Daddy Issues
No “Happy Father’s Day” from B
I grew up surrounded by shallow promises.
We’ll build a car together.
We’ll go to the skate park together.
We can play video games together.
We’ll go here.
We’ll go there.
We’ll go everywhere.
I was a daddy’s kid when I was young. He’d hold my hand as we walked into a store together. I’d speed walk trying to keep up with his long legs. I remember asking him to quit smoking one day. I had to be six or seven at the time.
“You can’t ask him to do that. It’s really hard.” His mother told six year old me. I’m a chronically ill person. I can’t be around cigarette smoke at all.
I loved him anyway, cigarettes and all. Then I grew up some. I lost my mother to a series of chronic illnesses. I lost my kidney function to my own chronic illness. I lost my dad to alcoholism.
I don’t remember how it started. I was probably too young to notice. However, I spent one night with him and my grandmother. It would be the last time I ever wanted to go to their house.
14 year old me woke up to a loud noise around 2 in the morning. My grandmother ran out of the room. I followed her to see my dad stumbling in with blood pouring down his face. His right eye was purple and the size of a melon. I’m not even sure he could feel it, because he was wasted. He spouted off at the mouth at the wrong person, and paid a hefty price for it.
I called my Nana at her job the next morning and begged her to come get me. She asked if I could wait until my uncle got off at 2 P.M. I begged her to come get me now.
Ten minutes later, she was pulling up in the front yard. My father’s mom had no idea I had even called her. I was out the door in a heartbeat and never looked back.
I remember being terrified that she’d show up drunk to my high school graduation. I didn’t even want to give him one of the tickets, but my Nana talked me into it.
“He’ll always be your dad.” She said. I knew that. I also knew that I didn’t want him stumbling around in the auditorium.
When I came out as trans, he didn’t get the privilege to be informed. The only family member I told was my Nana, and she already knew. Everyone else was a close friend. I don’t know how he would’ve taken it. I don’t care either. He didn’t raise me. He barely knows who I was or who I’ve become.
It seems like the older I get, the more distance I want to put in between us. This last encounter I had with him took the cake. I had to visit my campus to see what I lost after a horrific tornado. He hopped in my uncle’s truck with an open beer can. By the time we arrived home, he had a bag of empty cans to go along with the case he had my uncle visit three different stores to get. He couldn’t sit still during the car ride. He leaned up against my uncle in the driver’s seat countless times, talking about something neither of us knew anything about.
I asked him what I owed him for coming with us, even though the only thing he did was annoy me. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “I always take donations.” So I gave him a ten, and I knew I didn’t want anything else to do with him.
He taught me what I didn’t want to be. He might be a man, but he isn’t the kind of man I want to become. I don’t want people to hate to see me coming. If I ever adopt kids, I don’t want them to dislike me. I don’t want them to be ashamed of me. I don’t want to not be able to take care of myself.
Today, my Nana asked if I planned on calling him for Father’s Day. I can’t bring myself to dial his number and choke out a “Happy Father’s Day.” He’d probably be too drunk to understand what I’m trying to say anyway.
–BFoundAPen
I didn’t write this to shit on Father’s Day. I love seeing the posts about everyone’s dad and how much they love them. I love seeing posts of Father’s Day dinners and all of the gifts. I enjoy all of that. I just don’t participate in it. As a joke, I tell my Nana Happy Father’s Day because she pretty much became both of my parents.
