Absence of The Mind Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

To describe the relationship I have with my father as being "rocky," would be to severely diminish the impact it has had on my life. My earliest memories include the absence of him and the constant yearning for his love and attention. Regardless of the many times he had decided against being a father, sometimes for lengths that lasted months or even years at a time, I was always patiently waiting for him, always ready to forgive him the minute I heard his deep voice recite those same words I had heard him say countless times before - "I'm sorry." 

The few memories I have of him in my childhood are so vivid, that sometimes I can close my eyes and remember the smallest of details about each interaction. 

I remember the grey silk shirt he wore with the top 3 buttons undone exposing a bit of chest hair and a thin gold chain the day he made an appearance at my 8th grade graduation. He had walked in wearing a black leather cowboy hat that stuck out like a sore thumb and seeing him made me beam with joy. 

I remember how his facial hair had made a funny zig-zag path that traced across each cheek before meeting just above his top lip, creating a thin mustache the day he showed up unannounced after months of silence. I had curled myself in his lap and nestled my head deep in the crook of his neck, yearning to get as close as I could and take in the details of his cologne and the smell of scotch on his breath - anything I could tuck away to hold on to until the next time I saw him, never knowing how long that might be. I remember wanting to stay there forever, afraid for him to leave and forget about us again. 

I remember the depth of his voice through the phone the time he accidentally answered my call.  And then the sting of tears that followed after hearing the surprise and annoyance that barreled through when he realized it was me. That had hurt. I tried not to take those bits of him for my memory box because that phone call had cemented my fear of being unwanted, and all I had needed was to hear his voice. I wanted him to remember that I loved him and know that I needed him to love me back. 

I remember the time I met him for dinner after he returned home from prison, sitting across from him clenching my jaw in an attempt to keep in my emotions. I was angry at him. Angry for leaving me. Angry for making me miss him all over again. After everything we had been through and everything I had chosen to forgive him for. After compromising my self love and sense of self worth for the love and attention of him. And I was angry at myself for the loyalty I had with him that often left me questioning my own morals. 

Today is no different. The last 10 years have solidified our relationship as we've gotten significantly closer in my adulthood - working diligently to heal the hurt we have caused one another. But today I am filled with that same familiar anger I’ve felt so many times before. And I haven’t talked to him in months. His every action impacts me and leaves bruises on my soul that are as deep and gruesome as the bruises he leaves on others. How can he expect me to love myself and learn to rebuild what was left broken after being in an emotionally abusive relationship, while standing by a man who does the same thing to me through another person? Every time he has messed up, another piece of me has died. Every time he has called me to clean up the mess of his hurricanes, he has asked me to accept the things I cannot change, in a world that I am trying to change the things I cannot accept. But he has proven to me, time and time again, that his promises are empty and he is incapable of change.  I wonder if he understands how much it hurts being left with a choice of loving myself and losing my father, or accepting his actions and disrespecting myself more than I already have. 

“You can’t keep me away,” he writes.  The irony is enough to make me sick.