My car has warned me for about a week now that I need an oil change. I didn’t have any time until Wednesday. But it snowed quite a bit on Tuesday, so the kids had an e-learning day on Wednesday instead. I rescheduled for today.
Wednesday afternoon I got a message to call my cousin because she couldn’t find my number. I knew what it was going to be about before I picked up the phone. You were gone. My husband asked if I was prepared and my answer was what I’d continue to say over the next two days. Every phone call, text, message, comment — I read and tried to respond to. But anytime someone asked if I was okay, I would respond with “I don’t know.”
Today was the first day that I didn’t have to answer my phone. No doctor, no funeral director, no one at all. Not even your brother that looks and sounds exactly like you. I was able to get my oil changed but had to find another place to wait due to COVID restrictions. Because I’m the human version of Elsa, I just walked around the building and neighboring parking lots with my headphones until my car was done.
I was not thinking about you at all. I was mentally going through my to-do list — laundry catch up, pick up my vitamins and anxiety medicine, finish my article for OTH. Then I heard the beginning of a song I really love, but it wasn’t a good thing today. I plopped down on the edge of the sidewalk, away from the garage and anyone’s sight. For the first time, I cried. That song often embodies a lot of my day-to-day emotions with anxiety, BPD, and depression. But today it hit hard at the worst time.
“And sometimes when you’re on, you’re really fucking on
And your friends they sing along and they love you.
But the lows are so extreme that the good seems fucking cheap
And it teases you for weeks in its absence.
But you’ll fight and you’ll make it through
You’ll fake it if you have to and
You’ll show up for work with a smile.
You’ll be better and you’ll be smarter and more grown-up
And a better daughter or son and a real good friend,
And you’ll be awake,
You’ll be alert, you’ll be positive though it hurts.”
As I sat outside the garage, I wondered where you were every time I took my car in to get it looked at and was met with some guy thinking I’m naïve and he could upsell me on something ridiculous because I didn’t know any better. Where were you when I was learning how to drive? When I graduated? During the father/daughter dances? Where were you when I needed someone to scare the terrible boyfriends I brought home and to remind me of my worth? Where were you when I thought I needed someone to give me away?
Those wounds never fully healed. The scars may fade over time, but I will always know they are there. They show up when my therapist brings up my abandonment issues or how I used to seek attention from anyone willing to give it to me. Because I was so desperate for love and approval. They show up every Father’s Day as I see my friends and family post sweet pictures and long paragraphs on Instagram. You took my empathy for granted time and time again, knowing that I am a forgiving person.
So I sit here, on my floor, thinking about how I feel. Our last interaction was me leaving your sister’s house, furious that you were there. It was August of 2010. I thought about how angry I was to see you and how I didn’t want you to meet your newborn grandson because that baby doesn’t deserve to go through what I did with you. The letdowns, you choosing women, booze, or drugs over me. Our last actual moment together was me rushing out the door crying.
I live with this guilt but I shouldn’t give a damn.
I thought that once you were gone I would stand at your grave much like Sylvia Plath, reading *my* version of “Daddy”, my magnum opus if you will. That was the resentment I had for you deep down inside. It would be easy and I would be fine. “Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.” I would straighten my curls, maybe dye my hair pink so I didn’t resemble you.
Instead, it’s the weekend and I’m sitting alone with a glass of wine. I’m waiting to hear back on signing some paperwork and providing my address so your ashes can be shipped. I still don’t know what to do or how to feel. I re-read the nice messages and reminded myself that I have such a wonderful network of people who care about me. People that are proud of how I turned out. A therapist that reminds me that I have grown so much considering the trauma I have dealt with.
I’m writing this because I never had a chance to say it to you. I’m writing this for me. I’m writing to release you. To be a better daughter because I’m weak but I’m not giving in.
Goodbye, Dad.