That phrase is foreign to me. When I was younger it angered me quite a bit. I felt slighted. My sister and I didn't have a very nice childhood, you could say. My biological father (who I will refer to as Tom) was an alcoholic who never really wanted children. My earliest memory was sitting on my mother's lap in our kitchen and Tom was yelling. Loud. Or to a very, very small child, it was loud. He was mad. I felt the protectiveness (is that even a word?) of my mother from her drunk husband. I don't know where my sister was at the time. The thing I remember most about that particular incident is him slamming his fist down on the kitchen table so hard that the lid to the sugar bowl flew up in the air. It seemed to be suspended in mid-air, who knows how high - but it flew. And then back down again. I remember my mom putting her hand over my head. It might be the last time as a child and for a very long time, that I remember my mother being protective over me. I don't blame her, though. Tom did a number on all of us and she was no exception. Actually, the exception was, she got the brunt of him. Lord knows how she made it all those years.
Living with a drunk is.....interesting. You never know what you're going to get. Sometimes he was the angry drunk. Sometimes the funny drunk. Sometimes the loving drunk. Never the consistent drunk. I mostly remember the angry drunk. I remember him picking me up by the back of my hair when I was laying down on the floor watching TV because I didn't do something I was supposed to do. I remember him about to beat my sister because I was crying and he figured she must've made me (which was usually the case, but not that time) because I fell off our bunk beds. I remember him taking a belt to me more times than I can recall for any number of reasons. I remember my mother uttering those horrifying words "wait until your father gets home" and living in fear for the following three hours, awaiting whatever punishment was in store for me.
I think the most difficult thing about living with Tom was never knowing what I was going to come home to after school. Was he going to be happy, angry, sad? Listening to my parents fight wasn't easy, either. Not at such a young age. I'd stand in my room across the hall from theirs, crying, because mommy and daddy were fighting and I was scared. I was scared for me and I was scared for my mom. I always listened very closely because I needed to hear if he touched her. If he touched her - if he hit her..... I'd have mustered up all the courage I had and left the safety of my room and gone into theirs and.... I don't know what I'd have done, but I'd have done
something. I'd have yelled at him to get his hands off her. Because that was my mother and you don't touch my mother. But he never did.
What he did do was knock over the entire china hutch with all the china and crystal in it while painting the dining room one night. He then thought it would be fun to hurl dishes across the room towards my sister, with me standing behind her. Dishes smashing everywhere. Did he really want to hit my sister? Or me? Who knows. Another memorable moment that only I got to experience was when he shot our dog in the back yard. I was the only one home at the time -me and my girlfriend. We were 12. He drank a bottle of Jack and the dog was annoying him. My sister gave that dog to my mother for Mother's Day - saved it's life. Tom took it away with three shots. I heard each one. And I heard the dog whimper with the first two. I heard nothing after the third one. I held onto my friend as we cried, scared to death. I locked my bedroom door which he came banging on shortly after. I don't know what he'd have done if it was open. He buried the dog in our backyard but the cops came and took him away to see if there was something wrong with the dog to make Tom shoot him or if the asshole was just, well, an asshole and drunk. You know what? I've been drunk before. I can't imagine in a million years shooting a dog but then again, I'm not a selfish asshole, either, so I suppose I can't even attempt to understand that one.
People swear it's a disease - alcoholism. They say it's a proven fact. Okay. So you have a "disease" and you don't choose to go get help for it. You choose the disease over your family, your children..... you know what? This post isn't actually about Tom (fooled ya', huh?) so I don't really need to even continue about how much I don't comprehend how an individual could throw away his family for
anything, much less booze. Something I found odd, though, was that for so many years, I struggled with the question of forgiving and forgetting and what is the difference and what kind of person am I if I do or I don't. I mean, he was my blood, right? I had to do both, didn't I?
I disowned him for about seven years. No need to tell you the specifics- it doesn't really matter. Let's just say he didn't agree with my decision to have my step-dad give me away at my wedding. I made amends with him then... about seven months before he checked himself into a hospital and died. With nothing. And no word to me that he was even
in the hospital. But I remember being so glad I made up with him before he passed. I was confused when I got the call that he was gone. I didn't know how to feel and that bothered me. I gave his eulogy. I took his ashes. I saw a therapist. I was in my mid-thirties.
It's been about ten years, give or take a few. I've figured out a lot of things since then. More than I thought I ever would in this lifetime. My mom remarried almost 28 years ago. I was 15. That means I was about 13 when Rich came into the picture. I'll never forget the first joke he made. I thought he was so funny. He was replacing a light bulb on the front porch, at night, and he asked someone to turn on a light because it was dark. Hey - I was a kid.
So I'm 13 and my sister is 16 and this 28 year old guy (my mom is a bit older than him - go ma!) starts dating my mom. He has to deal with two teenage girls. Can you imagine how hard that must've been for him? Forget about the damage Tom did to all three of us.... just stepping into that situation on its own ....talk about some baggage! He has to deal with her kids, unable to have any real say in what goes on with their upbringing (or what was left of it), teenage drama, teenage attitude, "you're not my father, you can't tell me what to do" (not from me, of course), and the lingering affects of an alcoholic ex-husband and father. I'll tell you what .... I'm not sure I'd have been able to deal with all that he did.
But he did. He supported us financially, he was there when we needed him, he taught me to drive, he bought my prom gown when Tom decided he didn't feel like paying for it right before I was ready to go pick it up, he made me take medicine that made me vomit when I tried to commit suicide and held my hair back while I puked up my guts.....
I'm going to guess at the timeline here because I have no idea when I started calling him "dad", in fact, I still don't really call him that too much. I've given him the name 'pappi'. This makes me smile. The point is, I stopped calling him Rich and started referring to him as my father quite a few years ago. Obviously, more than I can remember. At first, it was forced and awkward. It's not because he didn't deserve the title. He absolutely did. I had just called him Rich for all those years. I know it wasn't because I felt like there was some slighting toward Tom because that sure as Hell wasn't it. See... that's
one of the things I figured out....as long as it took me - but sure enough - I figured it out. Now this might sound.... harsh... but I figured out under no uncertain terms that my biological father was a really big asshole and just because his sperm helped create me, he didn't deserve my love and he damn well didn't deserve to be called my father. That honor belonged to Rich. I figured out that in all those years of growing up that he could've asked to see me and spend time with me, he didn't. That he didn't care about anyone but himself and he was thoughtless and selfish and mean and nasty and fake and shallow. And I have absolutely no issues whatsoever about feeling this way. I know now, in my heart, that it's okay to feel this way. I know the difference between forgiving and forgetting and that I choose to do neither and that it doesn't really matter because he's dead and the person who matters is here. He raised me. I am his daughter. I drive like him. I have his sense of humor. I have his values and his morals.
About four years ago I asked my dad to legally adopt me. I think he was touched. He said he would. I don't want to be his step-daughter. I want to be his real daughter. I want it to be legal. He's my dad, in every sense of the word. We're still looking into it - at the time I asked him to, I lived in North Carolina. It should be a bit easier now that we're in the same state. It's not like a child adoption. In any case, that's my goal for this year - to finalize that. If his last name wasn't so frigged up, I'd take his name, too. ;)
ANYWAY..... I digress. This post was supposed to be about my dad. My pappi. And it is, really. I just had to wade through all the shit to get to the good stuff. So here's when I figured it out.... "it" being how great a man my dad really is. And it blew me away, really, because it came out of nowhere and bit me in the ass. I was working in Hell (if you follow my blog, you know exactly where that is)..... we were doing an exercise and had to name the person who most inspired us (I'm not even sure that is the correct adjective that was used but this is a long post and I'm on my 2nd glass of champagne). I immediately listed an old boss who was sort of a mentor to me). As I sat there waiting for my coworkers to finish, I thought more about it and I started thinking about my dad and all the things he's taught me and the person he is and how much I look up to him. I thought about how I never want to disappoint him and not because I'm afraid of disappointing him, but because I think he's an incredibly intelligent person with extremely good morals and standards. I thought of all the things he's done for me - all the times he's been there for me. How much he wants me to be the best person I can be. I thought of all these things and I was blown away because I never really thought of my step-dad --- the man my mother married when I was 15 years old....the man I now call my father --- as this person that means so incredibly much to me that he would be the person who inspires me the most in my life.
He is the most selfless person I know. He is honest, dedicated, funny, intelligent, generous, caring, loyal, handsome, trustworthy, hardworking, and everything good a person can be. He was a stranger my mother started dating 30 years ago. He is my family. He is my friend. He is my father. And I'm damn proud to be his daughter.
So thank you, for never once treating me like I wasn't your own flesh and blood.... like I wasn't
your daughter. Thank you for accepting me and all my imperfections and for continuing to try to help me be a better person. Thank you for loving my mother so unconditionally and showing me that it is possible to find someone who will love you for exactly the person you are, regardless of the leftover scars that may never heal. Thank you for being the role model I never had in my younger years and for showing me what a father is supposed to be. I know you did it selflessly and probably thought it went unoticed. It didn't.
And thank you for not burning my pink t-shirt like I said you could.
I love you, dad.
