October 01, 2006
I have been on the phone for nearly half an hour, something I am not often prone to doing.
I am draped across the arms of my chair in the study, and on the other end of the phone, an ocean away, is my father.
My dad and I have had a tumultuous relationship for most of our lives. For the first 7 years of my life, my father was my hero, my idol. My Air Force pilot father would come home from TDY (always referred to in our home as "a trip") and sleep for a day, and then I would sneak in to the bedroom to tell him that Foghorn Leghorn was on TV, would he like to come watch it with me? I remember him being away more often than being there-once there was a Father-Daughter Picnic at the school. I looked forward to it like nothing else, I couldn't wait. The day of the picnic loomed...and my father chose to take an optional trip instead.
The day of the picnic, a friend called to say her father would be happy to take me, too.
I declined-even at the age of 6, pity wasn't something I could live with.
When my parents busted up when I was 7, I was bereft. I was gutted beyond gutted. Looking back with my therapist, this is where some of my extreme borderline personality behavior started-although I had definite symptoms and signs of it even from an early age, this period only exacerbated it. And it's not just a case of "my parents divorced, I'm so screwed up" the likes of which Oprah gifted the world with. This was something more-we went from having stability to having sweet fuck all. We moved to a farming community in Iowa. We had no money, at all. My mother tried her damndest, despite our differences I do know that she really tried, but there was little she could do with an infant and a 7 year-old in the middle of nowhere.
This? This was poor, the likes of which I never want to see again, ever.
I didn't know it then, but my father had left us for someone else.
When my parents got back together, it was war. Not between them, but between my father and I. You couldn't get us in a space together and not have an argument. We were both stubborn, insensitive, and hurt. Looking back, I reckon it wasn't pleasant for the rest of the family, but at that age, I just didn't care. Life was hard-my parents couldn't decide if they should be together or not, so we bounced in and out of the house many times before the decision was to stick together.
My parents finally split when I was 14-this time, fidelity was questioned on the other side of the family (my family, we are not good at fidelity. This has included myself, and I'm not proud of myself for that.) My mother is still with the man she loved then. My father is still with the woman he met shortly after. Both of my parents, I think, made the right decision-their lives are better and richer with the people they have today. They're happier, and that's all that matters.
My relationship with my father continued to be difficult, though. My teens saw the two of us not speaking at all for many years. We couldn't connect, and all around us were stinking, poisoned wells. He's always been a moody bastard, a competitive freak, someone good at doling out the negative and treating me like what I was-just a girl. I, in turn, took him as too proud, untouchable, and as such I made myself about as unlovable as I could do.
The breakthrough for my father and I finally came when I tried to kill myself nearly 4 years ago. I broke down and told him so much that I never had before-I'm a little bit crazy, I'm infertile, I'm an unknown entity even to myself. My father broke down and became a friend to me.
And so it has been for the past 4 years. My father, my friend. Someone I have started to rely on, someone that has become important to me. I have spent my life so profoundly fucked up that I've been incapable of normal relationships, I can't be myself if I was standing in a 360 degree mirror, and yet...my dad has stood by me.
My therapist has started pointing out massive issues that we are dealing with. One of them is the subconscious attitude I have to protecting and forgiving my father. Ironically, it's not even subconscious-I forgive my father all the time. I don't hold grudges against him, mostly because in many ways I know why he does what he does.
Caring, sometimes, hurts too much. I know this, too. I can count on one hand the number of times my father and I have seen each other in the past ten years.
But now, I'm going to start needing more hands.
My father's visit was incredible. He has changed so much I don't recognize him-he's not moody and impatient. He's not competitive. He's full of hugs and kindness, words of support and love. It threw me at first-what was happening? What should I guard myself against? What will go wrong?
In the end the answer was perfect-nothing.
I had told him beforehand about the miscarriage, which is the only reason why I've blogged about it-he knows, and I'm sure he's told what we refer to as The Texas Clan (my family, it's like Mafia) so I figured blogging about it was ok, too. I told him about i, and then Angus intervened and ran as intermediary-he had the dialogue with my dad and told him that Helen? Not so good at talking about her feelings. That I was inconsolable, depressed, and not doing well. That seeing him would help m, but only if he understood that I couldn't talk about the miscarriage.
Walking across Waterloo Bridge, my dad hugs me. "I just want to tell you that I'm sorry about what happened," he says quietly.
I wave my hands in a flurry. "No talking about it," I say hastily.
"I know," he says, and hugs me again.
When we stop hugging I smile. "I'm not good at the talking, Dad. It's part of why I'm in therapy."
That day my father, my stepmother Karen, and her mother Nabu had shown up at Gatwick. They brought a massive suitcase stuffed with presents for us-expensive watches, gifts, and above all, fantastic food.
The American version of it:
And the Japanese version of it:
We love of the Japanese food in our house.
My family had Saturday and Sunday to themselves, which they used seeing London. My father called me many times a day to check in on me and say hello. Then that Monday they came to ours, where my family fell head over heels in love with Gorby-especially my dad, who saw it as his personal mission to be the one who always walked the dog.
The first night we sat outside beside the outdoor fireplace. We drank loads of white wine and my father and I talked. He reminisced about the past and I teased him about how he used to make me come out of my room to change the channel.
"You're right, I did that," my dad said. "And you know what? That was not right. I'm really sorry about that."
I sat there in shock.
My family is not known for apologizing, which is part of the reason why I do it so fucking much.
My father went on to apologize for many other things-for the fact my crib was in the closet when I was a kid. For the divorce. For being absent. My father apologized and the second he did the faults went *poof* and simply melted into the Autumn air.
No one in my family has ever apologized to me, ever.
And he wasn't the only to apologize during that visit. I apologized to Karen for how she was treated when she joined the family. We were awful to her, and as a stepmom myself I can only imagine the hell she faced. Karen and I got to know each other and, even more so, I saw how she and my father cared for each other.
It was amazing. She takes care of him and loves him and he, in turn, smiles just looking at her. I don't ever remember my father being so content. They tell me of all the things they do together and they recount it with great happiness-they run marathons. They join bike races, they go for long hikes. Mostly they're just happy, and I am happy for them.
We went to Windsor together. Nabu is the grandmother my own father's mother could never be-she is kind, gentle, and caring. She is without question the nicest person I have ever met. My dad and I joked that she is sweeter than his own mother-my father is bitter about his mother, who isn't the best of people.
"We can't choose our parents, Dad," I said, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
"That we cannot," he replied, looking at the castle.
And at the end of the visit, I realized that I had truly gained a family. Karen, Nabu and my father are so important to me. We are all seeing each other when Angus and I go stay with them for a few days in December. My family have promised to come here once a year and I believe them.
September 2006 was the worst month of my entire life, but that month, I also gained a family.
I got to know and respect Karen. Karen has already sent me a care package with funky Target socks, including a pair that has become my new most favorite pair of socks, ever. Karen, who sent me an email telling me how great it was to see us and you know? It was great to see her, too.
Nabu, whom we met in Hawaii, continues to be an amazing creature. Angus and I (and Angus' kids, who met her) just adore her. We think of her as Grandma Nabu, and genuinely care about her.
And more than that, I got my dad back. My dad, who I speak to all the time now. Who I email and who emails me. My dad, whom I speak to as a daughter.
I cry just thinking about it.
I love you, Dad. And I always will.
We can't choose our parents, but I'd choose you every time, Dad.
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
06:23 PM
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So happy that you have gained a family.Posted by: Lee at October 01, 2006 06:55 PM (PYZOC)
Posted by: Sarah at October 01, 2006 08:43 PM (V5hgg)
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