Thanks Dad

 My dad was born to a hardworking father and stay-at-home mother in a tough neighborhood. Not only my father but all of his siblings served as living PSAs on what NOT to do in life.

I had a family member for each issue raised: drinking, smoking, drugs, infidelity, raising children, racism. Everything they did seemed wrong to me. In fact, I could've made this blog entirely about them and would never run out of material.

However, for brevity, I'll focus on my father. 

He married his highschool sweetheart and had my sister. It wasn't long before that marriage ended on divorce and my father moved away. While my sister will never admit it, I've always believed that she secretly resented him for leaving her.

My father eventually met my mother but it would be ten years before they married. One reason was because her family didn't really like him. They were all very straight laced while he was an alcoholic biker (I guess my mom was into bad boys). Another reason was, at one point, he actually left her to try and work things out with his ex when she threatened to withhold custody of my sister from him. It took a LONG time for my mom to forgive him for that.

When that didn't work out, he traveled the country for sometime before trying to return to my mom. She says that she didn't see any future with him but kept noticing how much his siblings all adored him. Maybe she was missing something (all these years later, she'll be the first to mention that, no, she wasn't missing anything).

They eventually got engaged but still had problems. According to my father, he was ready to leave my mother again. But she said that he couldn't because she was pregnant with me. Anytime my father told me that story, he always thought it was funny. Yes, dad, it's funny to find out that I'm an accident and wasn't really wanted by you. Hilarious.

While my mother did have the occasional drink, she stopped cold turkey once she was pregnant with me (minus one Seagram 7 on the rocks every Christmas). My dad seemed to make up the difference. This lead to many problems between us.

He would tell me not to do certain things (like drink, smoke, or do drugs) but then would get drunk almost every single day after work. It was definitely a "do as I say, not as I do" situation.

During all the years I knew him, not once did he tell me he loved me or was even proud of me without being drunk. And he'd use many opportunities to embarrass me in public.

He'd go from yelling at me or even mocking me when sober to making fun of me when I struck out playing baseball or taking a drunken tumble in front of an amateur wrestling teammate and his father after a long trip back from a meet or even get into a drunken brawl during my sister's wedding reception. My sister nearly disowned him over that. 

But no matter the issues, he would never stop or if he did, he'd almost immediately go back to it. I know that him being an alcoholic means that he couldn't help it but that doesn't make an 11 year old feel better when your drunken father is calling you an ungrateful bastard and "fuck you."

As the years went on, his health began to deteriorate. He developed type-2 diabetes and neuropathy in his feet. They'd perform numerous amputations on both feet before amputating his entire left leg at the knee. This ended his ability to work and most of his interactions with anyone other than my mom and myself.

One thing it didn't stop was his drinking.

By the end, he was drinking two 30 packs of beer twice a week. He'd pull into a drive thru beer distributor, raise his index finger to the owner, and they'd load up his chosen brand.

Not even being around my daughter would stop him.

Imagine being a parent with a newly crawling infant while your drunken father with a prosthetic leg is stumbling around your house. I tried to talk with my mom about confronting him on this. He found out, got irritated and drank even more.

The last time I ever spoke to him, he was drunk and rambling again. I don't even remember about what. I was just irritated that he knew how I felt about him drinking around my daughter and it didn't matter to him.

Within 48 hours, he was dead. He'd had a massive heart attack while going to the bathroom plus several more once he got to the trauma center to which he'd been flown.

By the time we got there, all we could do was say goodbye. It was sad in the moment but not for long. I just didn't see the point in having an extended mourning session for someone who'd caused myself, my mother, my sister, and so many others so many problems over the years.

Even today, this is a point of contention with myself, my sister, and her children. They only choose to remember the times when he was actually sober and kind to them. Never when he was drunk and embarrassing.

I also believe that he'd have disowned me had I come out as pan or genderfluid while he was still alive. I'm thankful I didn't have to go through that possibility.

The one thing I can take from my relationship with my father is I know how not to run my life and how not to treat my child. I tell my daughter everyday how much I love her and how proud of her I truly am. She will know love and acceptance her entire life.

Unlike me with my father.

Thanks, dad.

Rot in Hell.