Liar! You’re not keeping it real! I call bullshit! Attention whore!
The thoughts of others scream around my mind as I process what it is I need to write.
I said I would never contact HIM again. I said I never wanted HIM mentioned again. I said I didn’t care about HIM.
I used to sometimes joke about being the spawn of Satan. Not so funny now that you know my story. Now that you realize… it wasn’t a joke at all.
The truth of the matter… I am HIS child. How can I not care? Even if only the slightest….
Sure, go ahead and judge me. Think how pathetic it is for me to re-open the lines of communication with such a horrendous creature. Think how full of shit I am when I claimed that I hated him. Think that I write only to seek the attention of others, the likes, the views, the comments.
You will be terribly wrong…. But go on… think what you will.
The truth is….
I have never before written a letter to my biological father with full knowledge that he would never read it. I have never before opened myself up to be so truthful in how I felt. I’ve never before been more real in my life.
He hurt me. Oh man, did he hurt me, simply by the pain he brought on to others around me. But I do not hate him, I hate what he did. I hate the actions, not the person. It’s time to move on, move on from forgiving him for me, and begin forgiving him for him.
You see, I have a personality flaw, or blessing, depending on how you want to look at it…. I feel so fucking deeply. I mean, to the depth of my core, I feel. I feel others sadness. I feel others pain. I feel others heartache. I take it all in until it consumes me, until their pain becomes my own.
But it is NOT my own. I often have a very difficult time acknowledging this.
I tread so lightly, in fear of hurting others. In fear of adding to a pain I understand so well. That is why I’ve never been able to write what I truly needed to say to my biological father. I could never tear someone else down like that, no matter what they had done to me. I could never be so heartless.
To you, it was simply a story. But to me, it was an opening into a world of emotion I had never expressed. The anger, the fear, the hate, the pain, the outrage, the worry, the heartache, the abandonment. Feelings I had felt for so long that I had simply accepted them as normal. It all finally had a cause. A concrete reason for being.
In realizing that, those feelings began to slowly fade. They began to give way to a new understanding. A new level of awareness.
Past letters from my biological father screamed of sorry excuses, repetitive stories of the past I no longer wanted to hear, echoes of bullshit. I had finally reached a point where I was sick of hearing it, sick of reading it, sick of trying to understand.
I wondered endlessly, WHY he kept attempting to explain himself. WHY he kept re-opening old wounds. WHY he couldn’t leave well enough alone. So… I left him alone.
I moved on. I stopped writing. I stopped thinking. I stopped caring.
Or so I thought.
But who would I be if I truly stopped caring? I would be no different than the man I made him out to be.
The man I made him out to be… that is only a portion of the story. You see, my mom married this man. Do you think she married a cold hearted, abusive, child molester, alcoholic? Do you think she knew him but a moment before rushing down the aisle? Do you think she was blinded by his charmingly good looks?
Let me assure you, none of those were the case. Yes, he was a bad man. A bad bad man. But he wasn’t always bad. He was once a caring, devoted husband and father. Or at least had the full intention to be. He once, as Mom and he watched my sisters playing on the floor, looked into Mom’s eyes and swore he’d never be like his own dad. And she knew that he meant it, she knew with every fiber of her being, that he was sincere… in that moment.
He WANTED to be a good dad. He WANTED to be everything his own father wasn’t.
Sure, he pretty much fucked that one up.
But, at one point… he WAS a good man.
I just can’t bring myself to believe that man is entirely gone. He says he is sorry for what he has done. He says he regrets, so much, all that he did to Mom and us girls. He has said this over and over and over. I just can’t bring myself to believe that he doesn’t mean it.
For a moment… after my mind recalled the apologies in his letters throughout the years with new eyes… after accepting, that yes, he was sorry… I wondered to what extent his regret really went. Did he suffer every day as we did? Did it tear at the essence of his existence like it did ours?
Then I realized something so deep it nearly took me back a step.…
It’s not my place to gauge his sincerity. It’s not my place to determine to what depth his pain truly goes. It is not my place to judge him.
I understood why he never left well enough alone. I understood that he was simply trying to give me what I was begging for between the lines of every letter I had ever sent him.
I desperately wanted a why to my entire life. A why to my childhood. A why to my fears. A why to my anger and pain and hate and worry and abandonment.
And he tried. He tried and tried and tried, to give me the why I needed. But the harder he tried, the sicker of his bullshit sorry excuses I became.
Then I learned the truth. Through my anger filled, unplanned, letter to Bob, I had learned the truth; there is no why. There never was a why. I was asking for something he could never give me no matter how hard he tried.
But he had tried.
There is so much to this story that is left behind the scenes. It would take endless blog posts to cover each area, each feeling, each action and reaction. I have boggled my mind attempting to think of ways to help you understand, each time coming up empty handed.
It is truly difficult to explain, even if you have “been there” you’ve never truly been there. You’ve never experienced someone’s exact story, with their exact personality, their exact support systems, and their exact reactions. You can never REALLY understand.
It breaks down to this….
If I never speak to or of him again, the past will not change. If I write a letter to him, the past will not change. If I let him know that I never hated him and apologize for making it appear as though I did, the past will not change. If I recognize that there are truly good parts of this haunted man, the past will not change. If I forgive him, the past will not change… but maybe, just maybe, a man will be saved.
That alone, is worth it to me.
Sometimes good people make bad choices, but they are not bad people. Sometimes, bad things happen to good people, but they are not bad people.
It is not our place to judge them.
So…. I wrote a letter to Satan today.
And it began… Dear Dad….