My dad and I bonded once every week on Sunday nights between the hours of nine and ten over a television show about a serial killer.
Funny how that works out, isn’t it? Blood splatter analysis and murder bringing father and daughter together? But then again, we’ve never had a typical father-daughter relationship. Sure, he’s in the house and not gallivanting around town, but I don’t think the basement of our house is much different. Once he walks downstairs to go to work on the computer… He’s gone. He’s distant. He asks meaningless questions about my life now and then. He comes upstairs from his basement dungeon to make dinner. But that isn’t enough. Not every father is a DAD. There comes a moment when his child is born and he looks into her big blue eyes for the first time. THAT is the moment that determines whether he is ready or not. When boys either become men or premature assholes like I watch on “16 and Pregnant.” I don’t think my dad has ever been ready. He doesn’t have those instincts that came with fatherhood. I don’t have a relationship with him, I don’t care if he approves of my choices or not, and I don’t really intend on choosing to have anything to do with him after high school. Sometimes when I watch how the TV dads act with their kids, I wish that my dad acted the same. I wish he would tell me he loves me. I wish he would kiss my mum and hug my sister and I goodnight. But he doesn’t. He complains and yells and blames my mum and my sister and I for our financial problems. He’s a self-righteous, indignant, proud man who thinks that he’s always right because he can rattle off facts about stuff no one cares about and ruined my childhood by spending the majority of my life away at university. I take it as an insult when people tell me that I’m like him. I will NEVER be like him. I’ll have those instincts and be good with my children someday. I won’t neglect the people around me for work or money. I will love with all that I am and throw myself into that glorious pursuit of LIFE.
Until the day that I can move out of the house and on in a new life without my father, we’ll still have those rare Sunday nights when we sit on the sofa together and watch Michael C Hall stab the victim of the week in the chest.