Eclectic Shit & Other Fuckery

Your name itself is a trigger for us. We visibly recoil at the sight or the sound or the thought of our own surname. But you know that, don’t you? And you know why. You know what you’ve done, and what you haven’t.

I used to idolize you. You were my hero. I followed you every way I could while you dismissed me at every turn. I wanted to be just like you.

And in a lot of ways, I am. I do that thing with my hands when I’m thinking or having a casual conversation. I work just as hard and just as much as you always did. I plan vacations and trips for my sisters & me just the way you used to and use the things I learned from you to get the cheap prices on tickets and stays and to find those out-of-the-way places that most people don’t take the time to notice.

I see you in almost every picture I take of myself because even my DNA heavily mimics yours. My jokes and the way in which I make people laugh – especially my siblings – are often modeled after, reminiscent of yours. The way I walk, the way I move, the way I act when I’m drunk and having a good time, all remind me of you.

I get my love of reading and history and math from you. I get my taste for metal and rock n’ roll from you, despite the fact I grew up being told that was the devil’s music. I get my ardor for winter from you, which was magnified because of you and the memories we made sharing a mutual passion.

Every time I drive – which is every day since that’s my job… and yours – I think of you; you taught me how, and my driving style is so similar to yours. You’re the reason I know how to navigate those aggressive city environments.

I’m pursuing a career path that follows in your footsteps, I used to think we’d be doing that together. I’ve always had the mind of an entrepreneur and I get that from you, too. The way my mind works has always been similar to yours.

Sometimes these things make me smile before that smile turns to pain and I shut it off. Sometimes they make me cringe and wish I was never born.

My first blog at 15 years old was called “my father’s daughter” for a reason. I always was and always will be. Except…

…except for the part where you began to ignore me and push me away for the pursuit of your favorite child, and other young people who were everything I was… and male.

…except for the part where you snuck up behind me at 17 years old and hit me so hard I blacked out then followed that up by saying through gritted teeth: “No one hits my daughter.”

…except for the part where you accused me of horrible things – while saying unspeakable things – that anyone who knew me gaped in shock and laughed at; then swore to keep me from “ruining” my youngest sister, the one I was always closest with, to keep us apart forever. And you almost succeeded. Newsflash: if she’s been “ruined” in your mind, that’s all on you.

…except for the part where you got up in court and declared under oath that none of us, in fact, were your children to you. Not that “under oath” means anything to you – you spewed so many lies on the stand that day, testifying so smugly against the daughter you were there for punching a black eye into, all for the vicious crime of existing on your driveway.

It wasn’t always like that.

I remember that time when I was maybe one or two, you took me to the pond to watch the ducks with me despite my mother’s protests that it was too dangerous. I believe that’s when I first learned the word “mallard.”

You came home one day so excited to show me what you’d found, knowing how excited I would be – a small hill on a make-shift trail in the woods behind our house that was absolutely perfect for little kids to sled on; you took me and my first two sisters there on the sleds you bought us and played with us for hours. It became our spot every winter until we moved a few years later. The two – and then three – of us would load up on our two sleds and you’d hold onto the strings and run, dragging us behind you. You’d come home from one of your three jobs, exhausted and overworked, and still put all your energy into making things fun and spending that quality time with us. And you loved doing it. Which I imagine is a huge part of the reason our mother didn’t leave you back then. You were an amazing dad.

You took me and my first sister to your printing job when we were little. Let us climb on and in the rolls of paper – rolls the size of those huge rounded hay bales – stacked to the high ceilings. You answered our questions and showed us how your press worked and let us “help.” That’s one of her first memories. And one of our favorites.

You taught me to ski when I was three or four and we’d ride the slopes together, just the two of us, and by the time I was five you would take me with you when you worked the lifts and let me ski all by myself… again despite my mother’s protests and safety concerns in a time when cell phones were just for calling and playing Snake and owned exclusively by adults and highschoolers. But I knew that mountain better than probably even most of the staff, right down to the location of every single tiny first aid kit that scattered the trails. And I had every phone number memorized.

One of my favorite memories – of which there are precious few – is of those nights, once every week for nearly a decade, when we’d drive off to our local ski resort together. I’d ski for hours while you worked; stopping by your lift every few runs to check in, eating a snack with you in your booth – pudding, Chef Boyardee, Mountain Dew, things I normally wasn’t allowed to have – building ice couches and sculptures with your coworkers when the lift was slow, taking your break in the lodge to warm up and sometimes doing a few runs together. You always told me I didn’t have to come with you on your break if I didn’t want to but I always made sure I made it back to your booth in time and I’ll never forget the look on your face, how surprised you were that I wanted to spend time with you, even when I could be doing something “more exciting” than ordering lunch in a cafeteria. And then returning home, cold and tired and content, after everyone else had gone to bed, to the spaghetti you or mom would make us, before I went off to bed myself with the frosty chill still clinging to my skin.

When I got older, you took me on my first two ski trips to Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine, whose mountains afforded better and more difficult trails than our little Pennsylvania resorts. I always thought we’d eventually go to Colorado together.

I used to watch every move you made, listened to everything you said. Even if you didn’t outright teach me, you’re the reason I know things like how to check my oil and how often it needs to be changed. You’re the reason I’ve always had some understanding of politics, and probably the reason I still participate in them at all despite the current overwhelming state of things… even if your views were so, so flawed. Maybe because they were so flawed.

You helped me with my schoolwork. You pushed me to write. You encouraged me to read – until later when you punished me for reading “too much.”

You took me on my first “real” roller coaster when I was four. I was so excited and definitely nervous but you didn’t let me chicken out. After that, every year we went to the theme park and rode every coaster together while everyone else watched or went on a chiller ride. We went on a trip, just us, to Six Flags Great Escape, all the way in Florida, where we found out I was barely a quarter inch too short for the big rides – so you bought me a pair of flipflops that were a bit thick in the soles. We debated whether we wanted the front car or the back one while we waited in line and did the math to figure out which lines would be the shortest, then raced to claim the one we chose before someone else got to it first. And when the day was over, we’d talk about which rides were best and which ones sucked.

In those early days, you always let me – even pushed me to – take those risks that are necessary to childhood and advancement rather than holding me back because you were too afraid I wasn’t capable yet, and you were always there to catch me when I fell and help me try again when I failed.

And when I finally fell in love – something I thought I’d never do – it was with someone who reminds me so much of you. It’s good and it’s bad and it scares me to think I could be falling for the same person I already survived. But he’s not you. And what can I say? I’m truly my father’s child.

But slowly, over time, all of that changed. You went from my best friend to someone who put distance between us to someone I’ll likely never talk to again – someone who’s put me in danger, threatened me, abused me in more ways than one, destroyed so many of my chances in life… and worse, done all of that to every one of my sisters. Someone who could so easily be advancing my life and my career and our relationship but instead chose to put me down and stunt my growth and ruin my life in so many ways. Someone who would rather blame me for the consequences of his own actions, for all of his shortcomings as a husband and a father, and start fresh with his brand new, ready-made, blinded family rather than grow up and face the facts: that he’s far from perfect and made some huge, detrimental mistakes.

You were my first defender but became my biggest, most ruthless bully. Occasionally, I have nightmares about you. Ones that are similar in vibe to what I’m writing right now, a mix of what is and what used to be and what I wish was and could be.

You have so much blood on your hands and rather than clean them you wipe it off on whoever is most convenient and plant the evidence against them.

Part of me wants to imagine you regret it, that even if you’ll never own up you at least know in your heart that you f***** up, bad. But I can’t, because every time I try I hear your voice proudly stating that “I have no regrets, not a single one. Nope.”

A lot of people might look down on someone putting all of this out there in public, airing all the dirty laundry and revealing the skeletons no one wants to see. But if you keep all the dirt and the dead things in your closet your whole life, your house will never be clean.

This is my story to tell. And I’m finally telling it, all in black and white for the world to see. Just like you taught me.

If any of you are reading this – and you all know who you are – I know your first instinct will be to reach out, to show him, to gossip about me and all the lies I filled my own head with.

I hope you do.

I want him to see this. I want him to be forced to feel a twinge of the pain he’s caused, to be confronted with the reality of what he’s done and to experience the bitter taste of knowing how sickening an excuse for a human being he is that he can treat his family – his children – with so much malice and move on like he was the wronged party.

And I’m no longer scared of you, nor do I care what you think or say about me. I’ve grown up since the last time we met. Learned to recognize my own flaws and the difference between what is truth and what was gaslighting.

When five out of five turn out to be nothing more than “a waste of sperm” one would think you’d at least entertain the idea that maybe it isn’t the kids, maybe the father is the problem. One would think you’d learn, or at least manage to conjure up a single critical thought. But some people never do. And some of you are the reason he is the way he is… because he’s just like you.

So go ahead. Do it.

Bet you won’t.

– written 24 Feb 2023