Today is Father’s Day. A day to celebrate and say ‘thank you’ to all the dads out there for everything they do and have done. A day to remember those no longer with us. A day of love and laughter.
I hate it.
For me, it’s one of the most difficult days of the year because of all the memories and emotions it brings. And I know I’m not alone in this. Don’t misunderstand me - I’d love to be able to join in with the fun of buying cards and balloons and of choosing a gift that really says ‘love you, Dad’ - but my experiences of fathers in general leaves me unable to be a part of it.
If you know me or have read any of my previous blogs, you’ll probably know that my parents were divorced when I was born. I don’t have any good memories of my father (I find it hard to call him ‘Dad’ - in fact, if I do speak about him, I often address him by his first name, Lenworth). Actually, the memories in general are few and far between, but the flashbacks I have involve violence and take me back to the scared little girl who used to wet herself whenever she heard a raised voice because she knew what was coming. He never hit me - not that I recall - but he would happily beat my Mom in front of me and my older sister and brother on a regular basis. I can’t remember feeling any kind of love or affection from him; I’ve been told that he’d call me ‘a pest’ and when my Mom left and took him to court for maintenance, he told the judge that he wanted a DNA test for ‘the youngest one’ - that was me - because he didn’t believe I was his child. I guess these things have had an impact on me throughout my life, often feeling unwanted and looking for love and validation, usually in the wrong places.
There were occasions when I remember spending time with him although I know it wasn’t consistent or regular, and a lot of those memories involve being in his car. He wore an old, worn leather jacket in every kind of weather and his car was warm with the musky smell of it, mixed with the Trebor Extra Strong Mints he’d always have in his mouth. One particularly hot day, we had stopped at some traffic lights, but when they turned to green, the car wouldn’t move and the for some reason, the alarm kicked in too. He told me he had a friend who lived nearby; he’d go and use their phone to call for the AA. So he left me in the car at the lights with the alarm going off for what seemed like a whole afternoon. Some people came and knocked on the window a few times to ask if I was ok - I was about 9 I think. Eventually, he came back, got in the car and it worked again. I don’t remember the AA ever turning up.
At school, as Father’s Day approached, we’d be handed some card, some colourful fabric or tissue paper and a verse to copy to send to our Dads. Every year I’d ask if I could make something for my Mom or Nan instead and every year I’d be questioned by the girls in my class about why I didn’t have a Dad. 'Is he dead? ' they sometimes asked. Every time I had to explain that we didn’t live with him anymore and he had a new family, I’d be greeted with surprise - sometimes horror - like, ‘Oh my gosh, why wouldn’t your Daddy want to live with you?!’ And in my mind, I’d be right back there, in the house on those dark nights, but there was no way I could ever explain that to anyone.
Around five years ago, I got a call from a cousin to say Lenworth was in hospital and it wasn’t looking good for him. She told me I must get to him as soon as possible. I told her I wouldn’t be going to see him. How could I sit around the bed of a stranger and pretend to feel sad that he was passing? I grieved for that man - for the man and father he never was - every day of my life in silence, so there was no way I could be a hypocrite. That side of the family thought my sister and I were terrible for not being there in his final moments. Never mind the thousands of our moments that he’d been absent for, like the births of our children, Christmases, graduations, illnesses…He'd always been around for his other children though, as well as his nieces and nephews, earning him the title of 'Len the Legend.' So many times I'd see him on social media in photos, celebrating my cousins' weddings, birthdays, congratulating and encouraging them. It was hard to see. At his funeral, my sister and I were excluded from the order of service as if we’d never existed in his life, which I suppose was what he wanted.
I’m forever thankful to my Mom for all that she went through and everything she did (and still does) for us all and I know that as much as I wish that I’d had a Dad like the ones I see my friends write their loving posts and tributes for, Lenworth was never going to be that man. Not for me and my sister, anyway. It breaks my heart that my own children are suffering in a similar way, as the man who is their biological father chooses to pretend they don’t exist.
Lenworth had a phrase he used to often say. I wrote this poem many years ago, using that phrase as a title:
‘I can’t’ is weak, and hates to play
I never understood those words he’d say
when I would need his help or hand, or more.
Failure was a friend to him. I know
to win was disappointment’s only cure.
And win he would. The battle lost within
my mother years before her armour failed.
And even in his absence he would rule,
his prisoners parading crowns of shame.
Glowing in his strength he did become
a beacon, but of darkness. Blow by blow
his beaming shadow put out every star,
extinguishing our flames to fuel his own.
So stifling, the thickness of the burden,
until her silent scream at last escaped.
Please. Stop.
Enough.
So quiet that I almost did not hear her,
she came. I never thought she would. I saw
her floating through the gates before I heard it;
the gentle tap of freedom at the door.
If ‘I cant’ is weak and hates to play,
still it dances round and round my mind,
smiling like the child I never could be
but always knew was just a smile away.
I am not weak. I do not hate. I play,
I love, I shine. I’m not like you. I’m free.
All I ever wanted was a daddy,
and even now, I don’t know if you saw.
Could I have been invisible? I wonder
if I was ever really there at all.
Thank you for reading,
Danielle x
Free Your Mind CIC is a UK based charity that supports child victims of domestic violence. To find out more about their amazing, life-changing work, please visit https://www.freeyourmindcic.com/
Comments