Today is my father’s birthday.
My father and I used to be thick as thieves; laughing at the same punchlines in any given Mike Myers’ comedy, filling our ears with the same nonsense from David Byrne, or the B52’s, he even took me to my first concert and my first stand-up comedy show. We had the same favorite comedian at the time. Which was convenient.
After the divorce we still stuck together. And after that some hard, strange times befell us all as anxiety reared its ugly head. Long story short, my father became less of the man I looked up to and more the thing that I ran from. But I couldn’t run; I was trapped because I was under a certain age and my mother was panic-stricken and finding - it seemed - all the wrong ways to rescue me. And, of course, my sister was not old enough to claim me as her own and was going through some similar, and surely some differing, difficulties of her own.
I will never forget how fucked it seemed to be occupying such a large, beautifully white, museum-like house in the cul de sac, alone, lonely and cold. A place where I was not so much “welcomed” as I was to “not touch anything”, or “locked out of most rooms”. A place where none of my things - including, but not limited to, my heart - were. When I remembered it as the warm, charming house of my childhood and early adolescence. And my mother used to be here, and my sister, and my father and all of us were welcome and happy and my sister and I would have nothing more to worry about than our grades. I wasn’t upset about the divorce. Plenty of people get divorces. I was upset about being trapped. In a place that used to be home and was now the fifth ring of hell. Complete with a cold, uncaring creature who bared an astounding resemblance to my father.
I scuttled between classes in my sophomore year with a hobo-like bag strapped to my back. I didn’t know whether I really was staying at Dad’s, or if I would be lucky enough to get a “forget it, you can stay at your mother’s” text from him once school let out. I never strayed from being hopeful of the latter. Most of the days that year I was not so lucky.
I would leave school, essentials on my back, ride the bus to my father’s, get into his house, leave my coat on, so as not to get a chill, and head down to what used to be my bedroom. Where, merely a year before, I received my dream bed set comforter etc… for my 14th birthday. Where, then, the walls were bare and even my breath echoed. I would lay low, pretending not to exist until he got home, when I really pretended not to. All we did once he recognized my being was fake and fight. He would fake that he really still cared about me, showcasing his ability for dramatics and I would fight him on his false congeniality. I said my first “I hate you” to him in that scenario. Once I had been brought to it, of course. On my best nights there, I would be ignored.
On my sixteenth birthday, I retired to this place after school, he and his fake fuck of a wife were there with their facades of caring parents - complete with homemade cake. Who were they doing this for? Were they trying to convince themselves that they were good people? Attempting to grasp at some kind - any kind - of victory from my mother in this? I surely will never know.
After fighting about how clearly awful I was as a child and me shooting back with how my father may not actually be my real father, the night eventually ended as it typically did then; with me crying so hard I could already feel the headache and physical hangover of it, and finally heading to “my room”, exhausted and very much alone. The next day as my father dropped me off at school, bright morning sun stinging my swollen, shining eyes as it often did then, my father said the words I will never forget;
“I think you should stay at your mother’s tonight.”
And me, being the oh, so clever, freshly sixteen-year-old that I was, came back with a “Gee, ya think?” And I slammed the door of his expensive company car. Didn’t look back. And I did stay the night at my mother’s that night. And when he didn’t attempt to communicate with me, I stayed the next night. And the next. Until I finally realized that I may just be out of the woods and in fact I was. To be melodramatic, my father (ex-hero, ex-buddy, ex-parent) had abandoned me on the day after my sixteenth birthday. But to be more realistic, that is not at all what I am sure he had meant to do. I’m sure he was just tired. Lord knows I was, and I was much younger than he. For a while I had been afraid that it was all too good to be true and that he would surely come back to my mother’s with the police again to claim me, but he didn’t. And I was glad. And I wasn’t hurt. And it was all just as well because I had already began to research how to emancipate myself.
He made a feeble attempt once to reconnect after a year or so, but I worked hard to keep him out of my life and said attempt was crushed, killed and destroyed quickly, and for good. And I know it was for good because he never tried to reconnect with me or my sister.
It wasn’t until after I had graduated (I believe? It’s all a blur now) that I heard any news of him at all. It was through my sister and it was that he had suffered a major and minor stroke. My sister and I visited him in the hospital and it was strange, to say the very least. I saw yet another form of my father (the third, at least, if you’re keeping track). This one was much less powerful, less sinister, but just as scary. He couldn’t walk, really, couldn’t talk, really. As I understand he even had trouble seeing, but who knows, since he couldn’t convey a thought himself.
The years to follow were filled with my sister accidentally showcasing just how strong of a human she was and is, and certainly what a coward I had grown into. His birthday - and special occasions of the like - serving as a cheap excuse to think about him, to see him, lest I be filled with guilt. Bring him some shit gift he didn’t need or even want. He didn’t want things; he wanted my sister and I around more. Or at least I think that’s what he wanted. For all I know he didn’t remember us in the least and just got happy to see smiling faces, not knowing he created and raised them. Many people have the unfortunate event of death to deal with. I hadn’t even been dealt that hand, and yet I still lacked the strength and courage to physically see my father or even go near that beautiful white house he had gotten in the divorce. The house had hit its third form as well, technically speaking, but I would always remember it as a metaphor of my un-freedom. I wasn’t there for my father.
I saw my father one more time, semi-recently, this time with my mother in my sister’s stead. It was his fourth official shape. He seemed infinitely smaller, to match his shrinking voice. He was grayer, thinner and boasted a jean jacket, a cane and a knit cap in the thick of winter. At a glance, he was adorable. Just another strange, sweet old man about town.
Many things have transpired since then, and certainly too much to handle in this one entry, as it is already a gun, locked and loaded. Long story short (too late), I haven’t seen my father in a while. And I honestly don’t feel as though it would be realistic to say that I would again. Word on the street is he has dementia, but is refusing to take his pills, as they are affiliated with the Devil.
Many people have had it worse. And if you think I have it bad, think about my sister. About his wife, my mother, who chose him out of everyone she knew, at one point, to live with and grow with and love. To have so many firsts with, at the young age of seventeen. Think of my father, for fuck’s sake, who thought he was doing right by simply living by what he had read in the Bible. I still don’t know how to feel about any of it. So far I have been choosing to miss and cherish the first form of my father, romanticizing my past, as one often does. Being entirely bitter at the second form of him, what he had put me through and remembering to, everyday, be more than grateful that I am no longer in that position. To be grateful for my freedoms. And a healthy mixture of self-pity, self-loathing and such a deep, deep sadness for what we both have finally become and currently are. Some days I don’t think about it. Some days I cry about it. Some days I miss him and some days I don’t. Some days I choose to be what I have assured myself is strong and choose to live guilt-free about the whole debacle.
Today I am allowing myself to be sad.
