. For me, my perfectionism was limiting. It was a belief that limited me and my achievements. It was a belief that I had to consciously change and writing my story has helped me to do that.

5.  A sense of personal accomplishment

As I mentioned, I was a perfectionist and because of this I had many unfinished projects hidden away or lying around. My physical environment became cluttered and this drained my energy. I was someone who was always busy but just didn’t seem to get things done because I couldn’t meet my own expectations of perfection. Writing this book gave me such an incredible feeling of accomplishment and pride in myself. At last I could say, ‘Well done! You finished it and you did the very best job you could. And if you can do this, how much more can you do?’  

The feedback I’ve had so far since publishing my story has been amazing. It has inspired, encouraged, given hope, challenged and provoked much thought in others. But what it has done for me was unimaginable. 

Many people have told me they have a story to tell. I often wonder if they will ever find the courage to do it. Sadly, most people die with their story still inside them. What’s that story you have inside you that should be told? Be bold and brave. Reach deep down inside. Find your story and awaken the storyteller within. Enrich your life and the lives of others in ways you may never have imagined.

© Sharon Leigh Hill (All Rights Reserved Worldwide)