On Fathers (personal)

Goldberry Long asks us to be vulnerable, so I am going to be vulnerable, and this is part of it.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about my dad. Well, not my dad, but my biological father. The way I see it, Aaron Burtch has been and will continue to be the only real dad I'll ever have, and that's all I want. He's the best guy I know and I love him just as if he were my dad. Well, because he is.

Anyway, off topic. I've been thinking a lot about Clint and whatnot and it's really starting to bug me. I don't know anything about that side of the family-- I don't really have any strong desire to be part of that family, since I've never been in the past (with the exception of Jared and Emmeline, I don't really care to start now). But what does bother me is that I feel like a bad person when I think about it. I know Steve Lindsey (my grandfather) has the desire to be in contact with me, but after years and years of not speaking, I don't know what to say. Yeah, you're my grandfather, how have you been? This is what I have been doing for the past eighteen years of my life, thanks for noticing. I guess I must care somewhere since I harbor such strong negative emotions, but I think anyone could have a similar reaction. Ugh. I don't know.

What does bother me is that... I just want to know why. Why was I left like that? Why did everyone have to lie to me and let me figure it out on my own? Why did he do it? I don't understand. And I guess I don't really want to understand that much, I just want to know if, whatever affected him can affect me to. Am I prone to sadness and depression? I've had to fight it for a long time, but I'm usually pretty happy and upbeat these days. I don't think I can act well enough to fool everyone into thinking I'm a happy person. That's good. But I had to make the conscious decision to be happier. For the past year and a half, I have had to remind myself that life is beautiful and that there is always something to live for. Butterflies in spring. Sunshine on my skin. Holding hands with my best friend. Riding four hours on the bus to see my mommy. Pancho's warm tongue on my nose. Untying Aaron's boots after work. It's all worth it, and I wouldn't trade it for anything or anyone. Everything happens for a reason, even if it's not how you expected it to happen. What's done is done and there is no going back, there is only looking forward. It's cliche, but it's true.

Now, for vulnerability. For my Creative Writing class, I have been asked to write about something from my childhood that had a significant impact on my life, and I wrote about my father. If my dad hadn't died, who knows what life would be like now, and I guess I'm just expressing my anger and my frustration that I've built up for years and years and years, and I guess I'm going to share them on here. If I'm going to make myself vulnerable to strangers, why can't I make myself vulnerable to my Family. After all, you are the only One I've got.''

***Warning Warning Warning*** DUE TO THE GRAPHIC NATURE OF THIS POST, VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED*** (NO REALLY. I DROPPED SOME F-BOMBS. YES. I DROPPED THEM. REALLY.)***

"besides, I've already got one"

My father died when I was four--

NO.

Stop.

Let me rephease:

My father killed himself when I was four year old.
People used to try to tell me

You don't know how much he loved you

Heaven Leigh

(for emphasis)

They say
He would have done

anything for you.

But I say NO. I say STOP. I say

YOU don't understand.

My father was an asshole,
a fucking selfish coward,
and I'm glad he's dead.

I am glad he's dead and gone.

This was written for my creative writing class. This one doesn't drop any f-bombs, but I was trying to remember what the funeral was like. This is what I came up with. Don't know if what happened in this actually happened, but I was four. Give me a break:

I crawled between the pews across the brown, corkboard carpet—you know, the spotted kind they put in classrooms because it’s cheap. I had no worries of red splotched knees or palms as I made my way across the aisle, from my maternal side of the family to my paternal. I giggled as I made my way to my Uncle Jared. He looked at me, wiping a rolling tear away from his cheek and placing one index finger against his lips and pursing them, silently informing me to be quieter. I crawled back to my mother, seated in the second row from the front. I don’t remember if she was crying, but I remember going home later that night and being locked out of the room—I could hear her sobbing and shrieking from within-- and I knew I should not disturb her. She was only twenty-one. Back within the confines of the pink wallpapered, fluorescently lit church sanctuary, I was aware of the separation of my family—my father’s family sat in the middle row of pews, all dressed nicely in clothes I cannot remember and silently sobbing, my mother’s family to the right of the building, some crying, some silent. I thought all of the crying was a game—could I cry too? I sat down on the pew and did my best to squeeze the tears out of my eyes and whimpering, emulating the adults surrounding me. My attempts failed, so I gave up and continued to crawl from family member to family member, giggling once again. Beside the light squeezes or the forced smiles to acknowledge my presence, all gazing toward the coffin that rested in the front of the room. A picture of my father and I, surrounded by a wreath of flowers, perched on an easel beside the coffin. I don’t remember the service, only the division of my family (the only time I remember having been in the same room with both sides of my biological family), and going to sit on the stairs near the coffin to look at the picture of my father and I. I inquired of his absence. Where is dad? Why isn’t dad here? No one could really answer, nor could anyone look me in the eye, without choking up. Outside, after the service, I sat on a brick wall, kicking my legs back and forth. My grandfather had walked to the grocery store and bought me a single blue balloon. I held it by the string in my little hand for a moment, until my grandma told me I should let it go. Lose it to the atmosphere? Why? Why would I let this balloon go? “So you can share it with your daddy.” I still didn’t understand, but I looked toward the sky and unclenched my fist, releasing the balloon, watching as it twirled and swirled into the sky. My memory fails when thinking of what happened between the time of releasing the balloon and sitting in my booster seat, watching the landscape pass from the back window of the car. I don’t remember much of the funeral, but I do remember this: As we were driving, my cousin Germain sat beside me, talking to me and looking out the window. It had cleared up and only one cloud was left in the sky, stretching across the sky like a giant, pale hand, reaching for something unseen. Germain turned to me. “See that cloud?” Yes. “That’s your daddy, going to get the balloon you left him.” He began to wave to my daddy, so I began to wave as well. Bye, Daddy. Bye. Byebye, Daddy. Byebye.

So, yes. These are what I wrote. I hope no one gets too offended, but this is what is going on inside of me as of now. My professor is always talking about how we write about what we know (how do we write about something we don't know? it doesn't really work), and this is part of what I know. Yeah. I guess I'm done for now. Next blog will be more school related (but I guess this one is too, if you think about it).

TWO MORE MONTHS UNTIL I CAN COME HOME FOR A WEEK. YES!