I realize the subsequent posts make me appear more broken than I actually am. Or maybe they don’t, maybe it’s me and I just don’t know it.
D’you have those days where you’re just angry at Daddy? (I have a thing for rhetorical questions it seems).
“Daddy” isn’t a palatable word for me. It doesn’t roll off my tongue easily. Neither does Papa, Dad, or Father. If I must choose a title however, the default would be father. “Daddy” has me expecting a man aging well in his years that’s moneyed up and still waiting for me to give him that sugar.
Before you think I’m a pubescent girl whose father told her she couldn’t date the guy she’s in love with because she’s too young despite my response of “But Daddy I love him!”..sorry, scripting The Little Mermaid *clears throat* Anyway, if that’s where you were going slow your roll.
My Father doesn’t exist. Or rather he exists just not in my life, cause best believe he’s very much alive. Alive and well, I’d even add. And if I’m gonna be honest I’ve never really known how I feel about my Father not wanting to be a part of my life. Even as I type this it’s not in raging anger, or uncontrollable sobs. Tbh my relationship/or lack thereof with my father has never really hit home. It’s just been there. Or rather, it hasn’t lol.
I’m not angry at him. I think I was before. I think I hated that he woke me up in the dark hours of the night and had my mum pretty me up just so he could toss irrelevant advice at me and have me pour him a drink, or sit on his lap so he could play Daddy for two seconds.
This is not to say that he didn’t have the opportunity to role play in real life, as the mister has three other kids you see. I’m told they look like me but i’d like to believe I’m unique and fucking fabulous so no one does.
So he played house, with mummy and daddy and at times he was even so kind to bring a gift along. If I’m gonna be perfectly honest his gifts were horrid. Or maybe I’m just an unthankful hoe. Who knows. But there’s something about a pink princess dress with tiny bells that jingle when you move that doesn’t quite scream my name. I was a tomboy, and he gave me dresses. I loved to read, and he bought me a picture encyclopedia. I was eleven and had read through the bible three times, I didn’t really know what I was mean’t to do with “A is for apple.” But my mum insisted I always be thankful, she wanted so badly for me to have that relationship. I remember once she jokingly said I liked my dad better than her cause I always smiled when he spoke as if he was handing out handfuls of gold. I think she was happy to add a ‘jealous’ remark. She had us take a family picture for me to keep. I don’t know where that went, but probably to the same place that memories of little girls wishing they had a full family went.
Anyway at that point I wasn’t angry at him. I adored him, as any daddy’s little girl would. I tried to skip around “dad” because “daddy” seemed a tad too familiar but father seemed too far when he seemed so close.
He’s visited three times in my life, from what I remember. I remember the last time I saw him was when I got angry. My mum prodded me to ask him questions and when I did he added that i could just Google him. In reality, I could Google anyone. Shit, I could Facebook anyone if i really wanted to. I am expert at stalking, but I don’t wanna fill gaps through Google. So impersonal. I feel like I’d be researching a speaker I’m introducing at a school function rather than figuring out what half my biological makeup did in his past.
Hate is a strong word. But I began to strongly dislike him. Him and his children that he said I resembled so much, but that he seemed to care about so much more despite the similarities he was quick to point out. I began to dislike his petty gifts that never once fit my personality or offers of money for an ice-cream when he was never there to give me lunch, or take me out, or buy my first car--I dunno, what do Dads even do?
Whatever they do, he didn’t. That much I knew. I was the product of “no glove, no love” being lost in translation. I was a great night out, and a shitty morning after. I was a gift in as much as Christianity forbade getting rid of me. I was a beautiful mistake.
Man I hated that for awhile. I hated that someone out there hated me once. No, not my mother, bless her soul. His wife. Or maybe she didn’t hate me. ^insert hysterical laughter^ but then again she probably did.
When my mum fought with me when I was 17 and she screamed at me to leave the house she told me nobody ever wanted me. She told me that my Dad never wanted me and neither did she and it should have remained like that. I should have remained unknown, obsolete. My mum broke my heart that day.
She apologized but there’s something about words being said in moments of high emotional intensity that sometimes still ring truth in them. Man, my mum broke my fucking heart that day. I think she forgot, I still remember.
She’s not a bad mother, she’s a single, hardworking mother learning to love again and again as each child comes along and I love her more than a fat kid loves cake. My dad never broke my heart. He never had a place in it in the first place.
Sometimes, I picture what my life would look like if he stayed. But I wouldn’t be where I am now if he had, so I’m quite content. I do wish, he supported me financially. Cause life wouldn’t be such a struggle. But if wishes were horses, we would all ride them. It’s good to know his other kids have been riding. & continue to. Bumped into the girl going to Milan the one time. Must be nice.
The sadistic part of me wonders if when he passes I’ll be invited to the funeral. Wonders if I’ll go. Wonders if he’ll leave something behind for me. Wonders if I’ll take it.
The broken part of me worries if when I have a moving, breathing baby blessing, if the man I love will be there for the little one. If not for me, just for the little one, you know?
The optimistic part of me is waiting for my prince charming. The pessimistic part knows such doesn’t exist. The pessimistic part remembers statistics of children of divorced parents never finding love.
I friended him on LinkedIn. My father. He looked at my profile and my heart skipped a beat and wondered if he’d reach out. if he was proud. If he cared.
My hand waved around the ‘send a message’ button and then dropped. Do I start with Hi Dad or fuck you?
You know in the movies when the girls with Daddy issues go sleeping around and find the right guy and suddenly all is right. Or they have a life-changing moment in which closure is reached. I don’t think that happens in real life. The right guy, or closure part, you can sleep with who you want when you want obviously lol.
I don’t think closure happens. I think everyday you remind yourself of who you are because of what has made you. And I think if a missing piece of me made me, me. Then I’m ok with that.
Sidenote: can you miss what you’ve never had?