Nobody puts baillee in the corner

This is probably the hardest piece I’ve ever written. I’m getting really personal and really raw here, so if you are in the mood for something a little bit cheeky or a more light-hearted, I would definitely recommend going back to my Indiana Jones-esque vault and skipping this one or waiting a couple of days for my next post that I’ve already partially written (aka written down the title of) because it will definitely contain both cheek and light-heartedness. If you’re ready for some good ol’ fashioned Dad stuff, here we go.

Growing up, I never referred to my dad as anything other than his first name. I rarely called him “Dad” or “Daddy” or any other cutesy name. I actually once referred to him as simply “my sperm donor.” He wasn’t a great man when I was growing up. He was the man who wanted a boy and got me. The man who I constantly tried to impress and never could. The man who left once when I was in utero and again when I was 18. He yelled at me for being a kid. He was never Alan Matthews or Danny Tanner. He was far from it.

I’d been lying if I wasn’t slightly relieved when he left that summer morning. It’s so forever ingrained into my memory that I could tell you the exact time, month, and day if you really wanted me to. I remember how placid he was. There was no regret. There was no feeling. I remember how hardened I felt myself becoming as I watched him get into the car and back out of the driveway of the house we would soon lose.

My sophomore year of college has a lot of holes. There are a few things I remember, but the majority is forever lost. I had a therapist for a while. I cried a lot. I stopped speaking to my mother for a while when she took him back. It was the year I maxed out my first credit card and started drinking vodka. It was the swan dive of my adolescence straight into adulthood. But it was also something else entirely.

I saw my father for the first time toward the end of my sophomore year. His eyes had softened. His fists had loosened. Someone completely new stood in front of me, but I couldn’t see it. I was so bitter and roughened. I ignored him and made no attempt to get to know this new person. I spent so long talking with my friends and mentors, but I never heard a word they said. They encouraged me to be guarded yet try to invite this stranger back into my life, but I didn’t listen. I was immature and stubborn, just like him. I shouldn’t have waited almost two years to get to know him. I wish I had been given more time to talk to him about Archer and history books and Marvel comics. I wish I had let this new man into my life sooner because I only had him for about two years before the strokes.

Now, he can’t read anymore. He’s a shell of his former self. And it breaks my heart. It’s hard for me to text him or Skype him because I’m overcome with the regret of not knowing him sooner. It kills me every time I come home, and he just sleeps all day. It’s something I’ve kept bottled up inside for too long, and I’ve finally had no choice but to pop the cork.

It’s some times rough being the kid who left because when things happen, you aren’t there. And I wasn’t. I accept that, but it doesn’t mean I’m void of guilt. I spend a lot of time feeling guilty about not being able to help or realizing the dangers of self-preservation before it was too late.

That’s why I respond to his ridiculous text messages now about having Christmas Eve dinner at IHOP even though it the typos crush me because he’s always been a fiend for grammar. I call him Dad whenever I can. I use my full name as much as possible to honor his favorite movie, Highlander. Writing this has made me realize that I can finally say something I’ve always wanted to be able to say and mean: I love you, Dad.