So. Story time.
Once upon a time. There was a little girl. That little girl lived with a drug addicted drunk for a father. Until one day her grandparents moved away from him, and so did the little girl.
That’s basically the story. But it really isn’t.
See. My Dad. Well he was my dad. And as much of a fuck up he was, I still loved him. I loved him when he didn’t buy me Christmas. I loved him when he didn’t buy me birthday. I loved him when he just didn’t show up at all.
But see, loving someone doesn’t help them. It doesn’t fix the problems. If love could fix problems, the world wouldn’t have problems at all. No, my love for my father didn’t overshadow the hate I also had for him. Because I hated he chose drugs over me. I hated he chose alcohol over me. I hated he chose partying over me.
And so I hated him as much as I loved him. I got older, and the more I understood, the more I hated him. I hated him because I knew things children shouldn’t have known. I hated him because he put me in situations I shouldn’t have been in. I hated that my normal, wasn’t normal.
But because of him, I understood just how wrong the wrong choice can be. The circumstance of what bad choices bring you. I saw with my own eyes, the dangers of the life he lived, cause he drug me through it with him. And so I gained the knowledge of that life, without living that life myself. I gained the understanding of where that life takes you. And I got out of that life, thanks to my grandparents, with the ability to live a different one.
I was so mad at him for so long. The hate of the fact that I wasn’t important enough to him for him to change consumed the love I had for him. It consumed the love I had for anyone that enabled him. That I stopped talking to him. I wouldn’t take his calls. I considered him selfish, and maybe it was selfish of me to not talk to him or see him. But to me, he didn’t deserve for me to let him wiggle his charming false promises back into my life.
After arguing with my father on father’s day 2012, because I called my grandfather and wished him happy fathers day, and not my dad yet, which we were on speaking terms and I was going to later on when I had time. Well, my father died two days later. Heroine overdose. He was found dead, alone, in a motel room floor, by a maid.
He never met his grandchild by me. He missed his opportunity to walk me down the aisle.
I can still remember how he would say “hey” when he answered the phone. I can still remember him playing rock music in his car on our way to his drug dealers house. I can still remember him teaching me how to do a flip. I can still remember him lying to me constantly.
And so still to this day, I love my father, and still to this day I hate my father. But one thing I can do, is thank my father, for showing me the person I didn’t want to be. To be able to say I am better than my parents. I am not just like them. And I am a better parent because of him.