I try so hard even now but I can never wrap my head around it… How could it have happened? When did she ever have time? Then I do as I always do when I am frightened: I tell myself a story. I hide secrets (facts that we don’t talk about) in these stories. I chase them around my head. In the darkness I wait. In the light I run.
Mom always said that daddy wasn’t my father, that I was a disappointment and a failure, that I was ugly and too fat, that I shouldn’t eat, shouldn’t compete. I should keep my head down cause if I ever raised it I would be cut down. I always stood up spoke up. I did not care who you were. Or at least that’s how the story that I tell myself on bad days go…
But I don’t think I’m fooling anyone let alone you… not that you ever cared or will ever care.
You never paid child support.
You never visited or even tried to.
You never checked up on me.
You never gave even the littlest of shits about me.
When I was 15 at Haileybury mom must have finally asked you for some of that money you never gave… you demanded a dna test and I was forced to comply at my mother’s discretion. She refused the money after it was shown that you were my biological father. I told my mother then and still think it now: you were never my father… I don’t care if I have your blood in my veins.
I do care. You who could have saved me from all the scars wounds beaten downs. You could have saved me from my family and my friends and myself. You could have saved me from my numerous attackers.
But you were you so you chose not too. After all, you didn’t give a fuck about me.
You called on August 5th in 2014 my mother’s phone. I have her number now. You didn’t even know she had been fighting an uphill battle with endometrial cancer. You didn’t know she had passed away the day before. You proved you didn’t even know my birthday as that was your pretense for calling. You were in my mother’s phone book till the end. It makes me try to avoid thinking about whether I ever truly knew anything about my mother. I’ll succeed you’ll see I’ll get over your immediate and constant rejection of my existence. I’ll have to or I’ll be consumed by this rage and immense sorrow that fills my mind and heart and lungs from time to time. More often than not now…. Is it sad that you seemed to make my mother happier than my daddy? And you were never even there let alone did you ever care…
Let me tell you a secret asshole:
You are the one who broke my daddy. You and your existence in my mother’s life no matter how short had a great impact on our family lives and cohabitation practices.
Daddy tried to have me aborted and mom saw no reason not to. She used to say she never had the time to get me aborted.
She hated me or at least claimed to right to the bitter end.
And guess what I don’t hate you at least I don’t think so… In fact I don’t think I can.
I think you’re cool shit from what I’ve heard about you…
Not that you’d ever care.
We begged you for help with her funeral expenses and you called us gold diggers …
So mom’s ashes never got to be interned where she wanted to be.
That’s on you not just us.
Not that you care right?
Well father go right on living.
Life was made for shallow bodies like you.
For complex bodies like ours: we get the vortex the black hole the nothingness.
I wonder if you ever looked how would you describe the negation of being of existence.
Or if you’d be able to see and comprehend it let alone explain or describe it all.
Mom called me Nightingale. Mom gave me the sin box.
But you committed an atrocity far worse.
You had viable sperm.
You fathered me.