Not Fathers Day

Well, another fathers day has come and past, and another fathers day has come and past that I didn’t bother to call my father. Save it, I don’t want to hear it. Having a conversation with him is a waste. I’m sure it means something to him in his scrambled brain, but it’s just not something I find useful to do. Yes, I’m saying I’m selfish (fucking duh). Yes, I’m also saying I’m self-centered.

History. I haven’t cared much for my father after he cheated on my mother when I was 12/13 years old. I was the one who had to watch my mother fall apart, as a kid who didn’t know what the fuck was going on, then to find out what was going on. The lying, the cheating, etc. Then I was forced to goto counseling with this stupid C of a therapist who I hated (I like the ones I see now who aren’t C’s and I don’t see them related to my parents issues).

Add in a good dosage of teenage angst and you have the recipe for disaster. I hated my father not just for being a teenager, but for having had to watch what I did. My parents were virgin’s when they got married (haven’t had a reason to ever not believe that, they’ve been married 47ish years now) and up till that point, had been each other’s only partner.

This episode is also where I get my strong moral fiber of never cheating on someone, having lived through it. What a fucking nightmare.

It wasn’t till I was 21 that I started to finally reconcile with my father, only to have that derailed by his stroke that occurred during brain surgery to remove an aneurism. I’ve often said aloud that it would have been better, for me, if he had passed away that day so I could have laid him to rest, and everything that had happened.

But instead I was left with a person who had a scrambled brain with whom I couldn’t have a intelligent conversation with. I couldn’t probe deeply into anything, I couldn’t get advice on how to deal with things in life, notta nothing no how. I couldn’t ask him how I should fix something around my house. I couldn’t ask him how to deal with a lady problem. I couldn’t ask him how to fix something on my car or get a better mortgage rate. I was fucked. I had to do all that stuff myself.

I had (and still have) deep seeded displeasure with him. I don’t hate him, I don’t overly love him, I just have not forgiven him. And I’m not the kind of person who really can. Or will. I won’t be crying when he does pass away, or anytime afterwards, that I didn’t make peace with him (note the sentence structure there). I’m a soulless bastard (been called that before). I’m a cold, emotionless dick. Been called that too. I’ve been told the only thing(s) that I’ve ever cared about are myself (thus the selfish/self-centered) and my cats. And if you know me, I died when Brandy Rai died. Everything else since has been rotting misery. But that’s another blog about how I am dead like a draino slurpy.

I am sure I am a amazing disgrace to my mother. Sorry, I’m just not him.