My father; how I hated him and then loved him

What is your first memory of your own father?

The first memory of mine is from a house my dad built for us. He had his own firm and he got a loan to build the house. A red one level wooden panel home. It was a very lovely house.

It's my dad. I stand at the doorway of my room. I hear him first, shouting again. It's not an unfamiliar noise in the house. Then I hear a bang and then the broken glass. Then he appears with a shotgun, shoots another set windows.

And that's where my memory ends. (Quote from my Memories novel found in Wattpad)

He was a tall man. With steely grey eyes, ginger shaded beard and moustache. The memories have started to fade away, it has been around 8 years since he passed away.

Majority of my memories include him abusing my mother. Hitting, kicking, shouting, calling names, trying to shove her into other men arms and everything else you can imagine.

It took mum years, but she did divorce him and I remember turning 10 years old and dad did not come home anymore.

My dad was not called dad, my family called him by his first name. Well me and my mum did. I don't remember my brother or sister ever... Mentioning him.

I remember he sang. He had a deep bass voice and he had this serious look on his face, which I inherited.

I remember when he drank milk, his moustache would catch some and he wiped them clean with his index finger and thumb.

I remember he took me with him once or twice one village over, to see his friends. They met at a restaurant, he would buy me one of those beautiful sundae desserts.

I remember in the summer how he took me and my siblings to swim, we would drive further away to a more quiet beach. It was with golden soft sand and it felt like you could walk miles towards the center of the lake and not get deeper than your waist of the water. He would sit on a tree stump and watch us, wearing a short sleeved button up shirt, light blue jeans and black leather shoes just watching us and never hurried us away from the water. He let us spend as long in there as we wanted.

But the memories that I get first when thinking of him are...

The Christmas mornings when he shouted.

The Saturday mornings when he took a knife and tried to swing it at our mum.

The Friday night when he hit mum.

And all the other Friday nights when he hit, kicked, slapped, shouted and knocked her senseless.

I also remember the nights when mum pretended to be unconscious and I quite literally hung on opposite side of the round kitchen table, trying to hold it standing while dad leaned on it and explained to me what it is to be a woman.

My very first sex education was from my drunkard dad at age of 10.

You might ponder well it possibly couldn't be all that bad. No, no it wasn't but have you not noticed how the bad memories, the bad experiences always carry out longer and further? Like how you are more tempted to give a bad review than the good one.

I do remember how;

He threw my boyfriend out one when he had the nerve to call our doorbell in middle of the night.

He told me which boyfriend he liked.

He told me which boyfriend would break my heart.

He told me to be tough.

He told me to not take any shit from anyone.

He always made sure I had few euros in my pocket even if it meant he had none.

I never understood, or had a chance to even ask, why he couldn't be a dad.

Why did he drink everything away. The money, house, marriage, family... Everything.

I grew up with this bitter taste in my mouth about him and I never even considered to give him a chance to be the kind of dad he would've been able to be.

My class mates parents were my dad's Friday buddies, sometimes whole week went by that I did not hear or see him; but one of my class mates would walk by me in the morning recess at school and say "He is at our house" and I would find some solace in that.

He called me 2003 and told me that he had prostate cancer.

It was late, I was laying in bed ready for the night rest and I remember sitting on the bedside and listening him cry. I remember only two times when he cried. This was one of the two.

He took a habit to call me once a week, usually Saturday night. He called from a unknown number and even up to this day when a unknown number calls I think it is him.

I did not plan how or what to write about this. Him. Me. Us. I can be and am all over the place, that's the effect he has on me. He was so much and at the same time very little.

I spoke of my father a lot in the therapy along the years. And when I finally figured out that I have good memories too, it was mind-blowing to me.

I spoke of him to my mum after the revelation of having good memories, who then goes and explains something absolutely heartbreaking to me, something I never heard dad say; "He only remembers you growing up, from a baby to an adult. He was not present, nor sober for the younger ones. You were the one he took with him to his job and proudly paraded around. He tries so hard with the others, while looking at you he knows and sees how he failed you."

...

I know.

My heart bled after that.

I couldn't believe how harsh I had been with him.

How I had not given him a real place in my life or a chance to make one.

And by the time I heard this, he was already gone.

It was like two weeks before his birthday when he called me and said he is going to see doctor because of pneumonia and then few days later he called asking for help with paying some bills.

I had a feeling, I asked my siblings to join me.

When we arrived to his apartment I realized he was wearing a diaper. Shit, this got to be worse than I thought. He was not a tech savvy person so I helped him pay the bills and then had a little talk, nearly argument, if he should be giving us money. Which ended up him giving us all 5 euros each and no he had nothing left after that. But he was determined and I did not want him to use his energy on fighting with me, he was...

I could tell that he was not feeling good. He was tired, his eyes were nearly colorless and deep in his skull. He had lost weight, his skin was... This strange think, waxy looking.

I knew.

When we were leaving, I held his hand and I looked at him. Saying how I did love him and he should call me if he needed anything else, anything at all. And he cried, he held my hand, squeezed it gently and smiled.

It was the next day he ended up in a hospital, from there two days later to end of life care and he passed away only on the 2nd day there. I did not even have a chance to plan going to see him; my work did not recognize the situation at all.

He had spoken with mum about how and where he wanted to be buried.

He got cremated. We chose a beautiful forest side grave for him, he loved nature, worked there as long as he could and enjoyed the silence. We got him far away from others.

I did fight against the girlfriend, who did not pay a dime by the way, all the way. Flowers, casket, whole ordeal was something I had fight her. And there was no money.

Also the funeral was strange, we never had a chance to meet his side of the family. So I did not know any of his adopted sisters or brothers. I had met the mother only once and she did not come. His twin brother I knew, and he is a good fella. What made it strangest was how the girlfriend's side buried completely different man, made speeches of this amazing man and there I am staring at them with this... Who the fuck is that? look on my face.

The man I buried was not a family man, not a caring and loving man. But he was my dad, and I was mourning.

Due my dissociation disorder my thoughts, my feelings, my memories... Everything is a big ball of yarn that is messed up, wrangled and tangled.

So yes, I hate my father.

And yes, I love my father.

Or rather; I learnt that it is ok for me to feel love towards him.

I'm not gonna lie, I do not miss him; but he was my dad and my dad is dead.

And I go through rest of my life without knowing why he was the way he was, why he did what he did, why couldn't he be a father... All the questions I couldn't ask.

Stay true to yourself.

Let yourself feel, what ever it is you feel.

I learned to love, too late but I did. And I forgive myself for that. I must.

-Ash