I have not seen my father in fourteen years, but I am not crying. At least not anymore. I have survived without him longer than I have felt his absence, and though his decision to remain out of my life has bruised me, I am far from broken. Now, I am calm, but it has not always been that way.
Honestly, I used to hate him--my father. I did not even want to give him a title that would acknowledge him as my kin. In my mind, he was a monster. Here I was, his only little girl, his only child, and he willingly chose not to call. Not to visit. Not to send me more than a meager email, card or teddy bear every few years for my birthday as a reminder that he was aware that I was still breathing. I believed with every fiber of my being that he must not have had a heart, that he must not have had any semblance of humanity if he could allow his only daughter to suffer without him. Years went by, and we remained in a stalemate. He would not break the icy barrier that grew between us, perhaps because of pride or guilt. My greatest inhibition, as much as I have blamed him for the many tears I have shed, was that he would push me away. That he would see me as unworthy of his time, and realize that his decision to leave was the correct one in the first place. When fear subsided and anger took over, I would argue that it was not my responsibility to bring him into my life, anyway. He was the one that caused me to wallow is sorrow every Father's Day. He was the one that left me before I could even realize who he was, and what impact he would have on my existence.
The only memory I do have of him is questionable--I am unsure of whether it was from a dream or my reality. When I have thought of my father, in the past, I imagined him half-way out of the door, his professionally-dressed back turned to me, his metallic briefcase glimmering in the rays of the outside sun. Whether or not this actually happened, it has served as a metaphor for my opinion of him. He initially left to pursue a career so far away from me, and his professional life always gleamed a bit brighter than I ever did. His back faced me, because, in my opinion, he was turning his back on me--forgetting me.
A few months ago, I began to interpret that dream, or that reality, a bit differently. He was half-way out the door, but he never completely left. With the little trinkets he sent, no matter how aggravating they were to me when I yearned for a fatherly figure, his hesitation was also signified. Maybe, he felt regret, and feared that the barrier of ice would now be too dense to melt. Still, my fear kept me from further inquiring--from reaching out to my father.
I spoke to my mother about my feelings, and she has always been braver than I. Without my consent, she called my father, and suggested that I visit him this upcoming summer. I was both furious and frightened, at first. My words said that I did not want to visit him, that I had been fine without him. My heart, however, quaked at the thought of him confirming that he wanted nothing to do with me. To my surprise, my mother expressed that my father had been so excited at the prospect of my visit. Within minutes, he already made plans to take off time from work, to take me sight-seeing, and to introduce me to everyone that he knew.
I was stunned. I had never been so floored by a revelation in my life. With one phone call, I realized that my father and I had been separated by that ice barrier for years because of the instinct to anticipate and avoid rejection. Had this call been made years ago, my father and I may have been involved in each other's lives.
I realized that my father is no monster. Rather, he is quite human.
I am now embarking on a journey to come to terms with my emotions regarding the portion of my spirit that the lack of a fatherly figure left hollow for so many years. Slowly, I am forgiving him, and thus healing myself. The epitome of my journey will begin when I take to the sky, and finally see my father face-to-face. I am still frightened, but I am hopeful that I will discover a part of myself when I discover the man that contributed to giving me life here on Earth.