I try not to think about him. I try, I try, I try. I have to confess, I miss him. It's been over three years since I saw him, almost 4 actually. No, don't be mistaken. He's not dead. No need for pity or sympathy. My Dad is alive and well and still living in the Chicagoland area. I chose not to speak to him anymore. It was, by far, one of the most difficult choices I ever made, but if anyone was in my shoes they probably would've done the same thing. I just couldn't stand anymore hurt from him. Anymore emotional abuse. Anymore toying with my heart. Anymore cruelty, just because he can. I had no more room in my heart for pain. Yea, it was a drastic measure to cut him out of my life, but I snapped. My husband had just died and he dug his last digs into me. Because he could. My mother always said that my father was emotionally handicapped. That about sums it up. Sure he had a tough childhood, but so did I. And I don't take it out on the world. If anything, it made me stronger, and a little wiser.
I guess what really, well, quite frankly, pisses me off, is that my father has two great kids. But he doesn't acknowledge it, or embrace it. Instead he abused it. Or us. Both of us are loving, funny, intelligent and responsible adults. Never spent a day in jail. NEver abused drugs or alcohol. Never took advantage of him. Just wanted to be loved and accepted by him. That's all. Simply put.
It seems my weakest moments are at that certain time of the month. My monthly reminder of my unchosen gender. Those few days I get weak and ridiculously emotional. One day about a month ago or so I was listening to the radio and they played, "Witchita Lineman" by Glen Campbell. I loved that song as a young child. And yet, it always reminded me of my dad. It was played when my parents divorced, which makes it a bittersweet song, but one I still like. So there I am in my car at the bank and tears start rolling down my cheeks. I started to miss him. Painfully. Guilt swept up inside me and tugged at those vulnerable heart strings. Tug, tug, tug. Should I or shouldn't I? I looked at my cell phone, which still has his phone number in it, and I debated for a brief moment to actually call him. To tell him how much I love him and miss him, and want things to be better between us. But I couldn't do it. Then the voice of reason took over and reminded me that if I call him nothing would change. Nothing. He wouldn't change. He's never at fault nor does he ever take responsibility for his actions nor his harsh words. We've had those "talks" before and nothing changed. He would find a way, his way, to turn the tables around and dump the responsibility on me along with the guilt. The voice of reason won.
A dear, close friend of mine once told me, well actually numerous times, that it only says "to honor thy father and mother" in the Bible. Nothing about loving or liking them. She told me that it was OK to love him, but I could still dislike him and strongly at that. It was comforting advice. It took a long time for that to sink in, but it finally did. I still love him, but I don't like him. Nor do I respect him. And that's OK.
It's not easy telling people that I don't talk to my father. Few understand. And some think it's just wrong of me. But they're not me, nor have they walked in my shoes. A story comes to mind of my dad that I've been thinking about lately. Years ago, about 30, my brother and I were waiting for our father to pick us up and take us to his house in Wisconsin for summer vacation. I had just finished my freshman year in high school and embracing the lazy days of summer. No school. No work. Just swimming and sleeping in. Now my father was never a punctual man. He was like the cable company. He'll be there between 12-4. So we're sitting there patiently waiting for him and my mom decided to run out quickly and get us lunch from Burger King, which was only half a mile from our house. Sure enough, after she leaves our evil stepmother arrives. Apparently Dad couldn't get away from work to get us, so he sent his beloved wife to haul us up north. My stepmother, or ex-stepmother now, was the epitomy of the evil stepmother in the Disney classic, "Cinderella". She had the same cold green eyes and the same disdain for her stepchildren. But that's another story. ANyway, she's ready to get going and get going now. But I pleaded with her to wait for our mother. Did she really expect us not to say goodbye to our mother? Really? As we're waiting for our mother I start to have an emotional breakdown. It finally hit. I realized at that moment that there was no way in hell that I was going to sit in a car with this mean horrible woman for 2 hours. My mother returned with our lunch in tow and I told her that I couldn't go. So we called my dad and he begged and pleaded with us to go with his wife. I didn't give in. I cried and balled and stood my ground. Fine. So the evil stepmother stomped out to her car, threw our luggage out into the street and screeched out of the driveway like a bat out of hell. Phew! I did it! It felt good. But now I would have to deal with my dad. But I assumed and felt that he would understand after he heard me.
In a few days following that incident, my mother and stepfather decided to take a little vacation, which included driving us to our grandmother's house in Northern Wisconsin, my father's mother's house that is. Sure. Why not. I loved visiting my grandmother. I was so excited! So off we went. When we arrived my father was there, but without his evil spouse. It was great to be there and I thought everything was good. We had a fun dinner with my mom there and a grand reunion. Then my mom and husband left to begin their vacation. And mine would soon turn sour.
My father pulls us aside to talk to us. Good. We're going to work this out, talk it out and make things better. Right? Wrong! Instead of listening to us and comforting us, he turned the tables around and made us feel bad. We were the guilty parties. My innocent brother and I were wrong. Huh? Really? I never looked at my father the same way again after that. I was so confused. So hurt. So angry. And there wasn't much I could do to change it. I learned that day that life is truly unfair.
I think about that day often, especially when I'm feeling weak and feeble and wanting to pick up the phone to make amends. Then I remember that day, that horrible inexcusable guilt that was whipped at me. It took me 30 years to finally realize that I have choices. Difficult ones at times, but choices nonetheless.
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