How does it come to pass, that at nearly 30 years of age I am still moaning about the man who fathered me? How am I still not over it?
Background; older brother, older sister and I share same father. Grew up five minutes from him. Never close, got closer during my second pregnancy, and then six years ago he just stopped talking to me. No reason was ever given, and I can honestly say that I have no idea what I could possibly have done.
And this is just you and I now, I have no reason to lie do I? If I knew what I’d done that was so awful to be disowned by own father, I’d admit to it. But nope, no clue here.
So here I sit, in the middle of a sunny Saturday afternoon, pretending that “yeah yeah I’m good thanks, you?” in my rainbow jumper pondering, again, why am I such a bad person the man who shares half of my DNA can’t bring himself to look at me?
Sorry, I lie actually, he text me once about three years ago to inform me his mother had died but I needn’t attend the funeral. I responded with condolences and a photo of his grandchildren, who he also neglected to see for the duration of this no contact kick of his.
This week I visited one of my dearest family members, and I knew my father would be there. I was warned. The man stood within touching distance of me, and reader, I felt like fucking Harry Potter sitting in the closet and pretending I didn’t exist. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t speak to me. He didn’t even acknowledge that his daughter was stood there making a cup of tea.
I swear my heart broke. I’m surprised you couldn’t hear the pieces shattering and hitting the bottom of my soul.
It’s fucked up really. The whole thing. For 20 odd years my mother and father hated each other, but now they have long phone calls with each other about fucking kitchens. My aunt and uncle have him round and talk of him with respect and as if they actually like him. He speaks with my sister frequently, my elder brother constantly. But me? No. Nothing.
I swear I’m the goddamn milkmans.
But I’m 29, I’m supposed to be over this. I’m supposed to be okay with this shit. I’m a goddamn grown up with my own children.
But I think that is the point of it. I have my own children. And I know that for me to disown either of them, they’d have to have committed some kind of unforgivable act. The kind they’d get life imprisonment for. Not for missing each others birthdays.
So why am I even bothering to write about this? I don’t even have the mental energy about this to make it flowery. This isn’t an unusual situation, millions of fathers across the world don’t see their children. I’m not special or unique with this. Okay it’s a bit weird because for 24 years we pretended to have a relationship. But still….
I guess it’s because it’s in my fucking head again. I know I have to deal with him again in a few weeks at my brothers wedding.
But it’s not even that really. It’s that everyone chose their side. And it wasn’t mine. I’ve never asked anyone to take sides, but knowing I had someone, anyone, in my corner would have made the world of difference.
Do you know who I rang after I saw him? As I pulled over, because it wasn’t safe to drive because I was shaking and my eyes were swimming with tears….no one. I rang fucking no one. I just….squashed that shit down and got on with it. I responded to some texts, I vaped, I drank some water. I turned my music up so loud I couldn’t here my own thoughts. I bit my nails so hard one of them bled.
Then I swallowed that lump in my throat and got on with it. Because, that’s what I do. I get broken, I get walked on, and then I shake my head and fucking get on with it. Because it’s me. No one is going to pick me up. No one is going to wipe my tears. Especially not over this.
Because they all chose his side. They chose his side when they didn’t ask him what his problem with me was. They chose his side when they make cozy phone calls. They chose his side, when they told me to be the bigger person. They chose his side when he made no effort with us as children. They chose his side when they didn’t condemn his behaviour.
But do you want to know why I won that battle with the dragon?
Because whilst my heart was breaking, whilst I could barely breathe, whilst my hands were desperate to shake…
I didn’t do any of that in front of him. I stood there, in my black dress, with a big sunny smile. I talked normally with my family. I laughed. I joked. And then when I left I spoke to him.
I spoke to him, and before he answered he looked me up and down, as if I was dirt on the bottom of his shoe. And he uttered three words in response.
Yes. You. Will.
And that reader, is when I realised I don’t have a dad.
So whilst I’m sad, and I’m hurting. Finally accepting that….means that next time I’m talking of the man who fathered four of my siblings…I won’t get that little pang in my heart. Next time I see him, I won’t get that sinking feeling in my stomach. I won’t day dream any longer, about the day we reconcile.
Because there won’t be any reconciliation. He will forever just be, my brothers dad…my sisters dad….my mothers ex-husband. He is no more to me than a stranger.
I fought that fucking dragon. And I fucking won.
Yes you will….
somethinksthingsandothers 