I can't remember if my relationship with my dad has ever been really easy, has ever been really good. I think so, I hope so, but still I can't remember. I remember plenty of good times, sure -- the way he used to swerve the car to the beat of the music on the radio, how he's always up for a donut, when he drove so far out of his way last summer to see me another time before my plane left California. He appreciates good music and art and movies. He is whip smart and funny, too. When he's on, he's one of the most enjoyable people to be around. He's not always on.
He can tell you who won the World Series 10 years ago and by how many games and who the winning pitcher was, but he's forgotten my birthday more than once. I laugh because that's funny, right? I laugh because what else am I going to do? "Remember when you forgot my birt...." I try to joke. "Don't go there," he warns. He means it.
I remember being so proud to be his daughter when I was much, much younger, but that feeling faded into something else entirely when I caught on to all the cheating and then it was smashed to smithereens once he walked out for good.
It's the biggest conflict of my entire life, how to reconcile the very, very good with the very, very bad. There have been plenty of both.
I don't blame him anymore for what he did all those years ago. What good would that do? But I have held out hope he would change, that he would stop doing it over and over again, year after year. I hoped he would get it, would see that his temper and jealousy has polluted every good relationship he has ever had. His temper has knocked so much over, left it broken on the floor. There was always so much wreckage left in the wake of his fury, wreckage I spent years sifting through. I'm done sifting now, and I've forgiven him, but, my god, I can't fight anymore. I'm too tired.
I'm struggling, fumbling, tripping over myself to figure out how to have a relationship with a parent as a parent. "We're both adults," he said to me recently. Yes, we are, I thought. But I'm still your daughter.
I write here knowing anyone could read, imagining everyone I know is, just to be sure I don't say anything to end friendships or make dinner parties especially awkward. He could find this space with one quick Google search. He could already be reading it. I'm fine if he is, if he has. I've said all this to him and then some. This is my therapy, this is how I heal, how I figure shit out, how I rise up out of the wreckage of all the broken dreams left shattered below. It's not what you'd do, I'm sure, but write through it is all I can do. Those who love me will allow me that.
There's been another fight, another long string of heartfelt, wounded emails, sleepless nights of thinking about what's best, what I need, what I want. I wonder if it'll ever end. I hope less these days.
One thing I used to say to Kyle when I was pregnant, when I'd be lounging, beached-whale-like, on the couch, was You don't have to give back, you never have to give back. I'm not having you for me. I'm having you for the world. I'm not made of steel, but I mean it. I don't have to be his first choice or his last call. He can prefer people over me and live a life apart from me. People have already gasped at how easily I hand my kid to anyone who wants him, how little it bothers me when someone else sees him roll over for the first time. God, I could never do that. I could never leave my kid! I don't know how you do it! I'm not heartless. I just love him enough not to pin my happiness on him. That's a heavy burden for him to carry, don't I know.
I've often felt my dad has done things for me in order to have something to sling at me when we're arguing. He wants to give, give, give, so he can remind, remind, remind. So I overcompensate. I tell Kyle as I rock him to sleep, Loving you is enough for me. You owe me nothing.
I try so hard to be different that I forget how much there is to love. My dad will hand money to any stranger in need, he'll take me to In N Out Burger whenever I visit, he raised me to accept all people for exactly who they are, regardless of their race or who they choose to have sex with. He's a good man with a good heart, and, yet, I can't remember if we've ever really had a good relationship.
I'm afraid we never will.