Our Fathers

There was no greater champion, no more exasperating argumenteur, there is no way to explain how my father’s death has effected me. 

He never handled injury or sickness well, being a doctor. But even the way he came to be a physician was unconventional, and so his par·si·mo·ni·ous nature was often misunderstood as a deficient joie de vive. Nothing could’ve been further from the truth.

He once up·braided me for buying a bottle of water, which I justified explaining I only sprung for one every two weeks or so once the plastic seemed done in, you could tell by the stink. 

While clearly unmoved by the factual details, he seemed in theory to relent to the logic of setting one’s penurious priorities. 

We weren’t related, a point his parents were sure to bring up every chance they got. The bastard child is a phrase I got used to, much to the chagrin of everyone else who was neither adopted nor bastard. How often the topics of my experience were simply off limits – from the abuse (not by my father but he could not discuss it even tho he acknowledged my pain) – I was told, simply, to get over it.

Just get over it.

The problem with rape, assault, incest, abuse and harassment is-no one wants to hear about it. 
So there you are, dissociative disorder in hand, on the receiving end of hand-me-down dysfunction whereby you are told if you say a word, no one will believe you… And you will be sent back.

Sent back – where?


A dirty word 

-but not from him. Who, on Sunday mornings, would turn to me and say I couldn’t go in to daisy’s cage today, she was not in the mood. And there I’d stand with my vanilla wafers for our recovering raccoon, while my father, the zoologist-radiologist went in… 

#metoo is not about my father but what he had to reconcile – he could not and did not protect me from a predator within four walls….

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