My Mom married 4 times, and each new Dad was supposed to do the job the previous one couldn’t. They all sucked, but the 4th was Epic Fail.
Weirdly enough, I’ve come full circle to the original one, who is an impoverished alcoholic pothead who didn’t change one iota during the 10 years I didn’t have him in my life. Same shitty apartment, same cat, same job, same addiction. We talk on the phone every month or so for about 20 minutes. He’s not really all that bad. I’m a grown up now, so his addiction can’t hurt me.
Ever since I was a little kid, he never pretended to be anything other than he was. When I was 7 he told me flat out that he was always going to be an alcoholic because he preferred his drunken stupor to actually dealing with the painful things in his life. ‘‘You know your Daddy loves you, but this is just the way I am and you’re going to have to accept it.’’ Then he offered me a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps.
He dragged me to bars every single weekend. I was actually kind of spoiled – I’d get an unlimited supply of quarters for the jukebox and pool table and I’d tell the bartender, ‘‘Mountain Dew, on the rocks’’ and I’d dance around for the patrons. He was really proud of me and wanted to show me off, but he was fundamentally incapable of risk assessment. One of his girlfriends was a heroine addict who didn’t feed her children (including my half-sister) and would shoot up right in front of me. I remember once there was a domestic violence situation in which a friend-of-a-friend’s husband was banging on the front door with a shotgun and all of us children had to go hide in the friend’s attic so we didn’t get fucking shot. And he brought me back to that house more than once (it had a really cool fishtank though.)
This father is also the one who gave me stacks of Reader’s Digest to peruse, who taught me how to play chess and sing the National Anthem. I owe my creativity in part to him. Cardboard boxes became sprawling cities, water balloons with sharpied faces became fishes in the rusty bathroom sink–hell, I used to entertain myself for hours by pouring elmer’s glue on my hands, letting it dry and then peeling it off. He used to sing to me – ‘‘Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road’’ was a favorite.
This father – my biological father – is the best father I have ever had, just as
your shitty father is the best father you have ever had. I know most kids only get one shot–I got four–but this is what we end up with, this is it. We can either take it and appreciate it for its good, or wash our hands of it and be happy we’re free from the emotional tyranny of childhood.
I was fortunate to learn early enough in my life that adults (or even older children) really don’t need their parents. The minute you accept that no adult actually needs blood relatives, the happier you’ll be. (*Everyone *needs a family–but who composes that family is another matter entirely.) This means you have the complete freedom to walk away, OR–and this has been my choice–once you accept that there’s not a need for them, you can simply enjoy them for what they are, without all that emotional fulfillment bullshit people go on about.
I love both of my biological parents very much. I chose to cope with my dysfunctional family members by deciding exactly what I will and will not be willing to tolerate–what actually hurts me and what is just less than ideal. My bio parents are two that I’m very happy to have in my life. Doesn’t mean I don’t get pissed off at them from time to time, but it does mean that I’ve let go of the need for retribution or atonement.
These are your last moments with the man you were fated to be born to. He’s the only Dad you get. How you choose to define those moments is entirely up to you. The only certain thing is that either way, there will be consequences, emotional ramifications, a legacy.
The last thing I will say is that my least favorite relative died completely unexpectedly earlier this year, and I was completely blindsided by the amount of pain I felt at his passing. Though we did grow up together, our relationship could be described as ‘‘awkard’’ at best, antagonistic at its worst. The most positive memory I have of him is the time I was a girl of 11 and put on my best dress so that I would look nice around his friends (they were 16.) The minute I walked into the kitchen he began to criticize my looks and mock me in front of his friends because there was a blue vein visible through my very pale skin. This actually made me run into the bedroom and cry. When he called on me for dinner, he found me crying, and for a moment (though he didn’t apologize) I could tell he was surprised that he’d actually hurt me. It’s pretty pathetic when your most positive memory of someone is the one time they felt bad for hurting your feelings. I was insecure about that damn vein for years (I can’t even see it now–isn’t it amazing how childhood magnifies the tiniest flaws?)
He died this year at 30 years old, just 5 years older than me–doing a stupid fucking thing and he should have known better. The strongest emotion I feel about his death is regret that I didn’t make more of an effort to reach out to him and understand him. His death still hurts months later, and is arguably one of the more life-defining experiences I have had. I would never in a million years have imagined that it would affect me this strongly. So just keep that in mind–death is a funny thing. You don’t know what kind of feelings it might dredge up. Regret is not my favorite.
