A Girl and Her Father

I let my anger get the best of me. Just like him.

There are no words to describe being compared to someone your memories villainize. Though I knew my father beyond the anger, having one of your first memories of someone be something so traumatic doesn’t set a great tone, especially when you see them once a yNineteen. The last year of one's teens. The last chance to be a kid before the impending doom of your twenties begins to sink in. The age I am now and the age my father was when he discovered he would be having a daughter. 

My father was a wild kid, according to the stories he has shared. I can only imagine what it would be like to have a conversation with him at nineteen. The same boy making music with his friends and getting into fistfights at the bar was supposed to be a parent. The keyword there is “supposed.”

I would never consider my father to be a true parent, definitely not before my later teen years at least. I barely remember growing up but I will never forget the fear I would have being alone with him. One of my earliest memories, one that isn’t brought on by photos or hearing other stories, is of him. It is a memory of anger and aggression. My father walked in his college graduation when I was seven years old; he was 27. During that visit I watched him have a meltdown over some menial joke being made. I watched him destroy a centerpiece sitting on the table of the rental home my family was staying in. I can’t remember the words being said, only him throwing it and it shattering on the floor. I remember the fear I carried with me of ever upsetting him. I remember the wooden pieces scattered across the floor and my grandma asking me to help her clean them up. 

He had left that night. Something he was no stranger to doing. He did go back but only because I asked him to. I thought I could bring my family together at that moment. If he went back to the house, everything would be okay.

The anger that possessed that man was something I can only describe as evil. I feared ever upsetting him to the point where his eyes became even darker than they were. What I would never imagine at that age was that one day I would possess that anger. I never saw myself as my father’s daughter until one day it changed. 

I can barely even remember why I was upset nor can I really remember the outcome; all I can remember is the words said to me in my fit of rage.

“You’re just like your father.” 

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I couldn’t be just like my father. I feared the person he could become yet there I was in my own fit of rage, realizing  I hadear… if at all.

My father is not just an angry man. He is still a person with complex feelings and his own motivations and drive. For a long time I wanted to understand them. When I decided I wanted to go out of state for college, I practically only looked into schools he suggested and schools near him. I only looked at journalism programs because I thought that he would want that. Even though my father felt like a near stranger to me, I just wanted him to be proud. I just wanted my father to love me the way children were loved on television.

During that time I convinced myself that this is what I wanted. I convinced myself these were my original hopes even though everyone saw through me. I chose to live the lie that I coincidentally wanted to be like my dad, down to living in the same city, when all I wanted was to feel connected to him.

Studying journalism was something I did truly enjoy but nothing was better than the validation I got from my dad. I finally felt truly connected to him by something other than being related to each other. I finally felt like my dad was truly proud of me.

Being in college only made me want to connect with my father more so I would attempt to reach out. I would do anything to be close with him. Go to his band practices. Even hang out with him and his girlfriend, a girl who is only seven years my senior. 

Since moving to Connecticut, I have felt my relationship with my father improving. I have finally begun to feel like I have a dad; even if nine times out of 10 he still finds a way to hurt me, he’s still there and that's all I’ve ever wanted. In the years I’ve been in this state, I felt like I was finally learning what it was to have a father truly. 

But I had a rude awakening.

The girlfriend. She's great, don't get me wrong, but she's young, naive and complex. I’ve been in my relationship longer than she and my dad have but yet she moved cross-country for him. She’s 13 years younger than him and yet constantly talks about having his kids. He has kids… nay, he has one. Me. 

While scrolling on Facebook one day, I came across a post saying they were looking for a new place to live, which I found strange since they’d only been in their place since March. But what stung was that they're moving to New York City. The city I was born and raised in. The city where I cried to mom about wishing my dad truly loved me. The city he left and with it left his three-year-old. 

It's not fair. They can’t get this happily ever after. Not in my true home. I moved my life for him, all to have it crash down in less than 18 months. That didn’t matter. He has a family now, a real one. It's not the kid he didn’t want with the chick he doesn’t like but will tolerate at the occasional birthday party or graduation. He has a real family. One that isn’t broken, One where it won’t be the forced effect of babies having babies. 

To truly be my father’s daughter is to be okay with the disappointment rooted in knowing you can do what you can and still not be the priority. To finally realize after 19 long years that people may grow and relationships may change but you have to be okay with being in second place.

I am the age now that my father was when he learned he was having a baby and here we are. My father says, “I love you,” but I don’t think he knows what love is.