This will probably be a very angry entry, so if you’re looking for sunshine, lollipops or rainbows, feel free to go away.
I hate Father’s Day.
I know I shouldn’t hate Father’s Day (henceforth refered to as FD). I think FD, in theory, is a good idea. Let’s celebrate father’s who love, nuture and support their kids. Let’s celebrate fathers who actually give a shit about their children.
The reason I hate FD stems from my utter loathing of my own father. SURPRISE! I’m sure this comes as a shock to you.
It’s all about the jealousy.
I can’t turn on the television, the radio, or go into a store without being assailed with images of The Loving Father. Oprah is always the worst. Tear-jerking stories of amazing fathers. And damned if I’m not consumed by jealousy. Why couldn’t I have just a fraction of that?
I was talking to my mother today and she says this to me:
“I feel so bad for you. It’s like you don’t even have a father.”
Nothing like a little pep talk from the only parent that hasn’t tried to ruin my life.
I know she feels guilty. Afterall, she chose the man that would later, not only reject her, (fucked his physiotherapist, don’tcha know) but rejected his children as well.
I remember her always telling me, “He loves you. He just doesn’t know how to show it.” This is one of those times I’m not pleased at being right. She likes to think that she married a man with a soul, but somehow along the way, he lost it. Since it makes her feel better, I let her have that fragile belief.
I find it so ironic. I have friends, two in particular, that lost their fathers far too early. Fathers that should have been celebrated today. Fathers that lived up to their obligations as a parent. For lack of better phrasing: Why are their fathers dead, while mine is still breathing?
Lorainne, ever her esoteric self, says that we all choose our parents. That is, it’s not some random thing. We, as souls, decide who our parents should be, taking into account what we are to learn during our time on this planet.
Apparently, I need to learn how to feel abandoned and unloved. Thanks Universe.
Now, just in case people are thinking this is just some adolescent angst, let me assure you it’s not. I’m not some teenager who’s pissed that Daddy wouldn’t give her the car keys on a Saturday night. God, I wish I was. At least then, I wouldn’t have to keep telling myself that it doesn’t bother me that my father would rather pretend that he doesn’t have children. At least then I wouldn’t be tempted to contact a man I know to be evil, just so I’d have some, albeit sick and twisted, version of Daddy’s Little Girl.