First, it’s been so long since I last wrote that the words aren’t coming so freely. When I’m in the mindset to write, the flow from me as easily as water through a stream. But it seems that, if I stop awhile, it’s as though the source of the water is blocked, and so nothing flows. If I want to write, I need to push through that block, which is harder than I’d have thought it would be.
On to the meat of this piece: I just remembered how I would often interact with my brother Bob, with a kind of authoritative attitude I don’t use for anyone else. A kind of strict “teaching” mode, except the approach is not one I’d wish to receive from anyone I’d want to learn from. But it’s an insight into part of the words I want to write for the book, related to my dad, and his approach to me.
I feel a hesitation to expand on my thoughts here, as I feel they should be reserved for the book, but that really shouldn’t stop me. No reason to postpone creativity in the hope of some future hypotheticals.
The way my dad acted towards me, while I stayed with him on the break between my 2nd and 3rd year of university, it’s the same attitude I’ve had with Bob. Ready to call him out on something, to tell him off, because there’s a sense in me that I should be doing that. No further thought regarding whether it’s the right thing to do, or if there’s a better way to approach it. Just rude, basically, with the pretense that as his brother, I should be behaving this way. An excuse for being a dick, is what it really is. A reason to not be better.
The reason I decided to note this down here, in the blog, rather than diving right into the words of the book, is because this blog seems to reflect my feelings about writing itself, and that sensation I felt is something I’ve wanted to talk about for a while, but never quite had the words for: How an idea forms; how the seed grows into something splendid and elaborate. I realised that I myself have behaved in the way that I was planning to call my dad out for, so now, I have a hook through which I can explore those feelings more deeply. I can relate to the feelings and motivations, I can make it personal; and furthermore, I describe both why they likely existed in the first place, but also, how I surpassed them, and improved myself such that the malevolence previously present in me no longer has its home in my heart.
At least, I would hope that that’s the case: That I wouldn’t behave in that way now. Perhaps I still would, to some people, or in some situations, and that’s worth exploring too.
What interests me most about my dad’s mode of behaviour was that he repeatedly told me how differently he behaved with one of his friends, who, like me, also stayed with my dad for a while. My dad complained relentlessly about said friend, and I can be certain, from the behaviour I’ve seen of my dad — a cowardly man deep down — that this friend did not receive the criticisms that my dad inflicted on me.
The friend didn’t pay to stay there either, unlike me. This fact, of expected payment, was something I was not aware of until the day he picked me up from the train station. Graciously, he essentially let me set the amount, not knowing how much money I had in the bank — which was next to nothing. I told him how much I had, and he deduced how much I could afford, which was nearly everything I had. This meant I would return to university with no savings, and considering the already high costs of travel from my dad’s home to my hometown, meant that I got to see my friends only a small handful of times. It robbed me of my independence, trapping me in that tiny mobile home of his. Stuck stewing in my thoughts, like him.
We ended on bad terms, which is something I’ll elaborate more on in the book, but I do want to mention one final middle finger from father to son: After driving me to the train station for my final farewell back to uni, he handed me an envelope with some money in it. Money I had given him. Not the full amount, but enough to have made a difference between freedom and imprisonment.
Overall, it was not a pleasant summer. But I am grateful, in a way, to have spent that time with him. I’d felt I’d missed out on a lot of things by not having a dad before, but that summer showed me who he really is: a racist alcoholic with an uncontrolled temper, who has some very dull ideas about the world. The only interesting thing I learned from him is that I no longer need him as a father.
I don’t speak to my dad anymore. Every so often he tries to get in contact with me over Facebook, and I ignore his messages. There are combinations of words that would entice me into replying — words of recognition and self awareness, essentially — but he either hasn’t figured them out yet, or simply can’t, and I presume it’s the latter. I won’t say I’ll never see him again, but unless he’s able to see me as a person, and not something he has ownership over, then it’ll never happen. While he might feel some pull towards me, he worked too hard to kill that compulsion in me, for me to ever care about reviving it.
So what is my father to me now? He’s as uninteresting as a toxic ex that I’ve long since gotten over. I don’t hate him, he’s just dead wood.
Note: To my dad, if he ever reads this: You know that letter I wrote you, where I said that I accept you and am proud of you, even if you don’t feel proud to be yourself? The one that you initially welcomed warmly, before you ruminated over it, created a false narrative in your head, and decided that it was some kind of an attack? The delusion you created that caused the initial rift between us, the first step towards me seeing you as you really are, and realising how badly you’d been treating me — remember that? If you’re so insecure that the only way to rationalise something heartfelt was to pretend that your son was intentionally trying to hurt you, then that’s on you, not me. I write what I feel, and I write what I mean. If I wanted to call you out, I would have. And now I’ve proved it.