Have you ever fucked up so bad that even you couldn’t believe it. Have you ever felt that what you were doing wasn’t real – and once you have chosen your weapon of self destruction, the ticking time bomb of actuality explodes and suddenly you know what you have done. You cannot protect yourself or anybody else from the shrapnel of your mistake. Yet somehow it doesn’t quite burn enough. You still cannot believe it. You have admitted it, accepted it, and now you are already trying to lick your wounds. There is still a fog in your mind – what exactly happened. It sets into your synapses like a slow, seeping release of tear gas. Your brain recoils, your body crumbles but you still cannot believe it. You stitch and staple and bandage but that only closes the wounds – there will be scars. Reminders of what you did and it feels like everyone will know.
You watched over me.
I never knew until you told me.
You asked grandma and grandpa about me. You called while I was at their house and asked what I was doing.
They showed you pictures of me. They told you when I was hurt, when I cried, when I ran away…
You knew everything…like a secret agent.
Is that why it is so hard for you now? Are you so used to hiding in the shadows of your own regret that you cannot step out into the sunshine of what could be a father/daughter relationship?
It is not too late…
I will tell you now, it will never be too late. It has been nearly 15 years and I never gave up. What makes you think I would now?
I will die of old age, wishing the man I wished was my father would wish I was his daughter.
We always want what we cannot have…
REWIND… Back to the age of approximately 2.
What we cannot have….We cannot have our job and drink our beer too. Now, Dad #2 was not necessarily — #2 (like poo). He was a decent man. He is a decent man. He means well, but he just did not & does not get it. Women need stability, and he has about as much stability as a pirate with TWO peg legs.
I will never forget the day he left…
The day he left was burned into my small child brain like when you leave the television on pause for too long. The image stuck. It was nap time at my nana’s. He came over to say goodbye. Mommy had told him to leave. He kneeled down and kissed me on the forehead — his hand brushed my little cheeks. Then he made a promise he couldn’t keep, “I promise I’ll be back…” The little princess that I was expected him to keep his promise.
What my mom did not know was that as I got older (and learned how to use a phone book on my own), I started searching. Flipping through pages of the phone book looking up his last name. Typing in his name in Google and Yahoo search. Considering asking for an allowance so I could pay for one of those letters you get in the mail that tells you everything about them from where they lived previously to where they are now.
While kids were spending summers in the pool, I was digging through phone books – and sometimes my mom’s things. I found her old wedding ring in the filing cabinet. I found pictures of me – one where I am on the roof, his forearm holding me up there. Then I found a home video. We had gone to Oklahoma. I was a little bitty baby.
I remember too much.
I remembered the first time I watched Bambi was at his parent’s house. In the basement. While playing with hand sewn dolls and what was probably a doll house built by grandpa. But like I said, I remembered when he left…
Maybe I am a little obsessive. Spending my life searching for things that are long gone. It was all worth it though, because I found him. Even after you get to the end of all this – I am still going to tell you, it was worth it. I spent my life being told no, so I was going to search for somebody who would say yes.
Dad 2 moved in with us my senior year. He was a lot of firsts for me and I am thankful for that. I always will be. He came to my school for a presentation (Theatre class). He was so excited about it that he brought his video camera to record it. He took pictures with me before sending me off to prom. He threatened my boyfriend – “If you break her heart, I will break your neck”. To which my boyfriend candidly replied, “Thank you. Same to you.” and then they shook hands while my mom cried. Nobody had ever said that for me. Apparently nobody cared if my boyfriend broke my heart or not. He took me out to a “Father Daughter Lunch” where we discussed our favorites while watching the news about the recent whale attack at Sea World. I had an open faced turkey sandwich at Gerards.
One of my favorite comfort foods.
To be continued….
I remember not being allowed to go to my grandparents’ house the days that you were visiting. It would be too awkward.
You didn’t even want to look at me…
But after that day at Pizza Hut, it was like it was ok to at least be in the same room with each other now. Which should have been great right? Things are always better after complete utter rejection.
You came over on Christmas. I always went to grandma and grandpa’s house for half the day. Why couldn’t you have waited until the other half? I think I know why now.
Fast forward 5 years – I am 18 years old. I just graduated from high school 5 days ago.
And then there was tragedy…
My aunt Jennifer passed away in her sleep. I don’t handle loss well – especially not permanent loss. I went with everybody to clean out her apartment and to take over ownership of her dear kitty, Bubba. I was sitting in the truck with my friend Miranda when you came outside. You said you wanted to talk to me. Dear God what do you want from me. Leave me be in my sorrow.
Then you said the words I had waited a decade to hear – “I want to be a part of your life…”
I wanted to punch you square in the gut. But I am a lover, not a fighter. So instead I hugged you as hard as I could and put on my game face.
I will have to talk to Dad 2 about this. That is what I told you. What you didn’t know is that my mom was now dating husband number 2, again. After Dad 3 left.
I had found him on MySpace, messaged him, and said I had always wondered where he went. I remembered him as a loving father and to my great happiness – he messaged me back that he had missed me for 16 years. He was stationed overseas – Iraq/Afghanistan – but he was coming home for a short period of time. He wanted to see me and my mom.
So we let him come back – he beat you to the punch line.
He did not even hesitate or take time to consider being a father figure – he was determined to be the dad that I needed. He even came to my graduation. (More on Dad 2 coming soon)
When we left Jennifer’s I told my grandma what you said and my response. She cried and told me that I didn’t have to let you into my life.
YOU hurt ME.
Your poor mother – she loves me with all her heart and soul and couldn’t understand why you left me. I was shocked by her words but it made me feel better. She was right. This was my choice. You can’t reject somebody their entire life and then expect them to come running to you when YOU decide it is okay. But you knew that – so you waited.
I do not remember if I officially told you that I accepted your offer or if it was just assumed. I think I may have called you on the phone.
On the outside I came off as hesitant – and part of me really was.
I no longer know anything about you – the man that I called daddy.
On the inside though, I was back to being that little girl who called you on the phone – begging to talk to you for even just a moment. And now, 4 years later – I’m 22. I just bought a house with my boyfriend. There are some big steps coming up in my life. Yet I have not seen you in 2 months… we hardly speak.
I still do not know you…
I call you throughout the week. Sometimes it is just once a week. Other times it is up to 3 times a week. You never answer. I’m lucky if you return my phone calls. We are both adults now, but I am starting to feel like that little girl again. The one who waited until she was locked in her room at grandma’s to call you. Looking into that big mirror while the phone rang…and rang…and rang. Thinking to myself – why doesn’t he answer? What is wrong me? What did I do?
Dad are you ever going to pick up the phone?
To be continued….
I do not know who my real dad is.
Do I want to?
Do I wonder what he looks like?
In my own mind – I often go back and forth between wanting to know and not really giving two shits who he is. Not out of hatred or anger – I just do not see the point after 22 years of living. How awkward — Hi, you don’t know me … but I am kind of your kid. Well, your adult now but you spawned me 22 years and 9 months ago.
I have told myself over the years that I do not have daddy issues. Repeatedly. But I have been denying some vital information…
I do like older men – but not like, daddy or grandpa older. 6 years is a good number.
Serial Dater – guilty as hell. I don’t think I have ever been “single” for more than 5 days.
Jealousy – I do… I really do… but only when it comes to women from the past. If you have known them longer than me, it will probably bug me.
But further on the note of jealousy — which I guess really it would be more like envy — other people and their fathers. I saw the most beautiful post today on Buzzfeed. “25 Dads With Daughters Who Are Doing It Right”.
They are most definitely doing it right. I would know, because I know how to do it wrong.
I don’t have very many pictures like the ones in that article. In fact, I don’t know if I have any beyond infancy. Dad, did we take pictures together when I was a child? Were we smiling? I don’t have those pictures if we did.
Why didn’t you take pictures of us?
See, I don’t know who my biological father is. I know who dads 1,2, and 3 are. They have names but a lot of times I just call them by numbers – because otherwise it is too confusing for my friends/acquaintances.
Now, don’t go getting the wrong impression of my mum here – she is a wonderful lady and I won’t tolerate you even THINKING something is wrong with her. Because there might be some blemishes, but she is beautiful inside AND out.
Dad 1 – My mom’s first husband. The first man I called daddy. I don’t know how old I was when we did the paternity test. I just remember crying because it hurt and going out for ice cream with my grandma after. Chocolate chip cookie dough thank you. Grandma, why didn’t you get ice cream? I know now, you were nervous… It’s ok. I was too.
Even though I had no idea what was happening then.
You disappeared… You left me…You forced my mother to tell me why you left me…It wasn’t all her fault. I was not your child but I did not know that. Do you know what that does to a small heart? I was young but I understood – I didn’t belong to you, so you no longer loved me.
I was lucky though, grandma and grandpa still loved me.
By this time, we were long into the relationship of my mother and Dad 3. Mom and 1 divorced before I was even 2 years old, maybe sooner than 1? Don’t worry – I have not forgotten Dad 2… he will come up later… probably in Part 2.
My mother picked me up from school one day… “Mommy, why doesn’t daddy talk to me…I tried and tried calling him, but he never answers. And he never calls me back.”
My poor mother, having to explain AGAIN that you were not my daddy. That dad 3 was my daddy and he was a good man. That he was raising me as one of his own and I should thank him and love him. And I did. When that front door opened when we got home, he was sitting in the blue recliner, watching television. Even though he was reclined back, I RAN to him – arms open and tears streaming down my face. When I wrapped my arms around his neck I felt him look at my mom, “What is this all about?” he said. My response? “You love me, you are my dad and you love me…Thank you.” I received a small squeeze, pat on the back, and “well of course I love you.” One of the very few moments where my heart burst with joy around Dad 3.
But I didn’t give up hope just yet…
I continued to call you and call you until one day – you answered…I couldn’t believe it. I do know that during this time, I was 13 years old. I was in middle school still. I was struggling with depression and an emotionally/sexually manipulative boyfriend.
When suddenly you appear like a Godsend.
We made plans to get together at Pizza Hut. I do not remember which one. I just remember that we sat at a booth.
My heart was racing when you picked me up.
Is this a date or am I seeing my “dad” for the first time in what, 8 years? The one thing I did not do was count, I never liked math anyways. It was always disappointing. It was, “It has been xxxx days/weeks/months/years since I have seen my dad” instead of “it is only xx hours/minutes/seconds until I see my dad again”. God I had hoped to see you like no other girl had ever dreamed.
I was wearing jeans, a red tank top, and a black “Agape” hat. Oh the irony.
Agape – self sacrificing love.
It started out as small talk, simple really. How is school (how the hell do you think it is?). How is your mom (Wouldn’t have a clue, I am a teenager now). Then we got into the big stuff.
So, what do you want to talk about.
I tried so hard to speak while choking on years of agony – “I miss you,” was all I could get out. You said you missed me too. My conscience called “Bologna”. I tried to tell you about Dad 3. Why I didn’t like him. But to everybody it came off as a rambling teen girl. But teen girls like their dads. Teen girls hate their moms. I hated both at the time. (Not really mom, I always love you – I was just angry and full of angst). I was pining for you to be my father. My head was filled with happy reunions from bad 90’s teen girl movies. A Little Princess was my heart wrencher. I envied Amanda Bynes in What A Girl Wants.
Dammit what a girls wants is a DAD. A Dependable Advocate for Daughters. D.A.D.
I only wished my father’s absence was as simple as Ever After or A Cinderella Story. Something truly tragic, not just my parent’s mistakes.
I didn’t do anything wrong – why did you take it out on me?
I left that day with answers to many questions – but I also left still feeling alone and unwanted. You couldn’t be my daddy. You just couldn’t. But Dad 3 was a great guy, and he loves me. So I should thank him. Yea. Thanks.
To be Continued….
I admit it – I gave up. I lost all hope for a moment. Already telling myself I could not do this. But I can. It has been (almost) exactly two months since my last confession…I endured reading a short comment directed towards me in a hateful manner (this was in response to my last post – about stopping the hate) and I let it break me. I have not experienced being truly “bullied” since high school. I am sure people have said things behind my back, but to say it directly to me (although via the worldwide web) – it truly hurt. I can admit that I do not take criticism well. I never have and I do not think I ever will. I was bullied by “family & friends” from a young age up into my early adulthood. I forgot what it felt like until somebody reminded me. For the past few years I have been trying to be kind to people – trying really hard because not everybody acts like they deserve it. All people and things though do deserve to be treated kindly. Even when they do not reciprocate. After those hateful things were said to me though – I realized that a single person hurting me did not make me want to hurt them (nor myself or anyone else). It made me want to love even harder. I wanted to hug a young child. I wanted to kiss my significant other. I wanted to hold the hand of my grandmother. I wanted to show that person that no matter what they do or say – there is always love. After a good cry about how much it hurt me – I just wanted someone to hold. I am not the type who likes to be held. People will wrap their arms around me – but if they think back – I am always wrapping my arms around them too.
So, to the person who said those nasty things – I want you to take notes.
#1 – My love is much stronger than your hate, spite, anger, or any other negativity you could ever throw like rocks to hurt me.
#2 – No other person will ever see the words you said to me – as I have to give approval for every post that comes to this page.
I find myself struggling to keep my emotions at bay. I want to grab these people by their shoulders and shake them and ask them what has been done to you for you to treat another so cruel? What makes you feel like you have the right to diminish another’s heart and soul? It breaks me down to see the hate, violence, pain, agony, death, and sorrow in the world. How can it be that we cannot change? Why are we consistently angry? Why do we feel we must be the best and in order to be the best we have to make others suffer?
The previous evening there was a shooting in my city…there are bigger cities with bigger problems and smaller cities with smaller solutions. As I read the comments section of the news article I am ashamed of the human race. “Wipe them out.” “Good for nothin’ bangers.” “Somebody got disrespected.” This is not a joke. This is the end of life. How can you look at a sentence that says “A 20 year old woman was shot and killed” and then reference her to a “Banger”. How can you read that sentence and not see the last of life exhaling from her? How can you not feel compassion towards her family…her friends. It does not matter who they are – they are people. They are human.
I think of all the horrendous acts that we as humans commit against ourselves and each other. Against nature and species great and small. How do we live with ourselves? How do we live with the knowledge of what we have done and what we are doing? We laugh in the face of people like me – who are filled to the overflowing brim with compassion and empathy. We have hearts bigger than our mind and body combined and too often people break them indirectly. People like myself have to watch the world crumble and ask ourselves, what can I do? When we make a small change, make a person smile, save a small life of a moth or flower, donate our time and money to a minimal cause we feel elated for a brief moment. But then we remember, the world is so big…what difference did we make? But we persist. We persist to make a ripple effect of changes. If my family and friends see what I can do and what I have done then maybe they will too. Maybe they will hold their tongue when the words of hate approaches the ledge of their lips. Maybe they will extend their hand to the person or thing that has fallen and cannot get up. Maybe they will spare the heart of another…perhaps they will spare a life.
I am somber today at the loss of yet another great inspiration of change. Today we have lost Maya Angelou… I cried the day of Nelson Mandela’s departure and a thought occurred to me that day and again today – we are losing our opportunity for change. There are fewer and fewer heroes such as them. It takes great suffering to bring great people and I fear what suffering we will have to endure to approach a new hero. Who will try to save us this time? Will we finally listen? Although filled with doubt I embrace hope.
Today I ask you in remembrance of heroes to hold your tongue. Extend your hand. Open your heart. Make a change – even if it is slight. Encourage others to love and end this unnecessary hatred.
There are so many embarrassing moments in a person’s life – how can you pick just one?
1. In My Current Relationship – The day I found out that I only cross one eye. Ya know, when you cross your eyes – well only one of mine moves. I did not know this until my current significant other pointed this out while I was making faces at him. Here we are at a nice dinner date, making faces, having a few laughs, and he says , “How do you only cross one eye?” And my response – “What?” His surprised look, “You mean you don’t know?” This is the part where I think he is joking… until he proceeds to prove it with a close up picture/video on his dinosaur IPhone. Hell no I didn’t know I have a freaky stand still eye. #alwaysonthelookout
2. Hanging out with the Siblings – Forget SnapBack Hats – this was the day of Snap Up Pants (Addidas!). Does anybody remember these? Do they still make them? My sister and I were dancing in the living room, my brother was sitting on the couch watching TV, and the front door was wide open (Hello passersby). To my dismay my foot caught on the bottom of the total awesome SnapPants and WHOOSH! I felt a nice cool breeze as they fell to floor and I stood there in my underwear. I said “We tell no one!” Next day, I told everyone. #flashdance
3. In the Bedroom – Ah, not the most embarrassing but possibly my favorite. The sound of a queef aint got nothin’ on the sound of a beer bottle smacking you in the head. While we were er… #rockintheheadboard… his beer bottle fell off and hit me smack in the forehead. Explain that when mom asks where you got that bruise #doorknob
4. At a school dance – I once asked a guy if he wanted to dance… He said I don’t have any money… I laughed – then he realized I was not selling drugs. How..the hell.. do you get drugs – out of the word dance… Honestly I don’t know who was more embarrassed about the situation here.
And that is just the start — I could think of more than enough embarrassing moments for a night of stand up comedy. But alas, I am a blogger…not a comedian