They’re celebrating Fathers Day in England.
I am quietly observing the brouhaha; at church the kids sang for their dads and the commercials are all about “Best Father in the World” crap, yet I have nothing to celebrate and can’t take part in this event.
Not that I’d want to. Even if I somehow had my father in my life still, I wouldn’t congratulate him. What reason does he even have to say he is a father? Any man can biologically become a father but to be a Dad is a different matter.
Being a dad does not involve beating up the mom. Being a dad does not involve sexually abusing your daughter. Being a dad does not involve alienating your son and making him feel like nothing. Yet this is what my father was, so fuck him and fuck every man like him.
Some fathers drink, some do drugs, some abuse their kids, some run away to never be seen again. To these “fathers” I’d like to give a bit fat middle finger and say congratulations, you have just fucked up a part of your own child’s life.
Not very Christian of me – at church they always talk about forgiveness and letting go of the past, but somehow I am not able to do this. How could I? I still live with my memories, I live with the pain, and I live with the difficulties the abuse sowed in my heart.
Maybe one day I will forgive. My boyfriend has asked me if I would ever take my father into my life again if he contacted me. I said I might consider if he first went to the police station in Finland, gave himself in, and they contacted me saying he’d in jail for what he’s done but he’d like to talk to me. Only then.
He is old. He was 41 when I was born. His 70th birthday was just last week. He will die soon. A part of me hopes that he dies a slow painful death, but then again being a Christian makes me feel like I should pray for peace into his life.
I wonder if he thinks about me. I wonder what he looks like, if I would recognize him on the street.
I wonder if he would be proud of me. I wonder of he talks to his friends about me and how me, his only living daughter, lives in London, England, and has two degrees and a job in the city. Not that he even knows, actually. We haven’t spoken since I first remembered 6 years ago, and the last time I saw him was the summer of 1999.
I am sure on some level my father was a decent human being, and I’m sure he doesn’t deserve to rot in hell, but at the same time, I can only speak from my heart when I say that he is the sole reason for the majority of my problems, he took away something very precious (my innocence and my childhood) from me when I was just a little girl, and I can never ever get it back. I can’t ever say that my first kiss was with this and that boy because it would be a lie; my first-ever sexual experience was with my own father, and I had no say in it. It was imposed on me, I didn’t know what was going on, and I honestly don’t think anything I did or could have done would have changed anything.
So that’s it. I’m here with the knowledge that I have a father somewhere out there, but because of the evil things he did, I am unwilling to celebrate his fatherhood. I do wish that if and when I have children they have a different childhood to mine and that they have a father they can love, who loves them, who doesn’t hurt them or me, and when father’s day comes round, they can really say that he is the best father in the world.