I think it’s just about time I came out and said something that has been bugging me for the last… God knows how long. I’ve heard people say dreadful things and I know whatever I’m about to say won’t sound any better. For the longest time now, I feel like dad-my very own father-is every woman’s nightmare. There, I said it, and no, I don’t hate myself for saying it.
Since I became conscious of my very own existence, I feel dad has been a constant disappointment, to me, and to the rest of my family. On so many occasions, I feel the only reason I’ve never brought myself to openly tell him I hate him, or even let the dreadful thought linger in my head long enough is merely because I’ve got his DNA and blood running through my veins. At this point I feel the only reason I’d say I love him is because he is my biological father; other than that he hasn’t earned my love.
I know he has assisted me financially, paying my school fees and all, but if you ask me, a father-daughter relationship is more than a monetary issue. It’s about feeling emotionally comfortable with him; feeling I can rely on him unconditionally. If I take financial matters from the equation, all I’m left with is a skeleton; a very frustrating, relationship.
Dad isn’t exactly a villain; it’s just that even though he’s done some good things, he always manages to overshadow them with his dark deeds. I can almost count the good things he’s done; they’re few, as he does them rarely.
Some of the earliest memories I have of dad are seeing him come home drunk, late at night, battering mom because she, in her helplessness, had asked him to buy us food. Normally I consider myself a nocturnal- I always go to bed late. The only time I’ve ever slept early was when I was in boarding school, both in primary and high school. I attribute this wont to the fact that when I was small, dad always came home late and we couldn’t go to bed early, not because we were waiting for him to tuck us in and kiss us goodnight, but so he could give mom the money to buy food for supper.
Naturally the food got ready late. I would eat the food dozing. Mom had a hard time trying to keep me awake. My baby sister, who used to nap during the day, had a fun time pinching my nose playfully, so I could keep my eyes open. At the time I was learning how to count numbers; I don’t know what I was counting in my plate but when I dozed I always felt like I was counting things in my food. Then my sister would pinch my nose, pulling me out of my dream. Eating just wasn’t a fun thing.
I have met women who say they desire to be married to men who remind them of their fathers but to that I say, God forbid. I know what I look for in a man, and I know there’s no quality dad possesses that I’d want to see reflected in a man I call mine. In any case, when I bump into men who give me the slightest impression of being a tad bit like dad, I take to my heels. I know for sure, it would be a nightmare to be married to someone who is like him.
He has said on so many occasions he loves us, but if his actions are anything to go by, he doesn’t; and if he does for real, then I’d say his, is a very twisted kind of love.