Thursday, December 07, 2006
Rocky, at best
My father (my REAL birth father) died January 1st 2005. It was hard for him, dying I mean, and hard for me, to let go. He didn't like me most of my life, our relationship had been rocky at best, for many years. He was a son of a bitch, really and truly, and only saw things one way: his. He molested me on several occasions between the ages of 5-8, although in my mind, that had little to do with our broken relationship, at least until I was considerably older. I tried like hell to make him like me, to make him proud of me, to make him want to be around me, when I was a young adult. Then one day, I decided I no longer gave a shit what he thought. I felt that I had it all mapped out in my mind, that I had done all that I could, and I would be at peace with the whole mess in the end. But when he died, I was sad. I was surprised at how much it hurt me. All the way to the bone. He could never acknowledge what he had done, not to himself, not to me, but in the end it really didn't matter. He knew he was dying and I had done all I could to let him know that no matter what, I cared. On Christmas night 2004, I went to see him-and that was the last time I did see him, conscious-and he put his HUGE, scary hand on the top of my head and said, you know I love you, right? I said i did, and I told him that I had always loved him as well. He asked if I needed money and I told him I didn't. That was the last thing he ever said to me. I saw him again, later that week, but he was not aware. He passed about nine in the morning of the new year. It hurt. I wish I could have been closer to him in my adult years. He would not allow it. I really did try.