Being Born

I guess we should start from the beginning, huh? Being born. I don’t remember much about it, but I know I was there.

My father ran into my mother, literally. Ran into her in an elevator. He was drunk and she had just moved back to Seattle after leaving a “Dear John” letter for the man she was supposed to marry in California. She was starting a new life- she had no job, no money, and her future ex-husband had just mowed her down in the elevator of the apartment she had just moved into. And that’s how my mom met my father.

As you can imagine children are born, I came into the world on in February 11, 1982. That makes me an Aquarius- creative, impulsive, over-thinking goal-getter, often found trying new experiences to see which ones fit best. On the flip side, I am also stubborn, direct to a fault, and an introverted extrovert and am royally skilled at attending social functions if only to master the “Irish Goodbye” and escaping from events without saying goodbye. My friends who know me, understand and those that don’t, can…well…who cares?

My parents marriage lasted for 10 years, five of which I existed for. I don’t remember too much about my father and the stuff that I remember was not pleasant. I remember going out to the car to find that out tires were slashed by police because my drunk father did something stupid. We ended up visiting him in jail once. He had been driving me and my brother around while he was wasted and was involved in a hit-and-run.

There was another time, when I was very young, he was upset with me for some reason trivial, he picked me up and launched me across the room. I hit the wall and slumped down beside the bed as he left me there to go to the liquor store.

We left Seattle because my father had pissed off someone and that someone decided to try to finish him by starting a fire outside their apartment door. Guess it was time to go. We were living in Colorado when my parents divorced. My mom always said my father was a nice man when he was sober. He just was never sober. So, my mom moved us to Minneapolis to be closer to family. She was born in Austin, MN and we needed to start over again.

I visited my father once when he was still in Colorado. I was nine. He was an asshole. He stored bottles of beer under the driver’s seat and didn’t see an issue with having my brother and me in tow. He had a friend that would come over and stare at me, 9-year old me, and blow kisses at me, like I was a woman sitting alone at the bar. I was scared to ever visit him again.

My father moved back to Seattle and I never saw him again. I had one more opportunity to visit him when I was 15. My brother was going to go and bring a friend and then I was supposed to bring a friend and visit later that summer. I chose not to go. Truth be told, my father terrified me and I didn’t trust him or his friends.

He died two months later. Cirrhosis. Literally drank himself to death. He died the day after my mom’s birthday. He always drank more around her birthday. He never stopped loving her. But he was sick. And so were the people he surrounded himself with.

My father’s good friend in Seattle used to call me late at night, drunk, and blame me for my father passing. This “friend” said I broke my father’s heart when I didn’t go to visit him and I was the reason he drank. Sad. Sick. True.

I never once, believed any accusation the strange man would spew into my ears. I knew, even at 15, he was bat-shit crazy to blame me for anything. But a part of it did hurt. I stopped answering those calls. Who the fuck does that? Warped motherfuckers, that’s who.

I have had a wide range of emotions over the years about the lack of family ties I hold with my father’s side of the family. Sometimes, I am very sad that I am missing an entire half of me that I will never get back. Other times, I am thankful and feel that I am missing nothing at all and I have everything I need from my friends and family surrounding me. Over the years, I did find my family. I don’t speak with any of them and those stories will come later.