Lately I have wondered what it would be like to have a dad. I used to say I didn’t care, and that at least I got to choose to not have another horrible man in my life, but I do. I wonder if things would have been different. If I knew him, would he have taken me in when my mom kicked me out? Would he have listened when I was depressed and struggling with life’s meaning? Would he have shown me what real love was and how a man should treat you? Would he have all together prevented the abuse and trauma I went through? Or, would he have been just another looser who didn’t care, someone who took me for granted and broke my trust. Would he have been another person I grew to hate and resent?
I often wonder.
I do know, or at least I think I do, is that it is one of two men. Now let me tell you, my mother is a compulsive liar and you never know what is real and what isn’t, so sometimes I wonder if it could be a multitude of men, I wouldn’t be surprised. There is Randy Hester and Christopher Barden ( I’m not sure I spelled Chris’s last name right). Randy is or was and alcoholic. I met him once and spent the day with him. We picked him up at the Salvation Army from rehab. He had said he was gonna change for good this time. We spent the day together going to a family get together. He was very artistic and liked to do that ink dot kind of work, very detailed and very tedious. He was kind and gentle spirited. Randy has dark black hair, a kind of square face, olive skin and blue eyes. I liked his big thick mustache, I always felt comfort in older men with mustaches and beards, I don’t know why, it just seems safe. I met him one other time, he was in a small studio apartment, very tiny, maybe even just a room. It was depressing and dark. I guess he had gone back to drinking and that is the last I saw of him. I just don’t think I was ready to handle anther let down in my life. Another problem to add to my many. Another person to try to rescue and care about, just to have them break your heart.
My mother told me he was my father. But she also said Chris was. She told me that when he went to do the DNA test, his girlfriend at the time was working in that same lab and fudged the test. Part of me believes this for two reasons. Who would want to be stuck to this nasty, mean, crazy woman for the next 18 years, and maybe he just wasn’t ready for the complications or responsibility.
Now Chris, I liked Chris. I remember boarding a plane from wherever my mother lived to go see him, all by myself. I had to be like five or six. Whenever I would go see him we would go to this restaurant and have Belgian waffles with whipped cream, and still to this day, I love them. He always got me things like those jelly sandals that had sparkles in them, or the Little Mermaid Barbie, or a fashion designer set. It was always something I really wanted, not some thoughtless toy or gift. He would take me to the lake where I would catch minnows and put about fifteen of them in a big jar and then wonder why half were dead the next day. He also had a wonderful knack of burning my tv dinners, but I appreciated them all the same. I have always had fond memories of him, but the memories of my mom and him were different.
I remember when him and my mother got into a wrestling match in the living room. I was eating a Popsicle while I just watched them struggle and yell at each other. They ended up eventually smashing me between them and the couch. My memory cuts out there. My past is very difficult to remember sometimes. My brain finds it easier to erase hurtful memories so I don’t recall exactly what went on. My therapist says it is avoidance and helps me to better cope with life’s trauma. Scientifically they say that when you have PTSD or prolonged stress, your hippocampus which is responsible for memory, shrinks over time. Even now that I am out of the bad experiences and in a safe stable environment, my brain has lost the ability to recall events and has trouble with everyday memory of words or how to get somewhere I have been a billion times.
Now the other memory I don’t quite understand. I remember chaos and crying, I had to be about seven. It seems that he was driving around the neighborhood looking for me or my mother, or chasing her down. The latter could just be from my mother’s side of the story. Either way, I was at my Grandmother’s house and I was distraught. I don’t know if I was sad, scared, or angry. All I know is that he came to my grandmother’s door and she answered it. She was angry with him. She told him I wasn’t there or I didn’t want to see him. But the question is, ” Did I?”. Did my mother forbid him to see me and I was sad? Or was I scared of him because he did something? Or was I angry because my mother likes to create confusion and lies so you hate the person that really cares about you?
I wish now things would have been different. I wish I would have called him over and over. I wished I would have asked questions right then and there. But I didn’t. I was too wrapped up in my own crap at that time and didn’t think twice. I think that Chris is my father. Why would someone take the time to let a little girl cramp their single lifestyle if they didn’t love them? And why would he love me if he and my mother weren’t together and he knew I wasn’t his? Besides, He has dirty strawberry blonde hair and green eyes, his furrowed brows and face shape are just like mine. He’s stocky and freckly just like me. I know that even with two black haired parents you can get a red head, but I just feel it in the pit of my stomach that he’s my dad.
I could be just nuts, making up this fantasy to feel better about my childhood, to make everything a pleasant conclusion, to not accept that my other parent could be a dud. Who knows. I have tried looking for him, but he is nowhere to be found in Alaska. I don’t even know how to spell his last name. I could ask my mother, but I really dislike her right now and I don’t ever want to speak to her again. I may never find out, but maybe, just maybe, we will run into each other again
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