I have a deep rooted distrust of telecomunication and it’s all thanks to my shitbad father but let me explain. Growing up, he was still living with us for reasons I will never understand but my mother was trying to do the noble thing. (I would not have been that big of a person.) A lot of the times, people called, wanting to talk to him but since he was most likely owing them money, he didn’t want to talk to them, or only to a select bunch so I had to answer the phone, find out who it was and then most likely lie to the caller that my father was not there even though I could look at him. This is a shit thing to delegate to your primary school kid, no Sandy Cohen Eyebrows for him.
I rememeber that I once answered the phone and a guy I didn’t know wanted to talk to my mother. I didn’t give out her number but told him where she was working. To this day, I don’t know who he was or why he was calling but Mom always suspected it was a PI trying to find out stuff about her.
I was too young for all of this and too impressionable. Calling people will never be an easy thing for me because the failures of my childhood are constantly looming in the background even though I try to tell myself that I was young and did not know any better and also that some of the things are my parents (mostly my fathers) fault because I should never have been in those situations in the first place.
There are many things I should not have been a part of, in the first place.
Of course this is coming back to me in vibrant colours today since I got a friend request on Facebook from that man who makes up half of my DNA. That sent me into a rage induced singing of Standing where You Left Me last night until I deleted the request. This wasn’t the first though and it is such a shitty way to find out anything about me after not being in contact for over a decade.
I have not needed him before and I will sure as hell not need him any time soon. What I had needed in the past was a real dad but that’s something that man never was for me and never will be. As far as I’m concerened, I’m a full orphan; he doesn’t exist outside of my memories. If I could trade his life for that of my mother, I would do so in a heartbeat. That’s harsh but in a way I’m like Veronica Mars, when it comes to my family, a lot is black and white. I don’t see grey tones; it’s all absolutes.
Apparently he is still alive which answers one of my questions. This stupid alocohlic asshole will probably live to be 80 or 90 years old and I try to make reason of that, which of course I can’t. There is no reasoning in whether someone lives or dies and yet I cannot stop my brain from going there.
Knwoing that I share part of his DNA makes me cautious every day, may it be when I want to buy something on the more expensive side or if it’s about drinking alcohol because I know I’m far more likely to get addicted. I have an addictive personality with a fear of lying. I am not always the most tactful person but at least I’m no pathological liar with a drinking and gambling problem (yet).
I fight those demons every day.
Because of him.
I saw what it did to my mother and my inability to commit to anything not platonic is probably linked to it as well. Many aspects of my childhood were amazing but that doesn’t mean there aren’t crazy black spots that suck the life out of me every once in a while.
It sounds neat to have someone to blame this stuff on but I would gladly not have these memories instead. But I also know that earising them (if it were possible) would also mean I was a vastly different person. And most days, I like who I am. So I rage on, and fight on in my head because that’s where the battleground lies. In my head. Me against my memories.