I was reminded (by the evil website, Facebook) that Father’s Day is this Sunday. I looked back at my memories from everything I’ve ever posted on this day and noticed an article I shared two years ago about what Father’s Day is like when your dad isn’t around. The article was nice, but it didn’t fit my story. The author’s pain was a lot different than mine. He was now a father, his dad passed away when he was 19 and left when he was 9.
I wondered if I should share it again, or find something that felt more familiar. I realized that I should just write out my own experiences. Not for pity, but as a cathartic release because Father’s Day has always been hard for me.
I won’t say that I never had a father growing up. I had my grandpa, who will do anything for anyone. He is a great man and has loved me unconditionally, even through my screw ups and bad decisions. He taught me how to drive (even though he spent more time telling me “this is not the Indy 500, Chrystal!” as I went 4 miles over the speed limit) and always made sure I had a date to the Father/Daughter dances.
I had my uncles, who also took me to dances, looked out for me, changed my oil or listened to whatever weird noise my car made and escorted me to the stage in my beauty pageant days.
I had my brother to walk me down the aisle.
I had my mom’s former boyfriend, Eric. He spent 7+ years in my adolescent life, giving me some sense of normalcy while dealing with my preteen attitude. He helped me with my math and science homework and always made sure I had a cool science fair project.
There was always someone there to fill that role, but it was never the man that shares half of my DNA with me. The guy who gave me my curly dark hair and anxiety. That always hurt.
My mom was pregnant with my sister around the time my dad departed from my life. I don’t know why. I only hear opinions of what happened and why it happened. I was two. I spent most of my life at my grandparents after that. My mom eventually had my sister, got married, and my had brother two years later. My sister passed away just weeks after my brother was born so we spent a lot of time being shuffled around by family members. Nothing about my life was normal, but I think I turned out to be pretty resilient after that.
Around age seven I finally “met” my dad. I spent Christmas at my aunt’s house and I remember my dad buying me this cute pink bike. I loved it and had been begging for a bike for a long time and knew it was out of my mom’s price range. He bought me so many gifts that year as he attempted to fill the gap. He made promises to take me places, see me more, be in my life again. This was around the time when I started having horrible migraines that would put me in the hospital about four different times. He never helped with those bills or paid any support and he vanished again shortly after that first hospital visit.
I went years without seeing him and he moved to Tennessee. I went down once but spent 90% of my weekend in the living room, watching TV as he slept or went out drinking. That’s all he did. I at least kept in contact with his sister and had some connection to my dad’s side.
I turned 17 and suddenly he was back. He promised me a car, some money for graduation, his signature so I could get a tattoo. To be fair, I’m glad he bailed on the last one. I don’t think the “punk rock” star would look cool on my wrist and I made some pretty stupid tattoo choices back then. He promised all of these things one day after picking me up and buying me dinner. Then I asked him if he could pick me up from a friend’s house later that evening. “Sure thing, Curly!” He never showed. He never answered. He was passed out on his couch after some kind of binge. I promised myself that day that I was done with him. He was not to be in my life anymore.
I felt some guilt when I was pregnant with Hayden and felt like maybe he should know. I weighed all of my options and eventually called him. We spent 30 seconds talking about my pregnancy and the rest of our 20-minute phone call talking about all of his recent health diagnoses. The same year he decided to call me on my birthday because Father’s Day was the next day. Then, months later, he decided to just show up at my aunt’s when I took my newborn baby over. I was livid. How dare you. You have no right to be in my child’s life after the promises you broke. Don’t hold my child, I know you aren’t sober. My heart was pounding and I wanted to leave. That was the last time we spoke.
I found out about two years ago that he was in the hospital. My aunt found him on the floor. I drove all the way to the hospital, shaking the entire time. I got to the floor and my heart dropped. I couldn’t walk in. He was asleep and the doctor assured me that he would not wake up. But I couldn’t do it. I walked into the bathroom and cried before going back home.
I realize it sounds selfish. There are so many people who have loving fathers that are no longer around. Here I am, with a dad that’s still around, but I refuse to talk to him. He hurt me and I just can’t forgive him. I will never wish ill will on him, but I also don’t want him in my life.
I’m thankful for the dads I have though. The ones I mentioned above, and the cool dad I get to spend my birthday with for the second year now. His stories and kindness make me feel like I never missed much at all. I’m thankful that my children have a dad that will always love them and take care of them. I might hate the day because of what my dad did, but I’m starting to let that open wound heal. There are far too many things in my life to be thankful for, and it’s only one day out of the year.