My dad

I have wanted to talk about my dad. For a long time, and for different reasons, it has been important to me to get some of my feelings out.

I get to the that point, then I stop. I have written this sentence so many times. When I was a girl, I wrote in my many notebooks about my dad. I'd start with "I miss my dad" then stop. I didn't know what I missed about him, or why I missed it. Was it the broken promises? Maybe it was the lying. Maybe it was the ruined weekends he forgot to pick me up for daddy-daughter time at his house. Maybe it was the hurt feelings I would have when he'd lock himself in the garage with his friends and get loaded during the weekends he actually remembered to come get me?

I don't really know what I missed back then. All I know is my dad was my hero; from my earliest memories it was so important to me that my dad thought I was cool, that he loved me and wanted to spend time with me. He didn't, not in the normal way.

He does love me, really, and he did back then. But that has never translated to making me a priority in his life. He didn't know how to make time for me. When I got older he didn't know how to relate to me. He didn't like my clothes, or the way I spoke, or how I wore my sweatshirts on inside out, or how I had friends of a different colour, or how I had sex with boys and girls.

Our adult relationship is a little strange. Sometimes I am perfectly happy with the way things are; he is what he is and he's not changing, not in real drastic ways. He's a good man- he's been clean for a couple years now, and he doesn't care what colour my friends are these days, and he's good to my mom; and other days ... other days I want a dad who doesn't make me constantly worry about a drug relapse, or who could maybe take charge of things when they get bad. I always feel like shit when I'm unhappy that my dad isn't like other dads, then I get angry with myself for feeling bad because I want a more responsible father.

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This post is part of a series of posts about my father.