Learning to Live on

A son should know his father. This is a statement I have heard many times in my life. I’ve heard it and read it in fiction and it has been said to me as intended advice. Of course, any child should know their father. That first sentence doesn’t ignore this, instead it relates it to the person hearing the message. I’ve also heard it said that a daughter should know her father. I do think a better way to express it is to use the word child. Regardless, if it is possible and safe and healthy for a child to do so, they should know their father (and mother, of course). My perspective is as an only child, but I know that siblings can have very different images of their father. I cannot address that. I know it is true, but I have no direct experience.

There is a pit within me that is never filled. I knew my father. I also didn’t know my father. It wasn’t because he wasn’t a good father or not a good man. He was a flawed man, but I have no doubts that he was good man who loved me. I know he loved my mother despite him taking a long time to heal from their split. I know he cared about family. I know he cared about people. He also failed at showing it sometimes. Again, he was flawed. He was like any other human being. None of us are without flaws. My dad had some flaws that were out of his control. There were some things he could do to reduce some of those issues, but still, due to physical and mental injuries, he could never fully control some of his difficult behaviors. I only care that I know he loved me and he never purposely hurt me. He never abused me. I know too many who cannot say the same.

What I know about my dad is that he had a great imagination. He could tell me stories of his childhood, but was able to embellish them a bit and almost implant his memory in my mind. I could see through his eyes. I think I have that skill as well. My mom gave me my empathy. When she has told me stories, I could feel what she felt rather than see what she saw. It wasn’t that dad’s stories didn’t make me feel things, I just had a more visual experience where as mom would tell me stories and I would feel them more than see them. I am grateful to have this from them both. I used to not realize this about my dad, however. Mom raised me because they split when I was 5. Dad was still my dad and he was still in my life, but I saw the traits I got from my mom more than what I got from my dad because she and I spent so much time together.

I know my dad was proud of me. I don’t know if he was proud of any specific thing. I am certain he knew little about my life after the age of 21. Even as a teen, I don’t think dad really knew much about my life, but I saw him more. Those memories are all I have of him now and all I know of him. That is the pit that I cannot fill. I knew him, but I didn’t. I lost touch. He often forgot birthdays. Sometimes he would forget holidays. He wasn’t one to send cards… a habit of his that I also have. Maybe that is a man thing. I don’t know. He wouldn’t reach out to me very often. He always said it was because he knew my mom was taking great care of me. I would tell him that I still wanted to hear from him more. As a kid, that was valid. When I became an adult, however, I could have recognized some of his forgetfulness was beyond his control. He had suffered a head trauma as a kid and required meds to avoid seizures. I feel I should know what other meds he had to take, but I don’t. I should have known what other health issues he was struggling with, but I don’t. I have a bit of a better idea, but I know little about the last 10 or so years of his life.

I still feel regret that we had become estranged. I feel guilt that I can’t say the exact number of years it has been that we hadn’t spoken when he passed. It is pain that I will never escape. I have learned to cope with it and I have learned to forgive myself, but there are still days when I am overwhelmed with sorrow and guilt. Sometimes it is triggered by something in a TV show or a movie. Other times it is when I see his picture unexpectedly. There are also times that I hold something of his and jump feet first into that pit and let the pain, regret and guilt swallow me. I will sit in darkness and cry. I will feel only the pain and a voice in my head tells me I deserve it. I know that I don’t. What happened between my dad and I was the human condition. I had an addiction, a few actually, and I didn’t do what I needed to overcome them. When I finally began doing so, it was too late. He was gone.

I do not consider my compulsions to be an excuse for why I didn’t reach out to my dad. He also did not reach out to me. I think much of my behavior was fueled by anger and misunderstanding. My last words spoken to him were angry ones. I think we got stubborn, I got stubborn. Dad, I think, was sensitive like me. He took everything to heart. Something I’m blessed and cursed with from both of my parents. They have big hearts. Dad could hide it sometimes, but if you understood the sarcasm and cynicism, you knew that was his pain. I think I hurt him and he felt I didn’t need him. I hope he never felt I didn’t want him in my life. That is what comes close to killing me. The idea that my dad died thinking I didn’t want him in my life can topple me from whatever height I may have reached. I fall back into that pit and I hit the bottom. There are no plateaus along the way. It’s straight down.

I don’t know if dad ever loved anyone else after mom. I know of only one girlfriend and what I know of her was that she used him. My mom and grandma had to go clean up the mess she left behind in his apartment. I don’t know if he understood or believed that my mom loved him. She never stopped loving him. He was the father of her child. She did not marry him without love. I remember bits of conversations about it, but I also remember he didn’t seem to understand how it could have been possible. I don’t know if he ever grew to understand it. I had an easier time because she told me she loved him. She never spoke of hating him. She never told me I couldn’t see him. She never once said he was a bad father. Not once. What I hold closest to my heart when I think of all the things I don’t know about my dad is that that my mom loved him and kept their issues between them as best as she could. For me, knowing my mom still loved him says a lot about my dad, maybe even more than what I don’t know about him.

I have reconnected with my dad’s sisters. Thanks to Facebook I can speak to them and get a peek at their lives. I can see what my cousins are doing as well. We don’t speak much, but it helps me feel connected. It is my greatest wish to build my financial stability enough that I can make trips to see my family without concern about the impact on my income. I want to sit with them and hear of stories about dad from the years that I missed. I have family on both coasts. Second cousins and their parents on the East Coast and an aunt on the West Coast, sort of. She’s in Oregon. I have an aunt and cousin in Hawaii. I have not seen them since my 20s… maybe even longer. My memory isn’t what it used to be. I know I haven’t seen any family on the East Coast since I was 10. For me it is more than just wanting to know my father. I want to reconnect and know my family on his side.

I know that it may not happen. I can only do the best I can. For all I know, tomorrow may be the end of everything. I have no control over the day I will no longer be on this earth. I can take steps to prolong it, but in the end, my fate could be in the hands of a stranger or mutation of a clump of cells. My own body could just give out without my consent. So I have been working on making the changes that I can. I have been keeping my focus on being the man I want to be and accomplishing the goals I want to accomplish. I try as best I an to fuel this journey with positivity and love. That is how I get back out of that pit. I stopped laying at the bottom feeling defeated and started looking toward the top and believing I can reach it. Yes I think that pit will never be filled, but I do believe I can fill enough that the fall isn’t so far. My goal is it becomes an inconvenience rather than a struggle to get back up to the top.

I may not know everything I could know about my dad. I have learned to see what I do know is pretty great. I keep the good memories close. I remember the first time we walked together in downtown Dayton. I remember him pushing me on a swing. I remember him getting on a swing as well and how his cheeks puffed out like a hamster’s the harder he swung. I remember his stories. I remember his laugh. I remember when he told me to stop looking at my feet when I walk… that I am a Stasio and shouldn’t ever lower my head or stare at the ground. I should keep it held high with pride. I remember the strange things he would say that I didn’t understand. Mostly, I remember that he loved me. I know that he loved me.