I’ll warn you now, this is a long one…a very long one.
It’s been a few weeks since my last blog, I’ve been busy. I’m in the last week of my semester and this is supposed to be my final blog post for my English class, but for those who have been following and reading (thank you, by the way), this blog is a long way from over. I have too much to say and I have found a haven for my honesty when I can’t show its face in my reality. So, in staying true to my theme, I have to get something off my chest that’s been bugging me for a long time. It’s personal, it’s hurtful—to me and by me to others, I’m sure—but while everyone else has shared their opinions, I feel like mine hasn’t been heard. So even if it’s only my readers here that hear my personal and hurtful feelings, at least I know someone cared enough to listen.
There is a line in the movie Devil’s Advocate by Charlize Theron’s character Maryanne. She says, “The only thing worse than not having a father was having mine.” I have seen a lot of movies and listened to a lot of songs in my day, and I’ve never had a line resonate with me as much as that one. I can remember being about fourteen or fifteen years old and debating if I should just start telling people my dad was dead because it would be easier than explaining that he didn’t care about me as much as I loved him.
I don’t really know where to start here because there are so many beginnings with my dad, my father, my…whatever. People define the word differently. The man who helped create me. I call him dad. I suppose I’ll start with my beginning. I’ve been told by numerous witnesses to his crimes that my dad used to beat the hell out of my mom. There was a particular beat down on a popular urban suburban street in our town that became the do or die moment for her. “One more stomp,” my mom used to say. “One more stomp on my head and I would have been dead.”
I heard a lot of stories about him from my mom. Most of them were validated, but a couple were missing witnesses because we had moved out to Texas when I was an infant and we literally had no one except him. They were horrible stories and admittedly, I understood immediately why she left to come back home. I was left puzzled, though, upon the realization that she had gone back to him when he returned, or maybe they returned together, I don’t know.
What I do know is that some time later my mother found a way to escape, and it would set her pattern of escape for all future relationships. It was only through the security of another man, someone who she thought could protect her from the wrath of my dad that she was able to finally move on and out of the danger zone. I didn’t meet my dad again until I was eight years old.
She married that guy. I remember it so vividly. I was about three years old and wearing a little white cotton dress. I don’t know if we were in the courthouse or a pastor’s office, but they had a short little “I do” session and that was it. I don’t know if I was encouraged to call him Daddy, but I did. He was all I knew. And he beat the hell out of me. Throughout the next few years of my life, I learned what it was like to have my mouth washed out with soap to make sure I didn’t tell a lie. I found out what it felt like to have a full grown man (who was a stock manager and landscaper by day and weight lifter by night) punch me in the stomach so hard I could feel my diaphragm in my throat. I felt the immediate clotting of blood and tissue under my skin from the buckle of the belt he used to wail on my small thighs for a crime I did not commit. I can still describe to you the significance of the sting of a Jakari paddle across either (or both) of my butt cheeks. (If you don’t know what that is, imagine a ping pong paddle on a steroids and protein diet.) What I can’t tell you is that he loved me like I was his own. I wasn’t his; I was in his way. Eventually, after he’d wrapped my mother’s pride and joy muscle car around two telephone poles and she had taken a year to nurse him back to near perfect health, he decided she was also in the way. He left her devastated and broken, and as she cried on our kitchen floor one day after work, I sat down next to her and put her head in my lap and caressed her hair till she fell asleep. Somewhere down the line she had fallen in love with him after he had rescued her. I understood that. I was nine years old.
Don’t misunderstand. My mother did not stand by and watch me get beaten. She didn’t know. I didn’t tell her and he would never lay a hand on me in front of her. There were never any marks left behind for her to find until the last incident with the belt buckle. I’ve always wondered if that was the beginning of the end for them. God knows her own abuse wasn’t enough to leave. Of course the beatings he gave her were few and far between, not anywhere close to what she and everyone else had described with my dad. But I remember those fights. I remember him shoving her against a wall and slapping her to the ground. The most memorable was the night he shoved her backwards through our screen door. I watched the whole thing with my neighbors from the sidewalk in front of my house.
She laid on the kitchen floor and cried herself to sleep in my lap. I cried with her, but I cried because I was relieved. He was finally gone.
I had met my dad briefly the year prior to that with the simple goal of collecting cash for a trip to Florida I was taking with my aunt. I can’t remember much about the meeting except that he was overly eager to give me the money to go and I was more than apprehensive to take it. I didn’t know the man giving me money. He said he was my dad but he didn’t look like me. Regardless of my dwindling comfort level, I took the money, went to Florida, and didn’t see him again for a couple more years.
After my mom’s divorce was final, I started to become increasingly curious about who my dad really was. My mom slowly started coming around to the idea of me getting to know him and eventually she allowed me to make my first phone call to him. We arranged for me to go out and spend the day with him and his longtime girlfriend at a local camp ground. All I remember is that I so badly just wanted to call him Daddy. Daddy sounded nice and all my friends called their dads Daddy. I started to say it once and it sounded so awkward the word has never rolled off my tongue in reference to him since.
By the time I saw him again, another year or two had passed and he had split with his girlfriend and moved on with a woman who was a mutual acquaintance with my mom. She had three of her own kids, the oldest of which was my age. While the mingling was a bit easier for me in the adjustment sense, her kids were heathens and being raised as an only child, I’m quite sure that I was a spoiled brat. Combine this with the fact that, at the time, my dad would find every reason to leave whenever I came over, I spent more time learning to hate my visits with him than learning about him and my family.
While I spent my time struggling to know my dad, my mom was learning about a new man in her life. He was different than my, now ex-stepdad. He was like a big kid and didn’t seem to have an aggressive bone in his body. He was smart, really smart, and hella creative. He was one of the best cartoonists I’d ever seen and the Original Gangsta when it came to gaming. Throughout my adolescence, my house was the cool house because he had every game system and every single game for those game systems. The walls of the game room were covered in posters featuring characters from Final Fantasy VII, Sonic the Hedgehog, Golden Axe, Toe Jam and Earl and so many more. For years he sank countless hours and money into pointless gaming technology. Somewhere down that road, my mother decided she was tired of raising two kids and funding an addiction that was costing her thousands of dollars, but it wasn’t until after she filed for bankruptcy. While he was at work, mom and I watched these people come into our house and take our television, stereo, our furniture, her album collection, and countless other items that she had listed as collateral for a loan listed in the bankruptcy. When they left, she went to the curio cabinet, pulled out a jar candle and cut every credit card she owned into it and lit the wick.
That night, they got into the biggest fight I had ever witnessed between my mother and any of her partners. I held up in my room, my door cracked ever so slightly so I could hear every word, and waited for him to go to bed so that I could run to my mother’s rescue. When I finally heard them go quiet, I opened my door to just peek and I saw my mother laid out on the floor face down with him beating down on her back with his fists. I must’ve gasped or made a noise or something because he looked my direction and stopped abruptly and then left for a while. The next day, at all of fourteen years old and cool as a cucumber, I made a promise to him that if he ever laid another hand on my mother, I would kill him in his sleep. He spent four more years with us and didn’t touch her again.
Somewhere in my teenage years, my dad decided that doing drugs was a good way to hold on to a woman, or pass the time, or whatever. He became addicted to what I assume is crack by the house he frequently stayed in. Those three heathens eventually went off to live with their own father because their mother, my father’s girlfriend, was a junkie too. Out of the blue one day, my mom received a phone call from the county jail asking her if he could come to our house and stay if he was released on his own recognizance. Feeling an obligation to me, she agreed and it was the first time I spent any substantial amount of time with in my life. He was messed up. He was a thief. He was an addict. He made excuses. He was a crappy human. He was so broken down, the only service my mom had actually done for me by letting him stay with us was letting me see how much better I was without him.
I don’t know how long he stayed; that whole time period is a blur. But it’s right around this time when my experiences with him and all of the events of my life with my mother really started to make my heart ache and the anger towards him started to fester and burn. I saw him a few times right after this and every time I just wanted to yell at him, scream and cry “why don’t you love me enough? Why don’t you love me?” I didn’t want the world. I just wanted him. I just wanted something constant, safe, secure, and happy. At some point he disappeared again, and I assumed he had gone on another binge, but I was wrong.
In the summer of 1996, he resurfaced as a new man with a new love interest. She was an awesome woman and really had her shit together. My dad seemed to have turned a new leave and had taken an unexpected interest in me all of a sudden. He called me up and asked if me and my boyfriend wanted to go with them and her family to an amusement park. I took him up on his offer and we had a fantastic day. The night turned out drastically different, though. On our way home, Dad decided to drive the back roads. We were hit head on by a drunk driver who had also had an aneurysm. While my boyfriend and I only suffered minor injuries, my dad and his girlfriend had much graver outcomes and she nearly died. The driver of the other car was killed instantly. The lawsuit that persisted after the accident was excruciating and drove a wedge between my dad and his girlfriend and soon after, they just couldn’t find the energy to continue living just to fight with one another and ended the relationship. When he lost her, he once again lost himself, and I lost him.
My dad isn’t the only one who ended his relationships. My mother, in all of her misery with her boyfriend, had been looking for a way out and she had found it in a guy who ran the meat counter at small grocer on an unfavorable side of town. Her split from the boyfriend had been a long time coming and it came as no surprise to find out that he, too, had found someone else and was keeping her hidden away so mom wouldn’t know. He finally moved out and the day he moved his last box out of our house, the meat man moved his stuff in. I was infuriated with her. Why was it so hard to just be alone for a while? We knew nothing about this guy, or at least I didn’t, and I didn’t want him in our house. But I didn’t have a choice, and I had nowhere to run to except my bedroom.
I remember wishing that I could just go stay with my dad and get away from her bullshit boyfriends. I started seeking him out, starting first at a bar he frequented, and then to a transmission shop whose owner was kind enough to let my dad work for him a half a dozen times. Finally, after a conversation with a friend I had met through my boyfriend, I learned after connecting the dots that my dad had been staying at her dad’s house, crashed on the couch and often strung out looking for his next tweek. I wanted to confirm it for myself, so I drove us down to the neighborhood at about 3 o’clock in the morning and we parked across the street. There was a blue Chevy Chevette in the driveway, which was significant because my dad had stolen mine months before (he told me he would take it to fix the transmission and then never brought it back). I snuck up to the driveway to inspect the car. My Chevette was a shitty brownish gold color and held together by random bumper stickers but it had some seriously distinguishing marks and the blue spray paint on this car couldn’t cover any of them. They were all there, from the shattered windshield that I stuck my foot through when I found out my boyfriend was cheating on me to the giant pot leaf my friend Alex had drawn on the back of the passenger seat. That was all the confirmation I needed. I turned around and I got back into my car and drove away, sobbing all the way home.
Eventually, I learned to really love the meat man. He wasn’t my dad and he was definitely not a father figure, but he loved my mom and he was hilarious. But he came with one major flaw: he was an alcoholic. There are different types of alcoholics, I know this now. He was not a raging alcoholic, the kind who gets violent and picks fights. He was the kind that had drank for so long that he would rather lose everything in his life, lose his life, than give up the bottle. He suffered from poor circulation, particularly in his feet and I used to tease him about his blue shoes. My mother begged for months to get him to quit and eventually gave him an ultimatum. For a long time the ultimatum went unanswered and she became preoccupied in the case of a missing little girl from our community and her interest in the meat man dwindled rapidly. I continued to hang out with the meat man and we’d sit in the kitchen and listen to classic rock and smoke pot at the table until mom strolled in either from school (she was working on her associate’s degree) or from one of the many searches her and her team went on in search of this little girl.
One day, my mom informed me that there was something happening between her and the father of the little girl that was missing. Their friendship was maturing into something more. I knew where this was headed and I began an attempt at breaking the bond between me and the meat man. Once again, I picked up the phone and began the search for my dad. I started with family first this time and got lucky. My aunt told me that she had just talked to him and that he was doing really well. He had been dating one of her friends and seemed to have cleaned up his act. She mentioned that she was having a get-together the following weekend and said he would be there if I wanted to come. I excitedly took her up on the offer.
On the day of the get together, I became so anxious I didn’t know what to think or feel. I pulled up in front of her house and immediately the tears started to flow. I couldn’t stop them and I didn’t know why. I felt like I hadn’t seen my dad in a decade, like he had gone off to war and somehow made it home in one piece. I was afraid to go in and couldn’t wait all at the same time. I waited a few moments to compose myself and dried my tears. I was greeted with lots of hugs and hellos, but none of them felt sincere. When I made my way out to her back deck, I scanned the panoramic for my dad. I found him sitting next to this little woman with dark hair, giant breasts, and a bigger laugh. He immediately walked over to me and hugged me. That was the first time he’d ever hugged me. I started to cry again.
He introduced me to the woman who eventually became my stepmother and we talked for a few hours. He sounded great. Healthy. Sober. But he didn’t sound regretful. He did, however, seem eager to start over with me, and that was enough. This woman was good for him. She was very reminiscent of the one he had had before and I prayed he wouldn’t screw it up. I liked her.
Eventually, the day came when the meat man moved out of the house and mom’s new beau moved in…you guessed it, the same day. At some point, I just became numb to the fact that my opinions didn’t matter. I was starting my own life as an adult and having yet another new boyfriend move in was my cue to make my own noise. So I moved out.
I spent the next couple of years knowing where my dad was but used to never seeing or talk to him so I made very little effort to strengthen our relationship. His truth mirrored my own and was displayed across my heart like a billboard, which in turn, made me want to make the effort even less. If he didn’t want to try and have a relationship with me, why should I fight for it? This internal battle continued in my head and heart for years.
Wedding bells soon began ringing in the spring of 2002 when my mother decided she was ready to remarry after a decade or so of being divorced for the second time. Her new marriage came with the drama of a missing child, an ex-wife with an alleged drug problem, and a new husband with a serious passion for fishing. At first, things seemed okay. She was happy. She went through the normal stages a woman goes through when she gets married and then slowly came back to herself. They were a great couple. He seemed to really love my mom and was growing on me.
A year later, I experienced my own true love and had my first child. Ironically, my dad was incredibly present during my pregnancy. I wasn’t sure if he was turning over a new leaf and really interested, or if it was the nudge of his girlfriend attempting to turn him into a family man. I enjoyed his attention and found it awkward at the same time. When it came time for the baby to be born, he was there. It was the first major event in my life he had ever been in attendance of.
My dad’s girlfriend succeeded in her task and later that year, they were married in front of family and friends. I was really happy because this meant that my dad and I had a real shot at being a family. My new stepmother was an incredibly positive influence in his life, and I loved every bit of her, right down to her high toned, raspy cackle of a laugh. Family was most important to her and with her influence, I could see my dad starting to have opinions about things I said and did, almost like a real dad.
In the turmoil of my own relationship with my daughter’s father, I found it ironic that I now had two father figures in my life, however mediocre they both were, where I had previously had none just months before. When things would go south in my love life, they would often go so far south that intervention of some sort was required. My mom was always my preferred call, but when the going got tough, my dad was the first call I made. It was nice knowing that after all the times I had yearned for his attention and love, I finally had it every time I dialed his number.
Things changed rapidly, though, in December of 2005. I called my dad on my birthday. It was usual for him not call me; after not really knowing each other my entire life, it would’ve been surprising if he had remembered my birthday. What I got was the worst birthday present I’ve ever received. On the other end of the line was my stepmother telling me that five days prior, my dad had been arrested for aggravated assault and was in jail. My heart sank and that familiar feeling of anger disappointment came flooding back and sat in the pit of my stomach. I spent the next four years comparing his story to court documents, making attorney runs when requested it, and visiting him at the county correctional institution.
In 2007, I lost my grandmother to cancer and cardiac issues. She was a pillar of support, faith, and learning in my life and a good portion was spent with her. Her loss was felt deeply by my whole family. To me, it seemed like the natural way of life at first. I missed her terribly, but I accepted the fact that grandparents die. And then immediately after, my mother was diagnosed with triple negative breast cancer and my grandmother’s death took on a whole new meaning. I mourned her privately and deeply for a year straight.
I went through the next excruciating year and a half waiting with my mother for PET scan results, chemo treatment results, chemical trial openings, radiation side effects to subside, and her coffee brown hair to grow back. The tumor in the center of her chest just kept growing. Her breasts no longer looked like breasts, but a shelf of fat and lumps placed sloppily in the upper mid-section of her torso. Eventually it began to bridge out and stretch underneath her right under arm and invade her lymph node and its supporting system there.
I would periodically visit my dad in prison and give him five minute updates on my mom’s condition. He seemed sorry in the moment that I was explaining it, but then would quickly change the subject to how we were going to get the judge to reduce his sentence and get him out of there. It infuriated me. He beat a guy, nearly to death. He deserved to be in there. To me, it didn’t matter if he used a weapon or not, he almost killed him and he left him deaf and partially paralyzed. There’s a consequence for that. Additionally, I was not there to work as his paralegal. I was there as his daughter who is going through a rough time with my mother and a little comfort from my dad would have been a welcomed suggestion. I always arrived to see him with great expectations, but I would leave with a sorrowful heart and a mind so full of thoughts that I wouldn’t even remember the two hour drive home.
My stepdad checked out. If my mother wasn’t healthy enough to be his wife, she wasn’t good enough to be his wife. It didn’t matter if she had given up a portion of her life to search for his missing daughter or not. She was in constant pain and he didn’t know how to help her. She would lash out at him and me, and he just didn’t know any other way to respond except to leave. He spent the last six months of her life fishing while I spent it taking care of her. I had moved in with her a year prior to take care of her so my love life was non-existent. Holding a full time job while caring for a very ill mother and a young child has to be one of the hardest lessons about growing up anyone could ever learn.
My soul was slowly dying right alongside my mother’s frail body. I just wanted a parent to tell me it would be okay, that I would get through this. But the only parent that cared enough to tell me anything of the sort was lying in her bed counting on me to tell her that it would all be okay. Day after day, I would come home from work, plop my five year old in front of the television or bring her in with me while I did therapy with my mom, feed them dinner, put them to bed, and cry myself to sleep.
One day when my mom had appointments all day, I decided to play hookie from work and I took a trip to the prison to see my dad unannounced. I just needed coherent conversation with one of my parental units. Without my visit being planned, I ended up waiting through the first wave of visitations until they finally brought him up in the second wave, a total of three hours. The second wave visits were limited to just an hour and a half instead of the full two hours that the first wave received. When I gave him the update on mom, he sat quietly and his face went pale. I don’t think he realized how sick she really was until that point. But even then, the news wasn’t enough to sidetrack his single tasking mind and it wasn’t too long before he began to talk to me about reaching out to his attorney or getting whatever records I could off the county website. Before I left that day, he gave me a stern talking-to about letting him know ahead of time when I was coming to visit because they had to pull him off of his work site.
I left that day with the intention of never going back. I helped him with his case prior to that as much as I could, but my anger had taken over and I had no desire of helping him at this stage in his sentence. He had about a year left and as far as I was concerned, he could stay there another ten years. He didn’t seem to have an interest in me, as usual, and I was tired of running to him seeking out his comfort and affection only to find no love or concern for me. I smoked a joint on the way home, trying to fight back tears that I knew I wouldn’t be able to explain to my mother if she saw the red, splotchy, tear stained face that I always seem to sport when I came home from seeing him. She didn’t know that I had gone to see him; she had specifically asked me not to.
About a month later, in her bedroom surrounded by her family, my mother took her last breath while holding my hand. Immediately the room was filled with quiet sobbing and sniffling and I was instantly frozen in time. It took all of ten seconds for me to realize that I was never going to have my mother in my life again, but that was long enough for the overwhelming feelings of anxiety to rush in and sit on my chest like a stack of cinder blocks. The next day, I woke before sunrise and headed out to the prison and was first in line for the first wave. I told the officers about my mom and they brought my dad out first and put us in a private room.
When I gave him the news of my mother’s death, my first real visit with my dad in prison began. There was no discussion of getting in touch with his attorney or which records to obtain for his case. He wasn’t concerned with what was going on with his case at all. For the first time since he’d been in that hell hole, his attention was solely focused on my pain and my heart. Maybe it was because he shared in that pain. We sat there in that room and he listened to my plans for her funeral. He heard my gripes about her being buried two states away and how complicated it was going to be for me to get there on a regular basis. He shed a few tears with me in a moment of grief that neither of us could contain. Our visit lasted less than an hour, by my choice, and I left. It’s strange how my shortest visit with my dad became my most loving to date.
Despite my leaps and bounds made with my last visit, I didn’t go back for some time. I mourned my mother’s loss heavily by self-medicating and couldn’t bear the chance of him seeing in me what would be familiar to him. Truth be told, with a dead mother and a dad in prison, I felt like an orphan…a twenty-nine year old orphan. Eventually, I did see him again when he was moved to a different facility in preparation for his release a few months later. I volunteered to go with my step mother and pick him up and introduce him to his freedom.
I expected things to be different. I thought that after the time he served, the struggles that his family had to go through, and the pain I went through with the loss of my mother, he would realize that every crime has a punishment and own up to his mistakes. But to this day he disputes the facts of that night, claiming the punishment doesn’t fit the crime. On some level I’ve had to learn to agree to disagree and do so quietly, a tact he has never been able to master.
He resumed his life with my step mother and tried to pick up the pieces and put them back together. He easily fell back into his old routine of family man, which I found as a mix of comforting, hurtful, and betrayed. His family consisted of my step mother’s family, not me and my daughter, though our presence was always welcomed with smiles and that nagging complaint that I didn’t come around enough. While there was always an “open invitation” to their gatherings and their house, I never knew about them because neither he nor my step mother would bother calling to personally let me know. On the few occasions I did make it to an event, it was because I showed up within a day or so of it and he’d let me know then.
When I got married, the plan was to elope, but my family (on my mother’s side) begged me to do it differently and was submissive. The only way I wanted to walk down the aisle was with my mother and she was not here. I had initially planned on making that trek by myself, but I was completely enchanted with the idea that my dad was actually around for it, so I asked him to walk me down the aisle. The walk between a father and daughter on her wedding day is supposed to be special. While it was extremely significant for me, I felt like it was just another walk in the park for him. He never expressed any emotion that I could see, and I often wonder what he was thinking that day.
While I feel like there are definitely moments when I think to myself that I should just give him a break, I am reminded of moments when he has been completely negligent of my feelings. Shortly after I was married, he and my step mother arranged for a big family photo shoot. I had been coordinating with him on my schedule as I was often on call. I asked him to let me know and I would make arrangements to be there. I never heard back about the shoot, and then one day I showed up at their house and hanging on the wall was a brand new family photo, my family excluded. He reasoned with me, stating that we couldn’t get our schedules to coordinate together. We remember things completely differently.
It makes me wonder what else he remembers differently.
The former stories of my dad are habitual themes in our relationship that continue still today. It’s very rare that he ever calls me, and if he does, it’s for a particular purpose, not just to say hi and that he loves me. I continue to make minor efforts to reach out to him. I call a couple times a month at least, a couple times a week at most—depending on my moods and my tolerance level for his shenanigans. I invite him to all of my kids’ birthday parties, and my own. When I hear he’s under the weather, I call and make sure he’s okay and see if he needs anything. I still feel like I’m putting the majority of the effort in to our relationship, while he submits a small fraction.
Granted, he’s a completely different man than he was fifteen years ago. He’s made the comment to me before that he knows he wasn’t that great and he wasn’t around while I was growing up and he’d like to remedy that by having a relationship with his grandchildren. That’s great and all, I want him to have that too, but he’s missing the point. He can’t fix what’s wrong with me and him by building a relationship with my children. I don’t know if he’ll ever understand that.
So why this? Why do I write the equivalent of nine pages pissing and complaining about my dad who is the same as he was yesterday and last week, and last year, and ten years ago? I took a weekend road trip with him last summer to Tennessee. I had intended on having it out with him then. I was going to tell him all the things he had ever done that broke my heart, lay it all out like it is in this blog post. I rehearsed it for days before we left. My plan was to do it in the cemetery when I showed him my mother’s gravesite for the first time. It was private and isolated and the perfect place for him to have no way out.
When we got there, I was ready. But then, something felt off. We walked over to the gravesite, and his whole demeanor changed. I trailed off and allowed him to walk ahead of me and watched as he sat down on the bench in front of her stone as if he were attending her funeral. He hung his head for a minute and then just sat there staring at her stone. My father was mourning the loss of my mother. It was the saddest thing I had ever seen in my life. It was the most vulnerable I had ever seen him and probably ever would, so I took a photo on my phone.
We never had our conversation, meaning, I never let him have it. I put all my feelings back inside their box and continued to collect the feelings that were still being brought to the surface. But seeing him there that day brought about a whole slew of thoughts and feelings that now haunt my brain. The one that’s front and center: I wish he had been a better man. Then maybe he and my mom would never have gotten divorced and I never would have been beaten by some tool with a WWE complex. Maybe her outcome would have been different. Maybe she’d still be alive. Not that I’m blaming him for her cancer, but if he were a better man, we would have had a different life with different outcomes.
I called him the other day. It was the first time I had talked to him in a few weeks. His excuse is that he’s always working. While that may be true, a few minutes at the end of his day every once in a while wouldn’t kill him.
I don’t know what my expectations are in writing this. Will he ever see it and read it? I don’t know. On one hand, I hope he does and then it will finally all be out it the open. On the other hand, I hope not. The idea that it would piss him off so much that he would just walk away terrifies me. Would it solve anything? I don’t know. I don’t have a whole lot of faith in the relationship anymore. His interest, whatever interest he has left in my life, is in my children, and that’s the first thing that would have to change.