I’ve really battled with myself in deciding whether to re-post this one or not. I tend to keep myself to myself, and yet frequently share my innermost thoughts and feelings openly online with the world. This would be another one of them.
I originally wrote this post 12th April 2006. It is the only time I have ever written anything about my biological father who walked out on my Mum when my brother and I were youngsters. I have no qualms declaring that he had two simultaneous affairs and ran off to be with one of them. Having had children of my own, I struggle to understand anything about him; yet at the same time, I have come full circle and left that chapter of my life behind. It’s not the most cohesive post I’ve ever written, but the only post that has left me feeling emotionally drained and in tears.
Here I am recently with my Mum and brother, John. I used to ask if I was adopted all the time.
Today was my father’s birthday. Father: I use the term loosely. And true to his form, I passed it by without a second thought. Sorry, that’s a wee bit harsh, isn’t it? OK, kudos really should be given to him for acknowledging my eighteenth though. Well done. Thanks for the card.
There’s no emotional connection. Certainly no intellectual connection. But thanks for the barrage of stomach problems – likely my only physical connection for a very long time to come. I could count on both hands how many times we’ve ‘met’.
I grew to despise singing Father’s Day songs sang at Church. They should at least be optional participation. Don’t pity me, I really don’t need or want it. I feel nothing, it’s all numb. No, it’s less than numb — there’s a real feeling connected with that. I’m past caring. Quite apathetic, actually.
It’s not all without effort on my part. I tried my best, I made a 2-hour online connection and when it got far too emotively charged for him, he ran for the hills. I know we all have faults, but there has been and wasn’t any attempt made to hide any of his. His vacant commentary was cold and unfeeling; annoyingly frustrating for a twenty-six-year-old seeking out the faceless man behind the words on the screen. I wanted and deserved answers.
I knew I wasn’t to blame. A seventeen-month-old and her six-year-old brother are never to blame. All I wanted was a good, solid reason for the absence of … anything.
It was in vain. Right before he disappeared from Instant Messenger he made some incredulous remarks, and in retaliation, I exclaimed, “You don’t know me. You don’t know what a fabulous person I am. My talents, my interests, my strengths. Me.”
I certainly don’t feel like I missed out not having a father around. I have nothing to compare with. But I will be eternally grateful for the man who stepped up to the responsibility of a father-figure in my mid-teens. Thank you, Denis.
Oh, and by the way – many happy returns.