My father will turn 70 next year and as his mortality swoops in, I am forced to wonder how I will feel when he is dead.
My daddy was my hero for most of my life.
I was his biggest supporter.
I loved him no matter what.
I was never short of excuses to make for him, even in the face of his vicious attacks, and it wasn’t until recently that I have been able to admit the truth about my dad.
My dad is a monster and I wonder how it is that I never would see it, much less admit it, all those years. My little sister saw it, and she refused to get close to him. Even as little as three years ago, the year me and my sister actually behaved like sisters toward each other, she tried to convince me that daddy was a cruel pig of a man, and I staunchly defended him, like always. I refused to believe that daddy’s behavior was due to anything other than his ignorance of how to rightly express love. I would say things like, “when daddy tells me how ugly I am, it’s just his way of saying he loves me”, and I believed it.
No one in my family speaks to me anymore. They stopped when I decided to divorce my husband. The last time I spoke to my dad, he came over to tell me, to my face, that I ruined his fucking life, to tell me again how worthless I am and what a piece of trash I am.
It wasn’t until two years after that day that I realized my dad wasn’t at all who I thought he was. I am coming to terms with the fact that my mother was never lying to me all the times she told me that my daddy stole me from her. I am trying to wrap my mind around the fact that there are huge chunks of my memory gone, and they are only the chunks which contained him, because I have many other memories from the same time in my life. All of the ones that contain daddy are locked away and I haven’t found the key, but I believe something is trying to show me where I can find it.
Will I be sad when he’s dead?
I don’t think so, but only time will tell.