I was watching my two boys rolling around the living room sofa and chair this morning, still clad in pjs and was trying to remember a Christmas with my father. I can only remember one when he was working at the fire station and came home mid shift to be there when I opened my ColecoVision game. I got a Carerra 10 speed road bike that year, too. Mom said I got my Porsche that year. Silver frame with red handle bar wraps. My father sat on a dining room chair in his navy blue uniform smiling at me. I don't remember him staying all day though. Though I do remember taking a nap with him on the green sofa in the living room. He breathed so slowly and deeply. I tried to pace my breath with his. I felt like I was suffocating. I was too small to breathe that slowly. I wanted to be there with him. I wanted to be like him. I needed him so. My parents separation made me want my father more and more. You always want what you can't have. For some reason, I was too much for him.
Every two weeks. That is what was decided. I would stay the weekend at my father's every two weeks. It was rare when this actually happened. He lived in an apartment above a shop in Galveston. I thought it was a pretty neat place. Two bedrooms and a sunny kitchen. When I wanted to call my Papa I would call once and let it ring one time. Then I would call back and let it ring until he answered. He said I should do this so he would know it was me and answer the phone since he didn't always answer the phone. I thought it was pretty cool to have our own code. Come to find out...he had a girlfriend that he didn't want me to know about. This special code was to make sure she didn't answer the phone when I called and upset me. Twenty odd years later, this feels a little like a betrayal. But I understand why he did it, too.
What i don't get it why he didn't make it a priority to see me every two weeks. As a child I was of course disappointed but I took his excuses and believed them. Now that I have children I also have extreme anger at my father. I also feel like I didn't count to him. Who would have thought that twenty-four years after his death I would start to feel inadequate. But, here's the kicker. I have always felt inadequate but I didn't know why. And along with many other things that have effected who I am this one just dawned on me last week. Sitting with my husband, having yet another tearful conversation I realized that I didn't feel like he fought for me. He gave me up. He took on a young girlfriend to fill his time, his void, his emptiness, his loss. And I have spent a lifetime missing him. The loss is deeper for me now. I feel the loss of a relationship we couldn't have. At eleven, the age I was when he died, he had done no wrong. He was the fire fighter, the joker, the bear hug giver, my Papa. And I still miss all that...more than I could ever describe.
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| I have his smile. |
Worth More Dead Than Alive
A father to a little girl who believed he hung the moon. He had no idea how much he was loved. He had no idea how much he was worth. And that was just one little person.
These words hit me hard not just because they are a shocking thing to hear but because they serve as a reminder to me that I am worth more than I think. I hate to say it. But, I understand what he was saying. I have my deeply depressed times. Those times when I think I do more harm than healing in this world. Those times when I think my family would be better off without me. Those times when I think I am worth more dead than alive. Then I remember what the little eleven year old girl felt like when her father was dead. He was so WRONG. His death killed a part of me, too. I could never cause that pain my boys life. And it is a lifetime of pain. Yes, it dulls over time. Yes, you get used to it. But, here I sit one week before Christmas and I look at all the things that my father and I missed out on over these last twenty-four years and it hurts all over again.
My boys are amazing. Their love, compassion, innocence and hunger for life is so exciting. I know I was there at one point. Why couldn't he see that he meant so much to me? It has taken me almost two and half decades to realize I am really pissed off at my father. REALLY PISSED OFF
But I still love him so much. I think that now that I realize this I can forgive him and maybe a little peace will come to my heart. Maybe I can lay him to rest now. Maybe I can give more of my heart to my family now. They deserve to have all of me. I deserve to have all of me. I think I am on the path to getting the rest of me healed. Hopefully, I will have it worked out sooner than later. It's tough work to dredge up those past ills. To acknowledge them and recategorize them. It is becoming painfully obvious that the defense mechanisms that I have used for so long are no longer working. I need to have different coping skills. It's time for me to grow up. I have a physiological response to that statement. It is a daunting task. I look forward to it. I want to take that pain and disappointment and use it as a tool as to what NOT do for my kids. We can go ahead and put that in the NOT OK box.
My father did great good, too. I have spent most of my life talking of all the good. If you have spoken to me I am sure you have heard a story or two. But, this moment, this is a healing time for me and I can't just focus on all the good. I need to feel this out, assess it and move on. Then those good times mean a little more. They aren't moments that I am holding on to to dissuade the hurt. To cover it up. They start to have a deeper meaning. Howard Mayes, Jr. you hurt me. Maybe you never knew it. Maybe you repressed it. But, I am standing here telling you. I don't want to be hurt by this anymore. I want to release this from my heart. I want to forgive myself. I want to forgive you. We all do the best we can. I get that. I want to learn from your mistakes in this arena. My husband deserves that. My sons deserve that. I deserve that.
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