Every once in a while, I manage to convince myself that if I could say the many thoughts that daily cross my mind, if I could speak to my father the inner monologue that seems to rattle about in my brain, if I could make him see, make him understand... then everything would be okay. Sometimes I even manage to convince myself so well I have my phone in hand and all I have to do is press the call button. Surely, if I gave full vent to my anger, pain, and need... if I told him I loved him and wanted him... surely then it would all be alright. Surely then the 19 years of pain and 12 years of tension would all disappear. I fool myself into thinking that things would be different than they have always been. However, my thumb always pauses on the call button, that small green telephone acting as a reality check. That's when the grief and the anger come pouring back in, like an unpleasant dive into my own private ice bath.
I grieve because no matter how old I get, I know I will always want my father. I grieve because I know, no matter how much he may change, my father and I missed some of the most important memories. I grieve because I do love him, whether this is foolish or not. I grieve because it is the only process I have left to me. I cannot continue in the dysfunction for the sake of a game and I cannot continually wait for him to change the man he is. I can only grieve and come to accept the scar tissue.
When I begin to dial my father's number, I know the pain is rising within me. I find the ache is greater on these days. Great enough to almost want the dysfunction in exchange for his love. And when I resolve not to call him, when the tears come breaking through, I find myself retreating. Pulling myself away, seeking some kind of refuge from the pain and this is where everything changes.
Love takes me in. I curl up beneath my blankets, close my tear filled eyes and find myself on my Father's lap. I bury myself in His chest. His arms surround me, comfort me, hold me. I cannot pretend that it is the same as having a physical, tangible, touchable father. It's not but it is a beautiful refuge. It is the one place of sweet release. And as I let the anger, grief, and pain wash over us, He whispers gently in my ear.
I want you, Leela. You are my beautiful daughter. You are my precious child. I am here, I will protect you because I love you. More than I love anything else, I love you.
It still hurts, I still wake up crying and alone, without a father but it gives me strength. Strength to feel my pain, to face my grief, and to survive on the days I'd most like to give up.
May He give you strength, as He is continually giving me, to face the things of this day.
No comments:
Post a Comment