Father? Dad? Who are they?

This weekend, at what should have been a joyous occassion, a handful of people had so much more racing through their heads. Much more than the beauty of the bride, the delicious food and all that the future held for the newly married couple. This weekend was my youngest sisters wedding. Unfortunately, it was also yet another opportunity my father took as his own to show his true colors to all who were near and far.

Being unable to make the 11 hour trip for her wedding, I wasn’t there to see first hand the chaos that ensued over the course of the past six days. I did receive several phone calls to let me know the current situation though. I’m not sure which was better, being a witness to the charade or being home hearing about it.

For days now, I’ve tried to get these thoughts that are floating through my head down onto paper. Thus far, I have been unsuccessful. Tonight, I will try to do it and hopefully post it after completion. First, I’d like to start by asking you a few questions.

Who is your father? Who is your Dad? Is there a difference between them or are they both equally the same?

I have thought many times on this question in regards to myself. Each time, I conclude that anyone can be a father but not each of them can be a Dad.

Growing up, I had a father. I considered myself lucky. Afterall, not everyone I knew had a father. It wasn’t long before I became old enough to want my friends to come over and stay the night. I remember a few of my friends asking me what my parent’s names were. I thought that was an odd question at that age. Afterall, I never really inquired about the names of their parents. I was just wanting to go play with my friends. It wasn’t long before I realized that every time I would tell them who my parents were, my plans of friends coming over to my house were changed. "I can’t come over to your house", I recall one of my little friends saying. When I pressed the issue, it was because their parents knew my parents and apparently there was something about them that they didn’t like. The play dates always took place at my friends house and even though I didn’t understand the reason for that, I never dwelled on it. Afterall, we were still able to play together! That’s what I wanted anyways.

I remember the late 1980’s arrived and things seemed as if they would start looking up for our family. Finances were becoming less of a struggle and new opportunities presented themselves. The family my mother and father created had grown to a family of six. The two bedroom trailer we had been living in next door to my grandparents was upgraded to a new three bedroom, two bathroom home. What we had was sufficient but what we were blessed with was welcomed with open arms. At least, at the time it was.

The new opportunity that was presented to our family would mean many new responsibilities. I found myself falling into the role of house mother while my own mother was working hard to make ends meet and the new business successful. I remember taking on many more responsibilities than any of my other siblings or friends my age had. Cooking, cleaning, and babysitting were the normal for me. By the age of 11, I had begun accepting babysitting jobs for other families. Many times, my youngest sibling would come along to play with the other youngsters.

The teenage years hit and before long, I was dating. I continued babysitting, became involved in the band and really poured myself into my studies. School came easy for me. I enjoyed it. It was a place where I could be normal, a kid. I could mingle with my peers, without having responsibilities that were well beyond my years. It was as if the egg shells were swept away and I could walk with ease when I was there. I didn’t have to fear that I would be doing something wrong or that I would disappoint anyone.

See, growing up with my father was not easy. When I was quite young, he suffered a work related accident. This accident left him with a tremendous amount of back pain. A broken back, severed nerves and back surgery were things he went through when I was little. Knowing this, it’s no surprise that he would have lingering back issues for the rest of his life. However, instead of accepting this and moving forward in a positive way, he chose to dwell on the negative. To this day, he continues to dwell on the negative. Honestly, he is one of the most negative people I have ever met.

My father has used his injury as reasons he is unable to do certain things for many years. However, if he wants to do something for himself, his pain is a nonissue. In addition to being overly negative, he is also very selfish. He is lazy and expects people cater to him. He often has the attitude that everyone owes him. Afterall, he’s had such a rough life and is in constant pain. He expects to be catered to and taken care of. He believes, afterall, that he is the man of the house.

Growing up, I don’t recall ever seeing him do one bit of laundry. I don’t believe he ever washed a single dish nor helped cook the meals. I don’t recall him grocery shopping or helping with anything pertaining to us kids or our school functions. I do remember that at meal times, if he didn’t like or approve of what dinner was, he would throw a major temper tantrum and demand something else be cooked. I remember that we were never to place pepper on the counter because if he accidentally grabbed that instead of salt and used it, his plate would be thrown on the counter. I remember having to bring him his vegetables in a little dish mid meal because he didn’t want to get up. And if you failed to deliver those veggies steaming hot so that they were perfect temperature when we was finished with the rest of his dinner, he was going to let you have it. We were demanded to get him chocolate milk, soda, or beer whenever he barked for one. When he was finished, it was our job to clean up the kitchen, retrieve his plate and put it away. If he was going outside, he would tell us to get his green boots. If we brought him the green boots, he became very irritated and typically yelled that he said his GREEN boots. Apparently, he forgot that he was color blind and that green to him was actually brown to us. If we pointed that fact out, we were yelled at and expected to read his mind. After he had been outdoors doing whatever he did, it was our job to remove his boots and socks while he sat in a rocking chair. Speaking of his chair, there is one chair in the house that is his. It has always been that way. Nobody was allowed to sit in it. And if you did, you better not move any of the pillows he had positioned in it and you better be out of that chair before he entered the room. If you used the remote, you better make sure it was placed next to his chair, on the table or he would throw a fit. I remember being woken up around midnight one time because he couldn’t find the nail clippers. And since we MUST have moved them, he was waking our asses up to find them. I remember he would have a Styrofoam cup on the stand next to his chair that he used as a spit cup. Disgusting, for sure, yet he still continues to do this even now. He didn’t chew. Oh no, this spit cup was for phlegm that he would hack up. And if you happened to spill it, you had the honor of cleaning it up in addition to getting scolded. It didn’t matter that he should never have had that cup there in the first place. I remember going to a burger joint, something we rarely were able to do, and ordering ten cheese burgers, ketchup only and were told that they don’t make their burgers with ketchup only. All of their burgers came with ketchup and mustard. He became irate and sped off after yelling some profanity into the speaker.

The lectures, those long drawn out lectures were something that you could almost guarantee would surface at least once during each day. "Life is what you make of it," was one of his favorite sayings. He had the answers for everything. He had the insight and knowledge that no other single person could have. He was always right and would argue with you until he’s blue in the face that the Earth was square and the sky was green. And he’s right you know. Always has been, always will be. At least, in his warped mind. I’m sure he’s no dummy. I mean, I’m sure somewhere in his demented mind he has some useful knowledge. It’s just having him put that knowledge to use is still yet to be seen. He would go off on long winded tangents over things that happened hours, days, months or even years earlier. I’m sure his "friends" could have used a little less lecturing every time they would stop over. Which brings me to another point. He had friends. Not my mom. He could go off and do things with his friends, even for hours or days at a time. Not my mom. She was on a time limit every where she went. And if she didn’t make it home when he felt she should have, he would be nasty to her. This continues still today. He wants her undivided attention and if he doesn’t have it, he throws a fit.

There are so many more things I remember that bring back very bitter feelings when I think of my childhood. The demand for respect with the complete lack of respect in return makes me angry. The verbal profanities that were slung at each of us became a constant thing. If it comes to your mind, we were called it. Imagine calling your young daughters, your son, and your wife some of the most vulgar, demeaning names there are. I tried to block it out but when it is thrown into your face day after day, it becomes more painful than being physically abused. Put the two together and you have some pretty deep emotional wounds that seldom completely heal.
It was no wonder that my older sibling became running away at a very early age, only to move out shortly after. I was still in high school, not even 18, when I couldn’t take it any longer and moved out. The trend followed with my next sibling and just this week, the last of my siblings left due to the events of this past weekend. Growing up in the negative atmosphere has a tremendous impact on a person. Some of us will repeat the cycle we grew up in and thankfully, some of us won’t. It truly is a choice.

Growing up, surrounded by the constant negativity did teach me a few things. I learned how I didn’t want to treat those I love. I learned that my children are gifts, not burdens. My spouse is an equal to myself. I learned that I won’t tolerate a spouse who is abusive in any way, shape or form. I won’t allow substances of addiction to be a part of my life or that of my spouse. I learned that I do have control over what I subject myself and my family to now that I’m an adult. That includes having an unhealthy relationship with my father.

Of course, I’ve also learned that my father will never be the father I felt I deserved. I have friends, even today, who look up to, admire, and have a healthy loving relationship with their father. I am envious of them. Of the love they share. Of the bond they share. And of course, of the memories that they continue to make through the years. All these years later, I still don’t understand why. Why couldn’t my father show just a little bit of interest in what his children were doing. Why not want to be a part of their lives? Why couldn’t the bottle wait instead of us? Why couldn’t anything I do be right? Why couldn’t he have the slightest bit of faith in me? Why couldn’t he be proud of my accomplishments, then and now? Why couldn’t he just allow the positive he had before him overshadow the negative he continues to hold on to? Why couldn’t he understand that he was hurting each and every one of us? Why?

And yet today, even at 31 years old, I still long to have the father I feel I deserve. Grief washes over me each time I realize that I will never have the father I wish I had. For I was given a father who, unfortunately, just wasn’t meant to be a Dad.