10.25.02 My dad is on my mind today. He emailed me again to ask me to visit or to at least call. The last time I called him (mid-may drama), he sounded high, fucked-up... Which wouldn't be a big change. My earliest memories of dad are filled with the smell of cheap beer, & patchouli... Drunkenscreamingbloodynights.... Desperate- aren't we all? And now I look at him eye to eye, because I am all grown up. Now I can see straight into his eyes, his frail & worn eyes, his tired & apologetic eyes, his soft & old eyes, I wonder. I can't believe that this is the same person standing before me. I have to remind myself that he once towered over me with the rage of GOD and the power too... I have to remind myself NOT to feel sorry for him. Yes, that IS the same man- but he is just too old and tired to be a ragingalchoholicmaniac. I know that I am one of a gizillion-million kids who stood sobbing outside in the driveway as their dad drove away forever. I remember the holes in the wall, the broken things, the scars on my legs... I know it happens to just everyone. (Doesn't everyone come from a broken home these days?) But I digress... Here I am just a little statistic of a thing. Huh. Here I am trying to remember the fear. The closet. It was dark. But he never found me. Everytime I see him, I turn into a little girl. Its inevitable. I shrink in my clothes and pull on my hair. Everytime I pound tequila, he fades away. And instead I am he... all powerful. Stumbling drunk. If he could see me now, wouldn't he be soooo proud. What a fine youg lady, what a fucked up mess. So he wonders why I won't visit, why i don't call, why I don't feel compelled to think about it. We have changed places, he and I; he is the child wondering why he isn't loved, I am the all raging father wondering why I have this burden of LOVING. But I take it. I am glad that you are lonely & scared of dying alone. I am glad that you want a "relationship" with your only (?) child. And yes, I KNOW the dirty secret- that I am not your only child. I am thrilled that you hurt for me. If you do at all... Don't die. Don't die. Don't die. I haven't told you what I really think yet. ---- Anger is real like a stamp in time. Words have teeth, they bite. They carve grooves on your soul & in your skin & they fucking never heal. I know. I have the scars. I am the child who fashioned their soul into a kite, and then cursed the wind when it refused to fly. I am my father. |
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