There's supposedly going to be this huge revelation at the three month anniversary of my father's death four days from now that he's never coming back, according to various people, but it's a distinct possibility that there'll be no revelation since I've been grieving for about four years now, knowing he was killing himself with cigarettes and fatty foods, getting older, dying, midway through college and on, knowing he'd never be at my wedding, see any children I might have.
My mother spent most of our lives negating him, so it's hard to even feel an absence that's always felt like an absence. When he was drunk he did not exist. We did not talk about it. So this just feels like an extended drunk.
He was our father, but she did everything she could to try to make his impact on our development and existence minimal. He was detached. He didn't like children. He loved us as we got older and became people he could talk to. He liked making us. He liked having children to prove to people, look what I did, but his involvement was minimal. Sometimes it felt like strangers loved him more than I did. He didn't pay much attention to us, while my mother paid too much.
He was more interested in making art.
He was detached.
I am so much like my father and so much like my father's side of the family. Curly haired, curvy, shorter than the majority of my immediate family, nearsighted, argumentative, stubborn.
I swing back and forth between loving him and hating him, but I'll never ever understand him no matter how many stories my mother tells me about his childhood (to explain why he was the way he was) or pictures I look at of him as a younger man.
8:27 p.m. - 2006-12-08
Recent entries:
A Small Mountain of Perishables - 2010-10-04
Update - 2010-08-04
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If it's this hard to pick a dress, I'd hate to think about buying a house. - 2007-06-28
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