I've been avoiding posting on my blog because I knew when I did, I'd have to post about my dad. I haven't really had the best relationship with my dad ever, really, but I thought I had finally come to be at peace with the way things were and accept them. Then he died a few weeks ago. My initial thought was that I'd never have to feel disappointed again because he could never let me down now. I felt like I could finally forgive him for good. But that initial feeling wasn't cemented. I've gone back and forth and up and down. I've talked with my brothers and sisters and mom, and we all have different feelings and similar feelings and have just been trying to help each understand our feelings. I think we all feel guilty to some extent for not feeling worse about his death than we do. At least, I know I do. But I even waver back and forth as to how guilty I feel. Sometimes I don't feel that way at all.
I went down to Utah to visit my brother for the last two weeks while Chris had a training course for the Army down there. While I was down there, I had a realization hit me that I know some of my siblings have already had (heck, maybe all of them have). I don't know why, but the thought chain had just never occurred to me. My dad chose to leave when he did. He came to the hospital for my birth because my mom told him he had to (not to say he didn't enjoy it; he found the c-section to be quite interesting). Then he went home and packed his things, so he could be out of there by the time my mom's parents got there. They didn't like him, so he figured he'd get out before then.
I can't speak for everyone, but for Chris and me, the day our son was born was amazing. Nothing can compare to the magic that I felt when my child came into this world. How could my father leave his family on such a day? I've continued to think about it, and the train of thought has gone further, but I don't want to talk about it on here yet. It just really hurts too much. And as betrayed as I feel by my father, I still don't want to speak too poorly of the dead. He was my father, and I always loved him unconditionally for it. It feels fake to accept condolences for his death, though. I'm not hurt by his death; I was hurt by his life. I have to find a way to forgive him and at least accept the choices he made in his life, even if I can never understand them.