part 124, or "accessories sold separately"

I was just re-reading my last post, about my dad and evil, and I realized that I had witnessed (and written about in my last post) my dad before he was totally dead inside.

I know that mental illness left untreated is usually a gradual process to madness, but for some reason, I have only thought of my dad as completely bad; completely evil; completely soulless. He wasn’t always like that, though.

Sometimes there would be a light shining in him. It was always very brief, and I remember feeling very uncomfortable by how vulnerable he was allowing himself to be. It was like he was flashing his soft underbelly in a world I believed was filled with daggers.

It seemed as though he was incredibly awkward in a lot of ways, socially speaking. He didn’t really have a good lead on what other people thought was normal, and he would make inappropriate jokes and remarks, and then look embarrassed and cease talking when no one laughed or otherwise validated him. He only seemed confident and comfortable around people who were afraid or in awe of him.

That is just one more thing I can completely relate with, though. I guess me and my dad really were a lot alike.

My brother insists he is nothing like my dad – he’s terrified of being my dad, which is silly, because half of his genetic makeup is my dad, whether my brother wants to acknowledge that or not. It’s funny, because I always felt my dad was terrified of becoming HIS dad – it’s why he would insist on saying that he loved us every day, because his dad never said that to him ever.

My dad spoke less and less of his dad as years went by. I mean, he hardly ever mentioned him at any time, but I do remember him bringing up his dad when I was younger, and then not doing that as I got older. He would talk about technical things concerning his dad, like what he did for work and stuff like that. I don’t remember my dad ever really being emotional about his dad. Actually, I don’t remember my dad ever being emotional about anything.

I saw him cry once. It was when he and my mom reconciled after their separation when I was in the 5^th grade. They were in the bed talking, and then they called the three of us into their room, and told us that they weren’t going to get divorced, and we all climbed in the bed and cried together.

I wasn’t shocked to see tears dripping down my dad’s cheeks, but I was struck by how unusual it was, and I knew I had never seen him cry before, and I don’t think I ever saw him cry since then. It was all very weird and emotional, and I felt very much that our family was one unit, and that we were each part of it, and that we were all working together for the best of us all.

That was a fleeting moment, but it was real – it did happen.

I’m not trying to say that sadistic sociopaths never cry, or are incapable of crying – I know people can tear up and start crying on cue as a means to manipulate other people.

But I don’t think my dad was doing that the time I saw him cry.

There were times, too, when he would look at me, at my face and my eyes, and tell me how much he loved me, and that I was special to him, and he would bear hug me, and I would feel happy and safe for a moment. I believe in those tiny pieces of my childhood, that my dad really did love me.

I really loved him, too.

I have this odd, off-kilter feeling about the role my dad has played in my life, as far as the role of “my dad” goes. There were certain expectations I had of him that would fit into the “normal dad” category. Sometimes I would forget who he was, and who I was, and start to feel safe leaning on him as “my dad.” It was a nice feeling.

I wonder if that is how it feels to have a dad who doesn’t hurt you, and who wants to keep you safe. It seems like it would be so solid, so comforting, to have that faith in a parent. I can’t imagine – I can’t comprehend – what it would be like to feel that all the time, to never doubt that it was real.

I’ve written before about seeing other dads with their daughters, and feeling puzzled and foreign and grateful and envious that these daughters had dads who made them smile and laugh and feel safe. I have been recognizing that I did have that feeling with my dad, as frail and eluding as it was.

Losing that feeling of safety hurt so bad – it was devastating. It was ice picks through my gut, and cement in my lungs, but I was a sucker for getting a taste of that feeling. I don’t think always, though. I denied my dad my trust and confidence and faith regularly – turned my back when he was trying to show me a nice part of him.

But when I didn’t turn my back on him, those times when he gave me the feeling that he was “my dad” were heavenly. For a moment, I believed that I actually was like the little girls in commercials playing with Barbi dolls and riding bikes and doing mischievous little girl things that dads acted upset about, but actually really endeared them to their girls all the more.

Those girls were their dad’s girls.

Those dads looked at those girls and said, not matter what was going on, “that’s my little girl. That’s my baby girl, my beautiful, amazing baby girl, and I would gladly kill anyone who might have the gall to hurt her.”

At those times, I could see that my hair was smooth and shiny and had cute bows or barrettes in it, and my clothes were so pretty, and everything I wore matched perfectly with the bows and barrettes, and the lace around the ankles of my socks would match, too. My room would be pink or purple, and have matching curtains and comforter and pillow shams, and a bed skirt, and – dream of all dreams – a canopy over the bed.

I always imagined it would feel nice to sleep with a canopy over me – not enclosing me or entrapping me, but just protecting me from the world by shielding me with floating pastel banners.

But then “my dad” would just be my dad again, and it would all crash down onto me again, get jerked away from me, and I would be ugly again, with ugly clothes and ugly shoes and not one single pair of socks with lace around the ankles, and not one single Barbi doll, which I didn’t want anyway, because what fun were Barbi dolls if it was too freakishly weird to introduce Barbi to Ken and make them have sex on that goddamn pink canopy bed?