Now that the Christmas season is starting to wind down, it always makes me think of Christmases past.
And not the good kind.
A couple of months ago, I asked my mum if it was wrong that the only thing I really remember well about when she and my stepdad were married was the bad: the beatings, the “you’ll never amount to anything”‘s, the general disdain.
She looked at me with sadness, and said “No. Because that’s all it was.”
She did love him…for the same lame-ass reason she loves her current husband: she is a defender of the underdog.
She’s fucking Batman for the white trash. I mean, come on – what guy wouldn’t want to be able to sit around all day and drink beer and smoke pot because his wife works and he’s lazy.
But how do you stay with someone who beats the shit out of the daughter that’s not his for not keeping the daughter that is out of trouble?
I’ve never understood that.
There are days that I would love to meet the sperm donor who told my mother “It’s not mine” and walked away. There are other days that I’m glad that I don’t know him.
I have dreams of meeting him that result in forgiveness…and dreams of meeting him that end in heartbreak.
Before I got married, there was one dream that I had on several occasions. Mr Realist and I are standing up, friends and family watching, and the preacher gets to the part about “If anyone has any objections, speak now or forever hold your peace.” And just before he continues on, the doors to the chapel open, and everyone turns to see a guy dressed in a suit; just an average-looking dude. Mum’s the only one to go white, and I hear her say his name.
He stands at the foot of the steps and tries to tell me he’s sorry for 28 years of the unknown. And he makes the mistake of saying “I’m your dad.”
I walk down the steps and punch him right in his eye. Everyone’s shocked. I point to Opa Dreamer. “No, he’s my dad. And so are they,” (pointing to Uncles Dreamer). “And so are they (pointing to Dad and Stepdad Realist). “Not you. You’re just the sperm donor.”
I often woke from that dream conflicted. Conflicted because I so so so want to meet him, and on the other hand, I just wish he’d stay dead (not literally, but dead to me).
Mostly this is why I hate Christmas. I pray that I’ll be able to move past the useless father figures that I still cling to.