Father of Mine (Track #6)- So Much for the Afterglow
I came into your teenage life unexpectedly and changed everything. I scared you and became your mirror. A mirror showing all you could be and who you were. My first memory is of your hands wrapped around my mother’s neck, her belly plump with my little sister. We lived for a few years in the trailer in your mother’s backyard and two teenagers, who knew nothing of themselves or their futures, tried to make a marriage work. I appreciate how much you both tried to keep the tradition of the american family unit alive. You tried and I see you.
I know now, in the light of adulthood, what your relationship was. I have play acted the dynamic in my own life over and over again enough to see everything as it was. I was the little girl who watched you fight, choosing partners who treated me the same. Never seeing my value because I was taught to settle. Two scared people clinging to parental values and societal standards not meant for everyone.
You told me once that you tried to leave mom a few times. Planned it so she would be at work, and I would be with your mother. Packed your bags and loaded the car ready to find solace and adventure with your new lover. As you walked into the make-shift salon attached to your childhood home, you saw me sitting in a chair. Feet dangling and looking at you with your own eyes. Unable to say goodbye you unpacked, staying longer than you should have, and mom was none the wiser.
When you finally left us and mom began to find her own way in the world as a single mother, we saw you infrequently. Always accompanied by another adult as mandated by the courts, and you battled your addictions free of the burdens of parenthood. I remember you cooking dinner for us in our tiny apartment and buying me my first cheesecake. My childish pallet unable to stand the taste of my now favorite dessert. Thank you for trying even when all odds were against you. I hope you are proud.
I have lots of happy memories with you even though there is lots of hurt beneath the seams. One of my happiest was our Thursday visits with you at Taco Bell and TCBY. You picked us up regularly during that year and always on time. I felt like a priority, like the time we had together was cherished by you, and I looked forward to Thursday every week. We sat with our tacos and cinnamon twists, and you asked us about our lives. We giggled and shared for what felt like hours. After the tacos were eaten, we would walk across the street and get a scoop of ice cream. You never poked fun or made snide remarks at the strange toppings I chose for my treat. I still think of you every time I eat gummy bears or cookie dough with vanilla cream. I hope you are proud.
As you found your place in your new family, it seemed there wasn’t room for us. Natasha and I were left waiting more often for you to show. Our bags packed for weekends that didn’t come, slowly losing faith in our father. You would call and apologize saying something had come up, but we were no longer the priority and we felt it. The hollowness of it left me seeking your validation and love more ferociously, as Natasha checked out of any relationship with you completely. When you called, I wanted nothing more than to share with you and soak up every criticism, advice, joke and emotion you could offer me. All I wanted was your love and for you to choose me. I tried so hard to show you I was good and worthy of your time and energy. My efforts were futile, and I was left feeling abandoned again. I hope you are proud.
We bonded over two things that my step siblings couldn’t take- music and horror. My love for the dark and demented started with Are You Afraid of the Dark and has grown exponentially since. When you and our stepmom were separated you called me every week to discuss the newest episode and share our shock or horror over the revelations. As adults we went to theaters sharing popcorn as we watched the apocalypse, possessions, and serial killers run amuck on the big screen. When we were invited for weekend visits you always made sure to rent a horror movie for me and a sappy comedy for my sisters. I recently finished the Insidious movies and thought of you the whole time. Honestly, those movies aren’t even scary anymore because they are synonymous with my love for you. I thank you for the gift of movies and all things horror. My partner has a “must see” horror movie list and I have already seen 85% of them because of you. I think you’d be proud.
Music, of course, is how I bonded with you AND mom. On difficult days, when the world is a bit too loud for me to take, I blast Marylin Manson and Rob Zombie thinking of you. I bang on my steering wheel and play my music obnoxiously loud as I let all my frustrations melt away with the music. You knew my love for music went beyond the sounds and that I connected with each song emotionally. I commend you for sneaking musical contraband to me even though mom did not approve. You weathered countless tongue lashing for it, yet you persisted. How fitting that one of those banned CDs is in the title of this post. Those moments in your car, windows down and hair wild as we listened to our taboo music are my happy place. You understood me more than mom in this regard. I still drive to nowhere and crank up the stereo to process and release. I thank you for all those moments and for the gift of music. You live on with me in each horror movie and song. I hope you are proud.
Some events you never missed, no matter the time commitment. You may have been perpetually late, but you always showed up for dances and graduations. Just before we all gave up on your arrival you would walk in, out of breath and holding your camera bag. We felt like models as you commanded the room under the guise of a hired photographer. I don’t know where any of the photos you took of us were kept or if you ever placed them in albums, but the copies made it onto mom’s shelves, and we still peruse them frequently. At graduations, you always pushed your way forward to have the best vantage point. Making sure each moment was captured for our futures. I only wish you had had that foresight years ago. We didn’t need those unwatched videos and would have traded the photos for time with our father. I hope you are proud.
I learned how to settle from the best. Not settle per se, but how to camouflage. You were magnificent at it and I think it was to both of our detriment. When I observed you speak about your wife you had such destain in the beginning. It was like you were playing a role no one asked you to and you resented it. You would hang up the phone after your wife called and call her names in front of your impressionable daughters. When I asked you if you were happy, you always replied with “I’m content.” What does contentment look like? Smoking in your “room” alone in the garage? Hiding who you really are to fit in? Being small to get what you want? I don’t know if you were ever fully yourself. Always afraid of what others would think. Worried more about strangers' opinions than finding your happiness. Content, but never whole. I hope you are proud.
When you and our stepmother were separated, both times I remember seeing a spark inside you I had never seen before. You made your little apartments a home and always had space for your daughters. Whether it was a pull-out couch and a dresser in your first tiny place or a whole room with bunk beds in the townhouse. I think of both of those homes with saccharine memories and smile when I drive past them. We watched movies with you, curled up on the pull, out candy strewn and faces alight. We met Max, your precious companion, in the townhouse and I learned how to handle a rambunctious kitten. I wonder what he knew that no one else could. He sat with you in the garage and watched you smoke countless cigarettes. Did you ever talk to him like I speak to Luna? Did he know your secrets? What would he say about your contentment? What would he think about all of this? I hope you are proud.
I was 18 when I finally lived with you officially. Mom and I had hit our breaking point and I had to break free. Eventually you made sure I had a room of my own, even if it was the dining room. Makeshift wooden, slotted doors for privacy and my own bed on the floor. You let me have freedom I had never experienced before in an environment where I could be caught if I climbed too high. You knew I was lying about my whereabouts, but never pushed as long as you knew I was safe. We spoke more those few months than we had in years, and it was nice to know you cared. I had many firsts that summer. One of them was experiencing your addiction firsthand. I don’t know if my moving in contributed or not and if it did, I’m sorry. I am my father’s daughter. I inherited the curse. When I think back now and see you grieving what could have been, ranting about my mother, I see myself. I see myself peeling out of the driveway inebriated and hurting, searching for a way out. I see myself leaving notes for my loved ones after a night when my self-hate spilled outward onto their feet. I see me and you saw you the last night I said too much. We mirror one another, but I see beyond. The strength from my mother allowed me to make changes my younger self couldn’t fathom. With your mirror in hand and her strength inside, I was able to break the curse. I think it is simply loving all parts of yourself- the shadow, the light, the gray goo in between. I hope you are proud.
You got sober for the last time when I was 19 and I heard you quit smoking at almost 50. I’m proud of you. I know how hard it is every day. The shadow can be cruel, and life can be overwhelming, but you sustained. Something said to me by your deathbed still haunts me though. I held your hand and said I was sorry. I think you could hear me. Your wife rose from her chair and said you loved me, but that your fear of losing your temperance kept you from reaching out. You knew, dad, you knew what I was in for and chose yourself. We could have helped one another, but you chose you. You always chose you. Rather than face your shadow and become whole, you filled your void with religion and false bravado. You avoided your mirror and so never completely healed. I needed a guide, someone who had traversed through the muck and come out the other side. Detours don’t heal the soul or break curses. You found a quiet town in your avoidance and settled there. Without your daughters and free from facing any hard truths. I only wanted to heal with you and help each other make it to the other side. You left me to do it alone and I am whole despite and because of it. It wasn’t an easy road by any means, but I finally made it. I hope you’d be proud.
When I was 18, I chose an easy road one random week in English class. I chose to paint 3 paintings instead of writing a paper. What a silly project, assigned at the end of the year, a teacher hoping to not have to grade papers. I chose to paint, and it changed my life and opened a whole new world for me. I remember showing you my completed works- Paradise, Sin, and Fear. You showed genuine excitement for my abilities and leaned into them completely. You bought me my first set of paints and brushes while keeping me ever supplied with canvases. Once each piece was completed, you would fawn over my talent and encourage me to go deeper into my creativity. I entered an art show that year because of you and almost won second place. My dining bedroom became my art studio, and I filled them with images I didn’t know I could make. Throughout the years you continued to support my art and most years supplied me with the materials I needed to keep creating. I think about the drawing you announced to the room would be yours when you saw it. I think you posted it in your office, and I hope it lives safely somewhere still. Thank you for seeing the tiny ember of talent inside of me and always fanning the flames. I have grown since then and I hope you have seen the fruits of your labor. I hope you are proud.
You had dreams and talents too. What could you have been with the right parents? A painter, a musician, a poet? You were a drummer and had an incredible singing voice. No formal training of any kind- natural talent and a creative soul. It is in our blood. Stained darker with trauma and fueled by a sense of control and a desire to heal oneself. I chose to embrace my talent and lean into my healing. You chose to try to conform- stuck in a world too small for you and shrunk yourself to fit into it. You tried to diminish my creative light once. You likely don’t remember it, but we were driving in your car listening to one of our many songs. I asked you if I could be a famous singer one day and you replied with a resounding- heart stopping no. You followed this tremendous no with more context, stating that not everyone had talent and that I sang like my mother. Pitchy and unrefined. My dreams were crushed, and I never sang for you again until I was in my late 20s. I hope you are proud.
One Sunday, after our ritual of after church lunch, you invited me to a Grease sing-along with your group. You didn’t know this was my favorite movie and I could write a book about what you chose not to know about me, but I sang. Every word. I sang my heart out. You called me a week later and with such shock in your voice told me I could sing. You asked me what I liked to belt out alone and asked me why I had never mentioned it before. We never sang together, though you had countless duets with my step siblings and always had time for them. I think you lived vicariously through each of our talents. Observing and quietly stoking our flames. Taking pleasure in our achievements and wishing you could make more of yours. I hope you are proud.
My middle name is unique because of you. You loved the name Nicole so earnestly that mom agreed to make it my middle name. Nicole is a common name, I bet many women of my generation reading these words, share it. Mine has an H in the middle though making my version unique. My middle name is Nichole because you were sleeping with a woman called Nicole and thought it would be a great idea to name me after her. Mom added the H cramped onto my birth certificate when she found out. Before I was even born, I observed a woman take neglect and abuse from a man and carry on. She stayed with you for years to come while you rotated countless women through your bedroom. She stayed against her best interests, and you took advantage of her. While you tried to feel the void inside of you with strangers, she tried to make a home for us. What could she have done to make you hate her so much? Or was it that you hated yourself so completely. I hope you are proud.
At age 30, I desperately wanted you to ask me on a family vacation. You traveled to so many places with your new family and I just wanted to see the ocean. When I plucked up the courage to ask you if I could tag along, you said there wouldn’t be enough room. We stayed on the phone a moment too long and you heard the tears fill my eyes and a cry get caught in my throat. You permitted me to join you and your new family after you heard my sadness and I followed you to the sea. I was the only one in the group of 8 that set foot on the beach. I sat in the sand and watched the waves, feeling at peace and connected. I even slept on the balcony for the night to be close to the salty water. Consumerism drove you, along with your worries of how people saw you. Your group only wanted to go to the ocean for shopping and food. You all laid by the man-made pools and lathered yourselves in oil to take from the sun. You went to take, and I went to feel more connected. How perfectly that sums up our mindsets and realities. You saw the world for what it could do for you, and I sought comfort and collectivism. I hope you are proud.
When we spoke throughout the years, I tried to share only the good parts of my life. Always wanting you to be proud of me and knowing you would reject me if I shared anything hard. I talked about my achievements and shared about my successes. Whenever any piece of my shadow-self showed their face, your only question for me was if I had taken my medication or not. As though medicine would absolve you of having to deal with your traumatized daughter. I listened to you speak about every other child in your life as though they were burdens and lesser for each mistake they made. You spoke about each of them with unkindness and I listened dutifully. Your sound board and safe place. A child neglected and a father who saw her as a friend to confide in. Knowing you would speak of my blunders in the same way to each of them, I continued having superficial conversations with you. I played the “together one” and suffered in silence never asking for your parental support or advice. Maybe I played a role in your unknowing of me… I kept myself guarded, protecting my heart from embarrassment and judgment. I hope you see me now and understand who I have become. I am your offspring, and I am flawed. I hope you are proud.
At the wedding, when I said too much, I meant every word. I meant to tell you how much it hurt to never be chosen and how painful it was to be your child. I meant that you were the cause of so much discomfort, shame and fear in my life. And I meant it when I told you you had done more harm than good. I didn’t mean to use that venue or to consume so much alcohol, but I meant every word. I wrote you 5 letters after that night. All of them stating this and asking for reconciliation. You saw yourself and a pinch of my mother that night. I showed you the “real me” and you did not like it. You ran from me with all your might and avoided any further confrontation about my childhood. Had you simply answered one of my letters, you would have known I had forgiven you. I had to do it alone and without support, but I forgave you. I wanted to be seen and for you to acknowledge the damage done. We could have moved forward together and helped one another heal. I am sad for you and for all you missed out on. I grieve a relationship we could have had, but I am at peace. I did the hard work. Alone and meandering, but I got here. I really did it. I hope you are proud.
The last time I saw you alive was at the graduation ceremony for my first master’s degree. Natasha had given you all the details and you decided to come last minute in your outdoor wear. You hid in the back in your shorts and T-shirt, but I spotted you immediately. I texted you while I sat, waiting for my turn, heart racing and excited to reconnect. When I crossed the stage and walked back to my assigned seat, you were waiting for me. You always gave the best hugs, and you held me as a father should. Strong and paternal- heartfelt and supportive. I cried and you said to me as you wiped my tears, “Don’t cry baby.” You kissed my forehead as you always did, and we parted ways again. You went back to your padded life, and I went to fight more of my demons. Thank you for coming that day. It meant a lot and I think of it often. I’m sorry your fears got in the way of what could have been. In another world perhaps, we helped each other heal and shared laughter during the holidays. I miss what we could have had. I hope you are proud.
So many things have happened since you passed. I made a lot of difficult and uncomfortable choices, without you, to better myself. I’ve been sober now for over a year and I am in love. I thought countless times before that I had found love. Always trying to fill a wound you left gaping. I really found it this time daddy and it is glorious. My girlfriend, yes, I am gay, is the most incredible person I have ever met. They make me want to be a better person every day and I am really healing. It is incredible how quickly gouging wounds can mend when they are given the right medicine. I needed to be seen and loved despite my shadow. I am now. You can move on in peace now- I have someone who enjoys every piece of my flawed messy humanness. Even more, I finally love myself. I am whole and as I continue tending to each wound, I carry, I glow more brightly. Light radiates within me, and I no longer need the approval of others. I broke your curse dad. I crossed fiery oceans and sat with my darkness. I didn’t run from my fears and grew tremendously because of it. I hope you’re proud. I am more than content, Daddy. I made it to the other side. I hope you know how big a role you played in getting me here.
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