of deadbeat dads and holes in hearts
January 20, 2006
Wow. Check out this story. It’s opened the floodgates for me. Be prepared.
While my own father never faked his own death, he disappeared once my mother kicked him out. I was 8 months old and so the story goes, he wanted her to stay home and collect welfare with him. If she was working, he couldn’t collect as much. She, coming from a family with a strong work-ethic, said no to that and told him if he wouldn’t work, he was to leave. So the story goes.
There are pictures of me, sitting on our front porch, waiting for him. My mother says, every Saturday, even as a 4 year old, I would get myself dressed, brush my hair, and sit on that front porch. She would urge me to come in and have lunch, and I would beg to eat on the porch. Soon after lunch, I would sit in her lap and ask her a million times, through tears, why he wouldn’t come. She says I was more concerned with his well-being, and told her that maybe he as in an accident and should we call him?
I don’t remember these days. I don’t remember the hurt.
At 7, I do remember my father suddenly being there, every other weekend or so. He took me to the CN Tower, to Centre Island, and the Scarborough Bluffs. Every Sunday night my mother would be scowling when I told her what we did and how much fun we had. I thought maybe she was mad at me. Now I see she was not, that she was trying to protect my brother from his own ‘hole in his heart,’ his father having taken off as well. She was angry that my father kept me from seeing the man he was by twirling me so fast every weekend into cotton candy and rides. She simply wanted him to be a father to me, I suppose.
At 10, my mother remarried a third time. A custody battle ensued and both my mother and father fought to keep me completely from the other. My mother told me that my father had never wanted me, that he hid to avoid paying paid child support, and recanted those stories of the porch and how many tears she had wiped.
My father played on my mother’s weaknesses for alcohol and explained to me what drunk was. He told me of her infedelities, her vulnerability for men, and made me aware of things that at 10, I was not ready to hear. Suddenly I looked at my parents through critical eyes, watching my mother’s every sip, every flip of the hair, every exposure of her neck to men in the stores and at school. Sure, she was married, so what?
I watched my father carefully for signs that he loved me. I tested him ruthlessly and one visitation weekend, I refused to speak to him for what he was putting us all through by dragging us to court. Home life was tense and there was so much yelling, it still rings in my ears. By Sunday, after many attempts to get me to speak, he yelled at me. He had never before yelled at me. He had been alot of things, absent, irresponsible, but he had never once raised his voice of given me shit for anything. When I was with him, he treated me very much like an adult so for him to yell, broke my heart. We were surrounded by family at the time and I remember being comforted by someone as they assured me that my dad indeed loved me. Someone else took him out of the restaurant so he could cool off.
My parents never spoke again after that. They were never on good terms anyway, but my dad losing it was the last straw and although I loved him, at the time I was afraid to go back, so it seemed best I didn’t see him anymore.
I sought my father out when I got older. At 14, I left my mother’s home. The abuse was bad and the drinking was worse. I went to live with my dad and his new wife after living with a friend and her family for over a year. The entire 2 weeks that I stayed with my father, he never once spoke to his wife, and he certainly never helped with their new baby girl. His wife came to me, looking for insight, validation that he loved her. At 16, I was not able to give her any advice, but I listened, also looking for insight into who this man was and why he clammed up when things got rocky.
I left his home so quickly, and in silence. He was sitting on the couch, staring at the t.v. while I carted my small existence out in boxes, pacing through his viewing path. He never said a word. Once everything was in my (maternal) grandmother’s car, I stood between him and the t.v. and asked him if he was going to say goodbye. He stared blankly past me. I think he was dead inside, depressed. I hugged his wife and daughter. I suppose she is my half-sister. Soon after I left, he and the wife broke up and he hid from her to avoid paying support to her as well. I wonder if my sister ever sat on a porch, waiting for him.
**After many attempts as an adult to have a relationship with my father, I have moved on. There will always be a place in my heart for the man who was kind to me as a child. He was a brilliant escape from my home-life, he treated me well when I was in his presense, and I do love him, although I don’t have much respect for him. Is there a hole in my heart anymore? I don’t think so. It’s filled with good memories and I will treasure them. He’s not my hero, but he was the best father he knew how to be. I hope he is doing well, wherever he is.
July 25th, 2006 at 12:51 am
[...] Without giving it all up to the blog-world, I sure didn’t expect to marry you in your parents backyard. I didn’t expect the lovely family that is yours to become ours. I sure didn’t expect a best friend in your mother. I sure didn’t expect your sister to embrace me as she has, from the very first day I met her. She planned that beautiful backyard wedding, when I gingerly walked down the aisle in too-tall shoes, with my father on one side and my best-friend’s father on the other. [...]
October 23rd, 2006 at 12:15 am
[...] In Grade 6, I had changed schools and my mother made me wear things like tracksuits, vests, and my reversible skirt that my grandmother (my fathers‘ mom, not my Granny)had lovingly sewn for me. I’d show you pictures, but I’m pretty sure I burned them with all those very clothes in a sacrifice to What Not To Wear. [...]
January 17th, 2007 at 9:45 am
[...] Last night I dreamt of my father. I’ve written about him before and basically the story goes like this: Deadbeat Dad hides from girl and her mother to avoid paying child support for 18 years. [...]