Enough

It was odd to be in a room full of people who all seemed to look up to my dad like he was some kind of hero. A part of me wanted to see him through their eyes just for a moment, but with my dad, that would be next to impossible. Oh, I tried all right, tried like hell to see past his flaws, broken promises, abuses, and lies until I ran out of excuses for him. Throughout the years I found myself desperate to find the good in him, there had to be some semblance of it somewhere, but with every let down, I realized I was the only one hurting over our lack of a father-daughter relationship. The only thing that man wanted was his own happiness, at any expense, and if he stomped all over me to get it, so be it. The emotional rollercoaster between love and hate took a toll on me, had me shutting myself off from everyone I loved, building up walls around my heart just to survive the feelings of abandonment and not being wanted. What a terrible thing for a child to feel, especially from the ones who are supposed to love and support you no matter what, to put your best interests above their own.

I didn’t understand the selfishness in him, couldn’t figure out how others missed what I observed so clearly, and hung on every word of his elaborate lies, taking them as gospel, even applauding him. They would all laugh, saying my dad could sell anyone anything, especially things they didn’t even need, or want. If they knew this, recognized it, then how did they not see how he played them all? He had a gift, I had to give him that, because he could manipulate the truth and have you feeling guilty for questioning him in the first place. I don’t know how he managed that, but I witnessed it time and time again, which only made me pull even more into myself, not wanting to risk my already shattered heart. He had that way about him, that certain charm that draws you in and before you know it you are swimming upstream right alongside him.

For a decade I ached for a relationship with him, put myself out there, made contact, hoping that he’d finally grown up and was ready to be a father, not just in name, but by actions as well. The worst part was that he knew it, not only knew it, but used it to his advantage, treated it as a game. Yes, people were pawns in his game of chess, and once he had what he wanted from you, he’d toss you aside without a second thought. The biggest deception he ever told me was on my eighteenth birthday, this day of promise and excitement. He of course was on the road, too many states away and told me I needed to sit by the radio and wait, that the DJ had a message for me from him, that he’d be calling again soon once he knew my package was delivered. He called three times that day to make sure I did exactly as he instructed, asking if his gifts arrived and pressing me to be patient. Well, being young, impressionable, and naive, wanting nothing more than to hear my name over the radio, having my daddy wishing me a happy birthday from another state, I sat in my room the entire day glued to the radio.

This day where I legally became an adult, could’ve been out with my friends celebrating, I chose to stay home and waste my entire day by the radio, praying to see that my father actually cared. He called—called to hear how happy I was with the diamond necklace he’d sent and bragged to my sister about, to hear me squeal in delight about my name being on the radio. When I told him none of his plans came to fruition, he became irate, blaming everyone else—the DJ, the UPS guy, even me for ruining my special day. I cradled that telephone when he hung up and cried, cried for believing in him yet again, bawled for being stupid enough not to see how easily he wielded control over my life. That was the day I decided no more, I was going to wise up, steel my heart from him, and never would I be hurt by my dad again. I wish I could say it worked out that way, wish I could tell you that he woke up one morning and recognized all that he’d missed out on, and that he was ready to step up, wanted to play daddy in my life. Unfortunately, that was just another one of my childish dreams where he was concerned, and I had shelves of them. Instead, we would stumble in and out of each other’s lives for decades to come. Until now.

Now I sit here at the back of this party watching, taking it all in, and wondering who actually did all of the missing out. Was it me because I decided not to let him into my life anymore, or could it be him because he missed out on all of the firsts with his oldest child? After all the absent years, the shattered hopes and dreams I’d held onto for so long, it was easy to see that the answer was both. We both missed out on things we can never get back no matter how hard we try, that is, no matter how hard I try there’s no going back. Yet here all these people were, congratulating him on another marriage, putting him in the spotlight for being such a good guy, fawning all over him like he was God’s gift to manhood. How did they not see him for who he clearly was? How could they all be so blind when it came to my dad? Four weddings and two estranged children didn’t even register, didn’t make a dent in how they perceived him.

There’s such a good reason why, and I’ll tell you when it dawned on me, when I heard it, I was so taken aback I could hardly breathe. It’s no wonder I have trust issues, can work myself up into a frenzied panic attack when disappointment and fear grips my heart like a vice. It was so obvious I cannot believe I missed it, but miss it I did. Until I overheard the words come tumbling from his mouth, and the biggest surprise, was that he actually believed the crap he was selling. Oh that salesman in him was magical, so proud, spinning the lies into truth at any expense as long as it wasn’t his.

“Their mother kept me away from my girls,” he began, shaking his head, hiding his face from view. “I tried for a long time, but the woman refused and threatened to call the police if I showed up. I suppose it’s for the best, I mean, I’m not really cut out to be a father. I don’t know how to be a dad.”

This outrageous lie bought him sympathy, he was embraced and consoled by his family and friends who all felt sorry for him. He could do no wrong, the blame game would continue on until his death because at no time would he man up and take responsibility for anything he did in this life. Years turned into decades again, little messages sent here and there, but no visits, no seeing each other, and when I did reach out yet again, it was too late. Six months; had I called six month’s sooner, I would’ve known he was dying, and knowing me, I would’ve packed a bag and went to him, whether he deserved it or not. His death shook me hard, all of the buried emotions rushing to the forefront again, paralyzing me from being able to function for weeks to come.

Is there a lesson to be learned in all of this? I’m still trying to figure that out.

WC:1356