Smoke and Mirrors

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January 26, 2001

This is why I shouldn't go poking around in piles of old papers.

So I was digging around in the pile of old papers and whatnot on my Pile O' Crap at work today, looking for a form I desperately need. (I didn't find it -- why is it that I have 800 odd bits of paper I don't need, and the one thing I really do need has vanished? I never, ever throw anything away -- as the 800 odd bits of paper show -- so where is this form? Damnit!) Most of the crap on the shelf was, well, crap -- notes to myself about things I needed to remember to do, handouts from various classes, work memos, etc. Under all that, I found an old notebook I'd used for school, and, as I flipped through it (hoping the elusive form had hidden itself inside) two things fell out and ambushed me: one was the agreement I'd written up when I moved out of Barry and my old place -- I handwrote it on a sheet of notebook paper, probably torn from that same notebook. The writing is almost illegible, because my hands shook like crazy during that whole period of time. Barry's signature is scrawled angrily (he suggested the agreement, then tried to refuse to sign it -- I made him do it, because I knew damn well he was going to try to keep everything we owned and I wanted something in writing.) I thought I'd thrown that away, but there it was, hiding. I looked it over, and then wadded it up and tossed it into the recycling bin. The second thing really rattled me. I was sure I'd thrown it out. It was a letter, neatly folded -- it slipped out of the notebook, and landed on the floor near my feet. I didn't recognize the handwriting -- far to tidy to be mine -- so I unfolded it. It was from my dad, one of the last letters I got from him. And it was a particularly unpleasant letter, at that.

I haven't written about my dad here for a variety of reasons. This journal was enough of a train wreck for a while, and I just didn't want to bring in any more drama in. I also worry about offending my family -- I know my aunt and my grandparents read my journal every now and then, and I really don't want to cause them any pain (even though they already know most of this stuff anyway... or at least they understand it to a degree.) So, um, you guys? If you're reading, you might want to click away to another entry. Really.

My parents split up when I was a freshman in college. It was an unbelievable shock -- something I never expected would ever happen. Poor Eric had to deal with the fallout, since he and I were dating at the time. (And he was wonderful about it, which is one of the main reasons why I still count him as one of my best friends, even though he pisses me off most of the time lately.) Their breakup, though, is really the smallest part of the problem.

I haven't spoke to my dad in over a year. It was my decision, and most of the time, I don't regret it. See, we were never close. No, I take that back. We were close when I was a little kid. As soon as I started to grow up, to get some independence, to become my own person, I somehow dropped beneath his notice... most of the time. When he wasn't ignoring me, he was firing off little criticisms. I am fully aware that, the reason why thoughts like "I'm stupid," "I'm ugly," "I'm not good enough," "I'm not worth much" circle through my head once or twice or 50 times a day are because I heard them so often growing up -- if I brought home a B, it should have been an A. The major I chose in college was a waste of time. If my opinion differed from his, I was wrong. If I had a snack, I was told I shouldn't eat whatever it was, because I was getting fat. (And yes, that is an almost exact quote -- I came home from school very late, after rehearsal for a play, and I hadn't had time to eat since breakfast. I went to fix a snack, and he told me "You should be careful how much you eat, you're getting really fat." I lost my appetite, and went to my room -- my mom protested, and his response was that it was his "parental right" to tell me things like that. That was in, oh 1990 or so, and I still remember it word for word. Sticks and stones, my ass.) When I did achieve something -- making the All-State Music Festival, or going to the All-State and All-New England Drama festivals, he took no notice. (My mom says he would brag about it when I wasn't around, but I think she was just trying to make me feel better.) The one time he came to visit me in Boston, when I was living in the first apartment I'd ever rented, he said the other thing that sticks in my head, and replays itself over and over: "You know, you might be attractive if you lost a lot of weight." Hmmm... I'm not just fat, I'm ugly too. Thanks, there. Those two things are just the two that stand out from the steady stream of criticism -- the stream I became numb to after a while, or so I thought. I preferred being ignored, and found a whole lot of reasons to be away from my house during the year I took off between high school and college. I discovered my love of driving during that year -- I would leave for work early, and take all the back roads to town. I would take the back roads home, too. I always visited my friends at their houses, rarely at my own. (This isn't to put down my mom at all -- she was at work during the day, is all. If she was home, I lovbed being there, because my mom has always been one of my best friends -- and my dad's polar opposite.)

So it was a relief, of sorts, to move to Boston. I felt free, knowing that I could say whatever I wanted, and do whatever I wanted, and not have anyone looking down on me for it. I'd always wanted my dad's approval desperately -- I would lie in bed at night and try to think up ways to impress him, to make him notice me for a good reason, rather than for the fuck-up I believed I was. When my parents broke up, it was an ugly, sordid mess -- mine was a Saturday morning cartoon compared to theirs. During the last major confrontation, the night he moved out, I asked him why he had done what he did (which was, basically, the exact same thing Barry did, almost to the letter.) His response was "I don't have an answer for you. I don't consider you my responsibility anymore. I have more important things to worry about." His girlfriends' kids, namely. I didn't speak to him for a while after that -- I was too angry, and that anger was only fueled when I heard stories of how he attended his girlfriends' daughters dance recitals and the like, and behaved like the model doting daddy. Eventually, I did decide I wanted to try to have some sort of relationship with him -- he had been contacting me, so I figured it was worth a try. He'd agreed to pay half of one of my student loans, which I accepted -- I couldn't pay them on my own. I wasn't happy with the arrangement, but I didn't really have a choice, so I let him help. I thought maybe it would help, because we'd have to be in touch at least once a month. I visited him a few times -- went to his house for dinner a couple of times, and got together with him around my birthday. It was always weird. The first few times, he acted like everything was perfectly normal -- when we did talk about the whole divorce mess, it was by mail, except for the first time I visited him at home. We had it out then, or so I thought. He said he didn't remember making the remark about my not being his responsibility... but he didn't say he didn't feel that way, either. He's always been very defensive about the whole thing -- he can't, or won't, understand why I was angry at him. He doesn't think he did anything wrong, and if he did, it's none of my business. So, until last year, it was a sort of stalemate... I'd write to him, long chatty letters, and get no reply. I'd call, and leave him messages, and he'd never call me back. When he sent the loan check every month, he'd sometimes include a one-sentence note on a scrap of paper... but most of the time, he just sent the check. Like he was paying a bill, taking care of an obligation. I would give up writing and calling, and then a few months later, I'd get a long letter from him, wondering why we weren't closer, and making it seem like my fault. I would write back, and say we could try again, and tell him to write to me, or call me, or visit... and he wouldn't respond. The cycle would repeat, and repeat, until I just couldn't do it anymore.

He pretty much ignored my wedding. I tried to keep him informed about what was going on with the planning -- dropping hints like anvils left and right that we really could use some help planning, and paying for it all. When I'd call him (and actually catch him at home) he would talk for ages about how he was helping with a friend's wedding. He'd never mention mine. If I brought it up, he would change the subject. I decided, based on that, that I wanted my brother to walk me down the aisle. (I'd have walked alone, but knowing me, I would have tripped over my skirt or something.) The minister worded the ceremony so that there was no mention of giving the bride away. I'm sure my dad was unhappy about that, but I wasn't comfortable with him participating, since so many other people were pitching in to provide the decorations, and food, and all the little details, and they were doing it without being asked. He showed up at the wedding -- which surprised me, to be honest. He didn't talk to anyone (my brother had to force him to sit near the family, instead of in the back row) and he wouldn't have a picture taken with me. He left right after the ceremony, after giving us a card with just his name scrawled inside. I didn't expect riches or anything, but when my brother got married, he gave them a bed he'd built. Something would have been nice, some acknowledgement that his only daughter was getting married, and it was important to him... but nothing. I spent my wedding night crying on Barry's shoulder over that.

Shortly after the wedding, I got another of the "Why aren't we closer" letters. My reply was impatient, to say the least. I told him that if he wanted a relationship, he was going to have to make an effort, because I was sick of doing all the work myself, and getting no reciprocation. I don't take that from friends, and I don't want to take it from family, either. His letter had said he thought we should talk about the divorce, since "we never dealt with it." I told him I had dealt with it -- in 1992, when it happened. I was tired of rehashing it, I said, and I didn't want to talk to him about it anymore. It happened, it's over, everyone has dealt with it and moved on -- and what mattered to me was the fact that my mom was happy. What he was doing with his life was his business, and he needed to let it go. His response was the letter I found today -- full of nasty comments about my mom (never a way to get me to be friendly) and defensiveness. I wrote back once more, and told him -- again -- that I wasn't going to discuss it. And that he'd better knock of the nasty comments, because I had no respect for that. Neither of them talked shit during the divorce, so there was no reason to start years later. And that, if he wanted a relationship with me, stop talking and do something. Pick up the phone, write a letter, something. His next letter? All sweetness, like the first two had never happened. And then, not a word. And he stopped sending the loan checks without a word, either -- which he knew caused me no end of financial hassles. He'd done that before, when he was upset at me, or just forgot. And there was no sign of that relationship he wanted, either... so I gave up. I wrote him a letter -- telling him I'd had enough, and that, unless he was prepared to actually follow through on what he said, not to contact me anymore. All he did was cause me pain, and he never even tried to see me as a real person. He didn't know anything about me, because he'd never had any interest in me at all. And I just didn't have the strength to deal with it, so I told him to just leave me alone. He has -- he didn't try to change my mind, which somehow hurt more than I thought it would. I hadn't expected him to, after all. I know he's told my family his own version of the story -- mostly reversing it and saying that I'm the one who never tried -- but I can't worry about that. They seem to understand my feelings about it -- or at least they respect my decision.

I don't miss him. What I do miss, sometimes, is having a dad. I sort of feel like I never had a real one.

Posted by Mary Ellen at January 26, 2001 02:17 PM

Comments

Posted by: at December 6, 2003 02:59 PM