Journal Entry: One thing I would never share
But, I am swimming in an ocean all alone.
One thing I would never refuse to share with anyone? My father. I went my entire life dodging the conversation of who he actually was. I never wanted to be known as the daughter of some guy that everyone worshiped. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s the special treatment people would try to give me for being the daughter of someone they put almost higher than God himself. I could never be that girl who got by in life because everything was handed to her because of her last name, hence why I refuse to associate myself with the family name. I mean— it’s not that hard to pretend someone isn’t your father when he never truly was to begin with.
I only carry two small memories with me that include the rare interactions I had with my father. I can distinctly picture when he was back home from New York or, maybe it was Texas that time, but he spent an evening with me. An evening of him stripping away the God complex that he held onto so tightly that I can vividly remember now, an evening where he was a normal father with his normal baby girl. Baby girl— he called me that once, maybe even twice. Before I could still remember the diction that he used, his tone of tenderness, but now I can barely remember his voice without the hint of rush, or disappointment. I can remember how we watched cartoons together, eating popcorn that he had made himself and him pushing me around in this small, white laundry basket like we were speeding on a race track. It was special to me because it was with him, and it was normal and nice loving kind genuine. I’ll never admit that I wish I could go back to this moment everyday, for the rest of my life sometimes.
Man, how about when I turned 7? That was bittersweet. My mother was actually presentable that day, reeked nothing more than some over-priced perfume she brought on one of her shopping binges. My father? He was home— for me. It was sad that at seven years old I received so much neglect that the presence of both parents, stable, was the best birthday a little girl could ever ask for. My mother had bought a cake, a white frosted cake with dark purple trimmings with Happy Birthday Lanes written perfectly in a gold colored frosting that I can remember perfectly to this day along with the god-awful yellow polo shirt my father wore and the elegant yet simple white dress my mother wore. The aesthetics of that day are so overwhelming and powerful that I can bare to reflect back on it anymore because it was all a lie, something that I grew use to by the next birthday— another one spent with the nanny.
They both happened before I was eight after that I don’t remember a single moment where it was just me and him— father and daughter. He was never, I mean never, home. By the time I was ten, those memories were all that I held onto. They kept me from hating him for who he was,what he chose over his own flesh and blood. I grew to never expect anything or let the unexpected phase me in any way. I mean— who cares if he’s home for one night. He’ll probably spend it doing some stupid morning show and late night show, doing things that meant more to him than I did. I learned this very quickly— and very young.
My mother? Forget about it. She was too busy reaping in all the benefits that came with being married to my father. She was either shopping until stores forced her out or drinking until the alcohol forced her to pass out. Even with all that, I never cared for her yet I don’t feel any type of animosity towards her. Maybe it’s because she never gave me false hope, I always knew where I stood with her, or maybe because she craved the same very person I did, the same very affection I desperately wanted. It was because she and I were the same person with the same desires who eventually gave up and turned to something else to fill that painful missing piece. We were somehow connected as odd as that may seem. I never had that with my father him.
I guess I’ll never have a stable relationship with my father, or my mother. I could never go through with what they wanted me to do. Sometimes, I wish I could did. Nonetheless, I never regret the path I decided to take because I would rather be able to wake up and be proud of the woman that looks back at me in the mirror rather than be disgusted with how much of a sell out I became for the sake of being accepted by the person who should of loved me unconditionally every second of my life, no matter what. I never want anyone to know who my father is, but I never want anyone to know how much I desired his pride, his love— him.
People say the grass is greener on the other side. The grass on this side is artificial turf— all for the cameras, nothing more. Trust me.
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