I thought this title would be fitting as it’s a lyric to the song by Eric Church’s Record Year. I want to get something off my chest. My father is my father and always will be considered that. He is not, however, a dad or daddy or any of that nature. It has been driving me crazy the last few days that people automatically assume that he is a “dad” when he never was. He doesn’t know the meaning of the term. There was no affection between us growing up. No exchange of meaningful gifts. Just abuse and neglect that continues till he got really sick. And he still had the audacity to call me stupid after he was the one that was being stupid. He thought he was speaking English but he was really speaking Italian and expected me to understand. The truth of the matter is that I can understand context of Italian but I don’t know the language well enough to interpret it all. I never learned it from him though he will say that he “tried”. He just didn’t have the patience to teach us kids. And the school taught us the “real” Italian, not the dialect that he speaks.
He will never know that I am a writer. I doubt he ever knew that I wrote a book. I do find this sad in a way but I don’t let it get to me. He never was a supportive parent so why should I expect him to be at his deathbed. All that matters is that he is taken cared of as humanely as possible.
I have been trying to write all evening. I wanted to write the “ending” to the trauma of this week that happened 25 years ago but there is no ending. I live with it every day. I am haunted by the memories, though they aren’t intrusive as they once were. The song rearview mirror by Pearl Jam really sings to me. It’s about abuse and how you survived it.
I have a narcissistic parent, there is no doubt about it. He might not be diagnosed by anyone but he fits all the characteristics of the disorder. “supposed to endure, what I could not forgive” that was a common theme in my house. “it wasn’t my surface most defiled”. My father, though violent at times, didn’t hit us after the third grade when someone told the teachers he had been doing so. But that didn’t stop the verbal abuse. Still to this day, he abuses my sisters and I. He thinks he is the king and should be respected above all else. “I guess the beatings made me wise”.
I never call him a dad to other people. He is my father or sperm donor when I refer to him. I call him dad when talking to him but it doesn’t mean anything. See, when I was learning Italian, the word for father was “papa”. I guess I used the word a little too much because I got a few backhands to stop me from using it. So it was dad from now on though I loathe the word.
I wish I could put him in my rearview mirror. Just forget he ever existed. But I have to deal with him to get him to his medical appointments and such. There is no emancipation from him until he is six feet under. And the bastard wants to live until eternity.
Meanwhile, my patience for the guy has hit rock bottom. I don’t care about his demands. I just want to die. The depression has peaked and I can’t tolerate myself anymore. My psych got back to me but we are unable to meet at an agreeable time because of the bastard. I am sure we will find another time.