I Can't Imagine

I can’t imagine having a dad, especially a good one. All my life I’ve dreamt of this beautiful existence filled with nothing but love and light and joy. Utter bliss and happiness. In return, I became a statistic. “Another child of abuse,” they’d say. It seemed to define all the I was and all that I’ll ever be. I couldn’t run from my trauma, that was immature. I couldn’t embrace it either, that was sadistic. Instead of a happy ending I got a list of explanations I had to give to every new partner. “This is my mom. She’s nice sometimes but says really hurtful things. Try to avoid talking about anything she hasn’t directly brought up. That’s my dad. You’ll never meet him. At least, not anymore. We don’t speak. Pretty much the only thing he didn’t do was hit me, although he came close. That’s my mom’s side of the family. I haven’t seen them in over a decade. I hate that I hope they’re ok. That’s my dad’s side of the family. They don’t believe me, just like they didn’t believe my mom. And that’s my sister. She likes to avoid conflict so, you’ll be alright.” Everyone from my past has this story of betrayal that I have to live with until the day I die. I often can’t imagine how hard that all is and how I’ve managed. But I truly can’t imagine what my life would have looked like had it been nice. It makes me both shed a tear of grievance and wince at how cringy it feels.

              I can’t imagine having a dad, especially a good one. When I walk through the city streets, I see kids with their parents smiling ear to ear. Their faces lit up with joy and possibility. I have to force myself to smile and be happy for them. I’m worried that if I don’t, I’ll become bitter towards the world. I used to beg to spend even a few minutes with my dad. Instead, he’d walk off and completely ignore me. The only times he interacted with me were to tell me how I did something wrong or wasn’t doing enough. He'd call me lazy and fat and point out any blemishes on my face the minute he could. He’d say I’m useless and tell me to leave his house. He’s always hated me. I’m not sure my mom was entirely the fondest of me either. She loves me but she says such hurtful things, things you should never say to anyone, let alone your own child. I was only ever a problem to her. I could only be present if it wasn’t an inconvenience to her. I’d look around me with my hopeful, child eyes and see no one that cared enough to look back. I’d look around and see no one else. The world was dark and lonely, my mind the only place where other people truly existed.

              I can’t imagine having dad, especially a good one. Although, I suppose that isn’t entirely true. I’d make up little stories in my head where I had an incredible dad who had superpowers and taught me cool things. He’d teach me to fly and beat up the bad guys. He taught me to be a hero and was mine in return. In reality, I hardly spoke to my dad. So much so that when it came time for me to stop speaking to him altogether, it didn’t seem so different. It wasn’t hard to not be around him or not talk to him. It was only hard to finally admit that I’d never had a dad in the first place. My life wasn’t any lonelier or sadder than it had already been. My life was just as it always was, just with a little less evil. He still found his ways of traumatizing me though. He stole money from me and called me names over text and to my mom. He resented me for the fact that I would no longer masquerade as his quiet little daughter. He hated the fact that I left, just like my mom did.

              I can’t imagine having a dad, especially a good one. At first, I had nightmares about moving out of the only home I’d ever known. Then, one day, that’s exactly what happened. Later, I’d have these terrible fears at the back of my mind that my dad had been physically abusive to my mom. Then, one day, my mom looked me in the eyes and said how he used to beat her. So much so she once called the cops. I never looked up the police record. She said I’d be able to find, and I tried but was too scared to call and ask the police. I’d never really thought about what it meant to be the child of abuse. It wasn’t until the end of high school that I finally understood what that meant and the weight of what that identity held. I didn’t just have a shit dad, I had an abusive one, a hateful one. These days, I worry he had a family with one of his many affairs. I was often told an older boy I went to school with looked just like me. Strangers would come up to me and ask if I was his sister. I never asked his name until it was too late. I wish I had. I don’t want to know if I have half siblings but, I feel like I should, like I owe them that much.

              I can’t imagine having a dad, especially a good one. Maybe one day I might have my own children. I'd make sure they felt safe and cared for. I’d make sure to take time to listen to them, no matter how trivial their problems may feel. I’d give them everything I never had. But maybe I never will. Maybe, instead, I’ll be too scared that I won’t find them the right dad or that I won’t be the right mom. Maybe my past will have been too much. Maybe it will have hurt my heart so beyond repair that I won’t understand how to love beyond utility. I can’t imagine having a dad, especially a good one because I didn’t have one. I didn’t have two good role model parents who made the world feel safe and okay. I had a broken home that scared me into thinking, into believing, that I’m incapable of creating an unbroken one. It’s hard to imagine something I’ve never even gotten close to.