Thursday, 3 April 2014
Talking to my dad is like squeezing water out of stone, it's almost impossible and when you get a result you look at it, pitiful as it is and think what did I waste my time on that for? Sometimes I wish I liked cars the tiniest bit, just so it felt like there's more between us than this massive gap and a trickle of a blood line.
But I don't care about cars, a car to me is four wheels and a motor that drives you to fetch heavy supermarket shopping, gets you somewhere dry when its raining and takes you on the odd day trip. I don't care what colour it is, or is its an oxford mark 2 or has an eight cylinder engine, I don't care if it has a double exhaust, or can hit 180 mph in a less that a minute. Chrome on the bumper or steel, British workmanship or Japanese tin, pinewood interior or box standard plastic. And it's this lack of interest and knowledge that alienates me from someone who should, by biological right, have an unbreakable connection with me and doesn't. It's like this huge oppressive void that is blank and unused and feels pointless.
When my dad's gone what will I remember?
There's the odd song we both happen to like, we both like the idea of robberies, I get my ability to lie well on the spot from him, we both drink tea scalding hot, and eat cheese on toast with pepper on it, and when I was very young I was gleefully terrified of 'The Claw' and 'the Full Nelson'. That's it. That is the entirety of my memories.
I can't recall a single conversation of depth, or meaning, or even substance that we've shared. I can't remember a time I felt loved or respected or even that I'd done something worthwhile. Maybe if I'd done my uni work under the hood of a 1987 Monte Carlo it would have gotten some notice.
Am I psychologically scarred? Yes most likely. Do I crave and look for a dominant masculine role in my life? Obviously. Do I know the person who my father is? Yes absolutely. Does he know his only daughter? No. I have distant neighbours who know me better, not just favourite colour and hobbies and when my birthday is, or how old I am...but the person that I am and the things I believe in.
I am not at this moment in time depressed and dwelling on my lack of relationship with my dad, I'm really not. Although not 'over it' and not denying that I fall into that category of 'dad issues' I am simply coming to the end of an era and I envy the people I see rushing home to be buried with pride and encouragement and a general sense of being looked after. I'm so sick of hearing parents all over the place praise their kids to the stars, and go on and on, when I've just sat here and desperately attempted to bring my father into the loop, to share my plans, to simply express some ideas and explain my most recent grade and where things are headed and I've gotten nothing! Nothing back. I don't mean a big handbag shaped cake, or a hug well done, I mean a conversation, or at least a few sentences, a question! Just an attempt at any sort of interest or emotion, I got nothing!
Now if I were one of my brother, and I had just blown a ton of money (that could have gone towards anything else of importance), on some piece of shit scrap car, and dumped it in the garage...well I would have gotten everything: Enthusiasm, fun, jokes, conversation, advice, hours of attention...... But no, I'm just a girl who is finishing her degree and is worked up to the hilt about passing or failing and getting a job or not being employable...and I get nothing. I've spent my life so far working towards this, struggling and fighting and working my ass off for a better quality of life but you'd think I'd just sat here with crayons filling in a colouring book.
I'll be 21 next month, and I have fully come to understand as I reach that final 'I'm an adult' age, that I have never 'fitted' with a man, I've never felt a wavelength or bonded or even really completely enjoyed myself with a man except Jones. It's why I like him so bloody much, because he's the only one who seems to have understood who I am, accepted it and remembers it. He has become the missing part. Oh yes I've spent time with lads but they don't fit into the category of men, they are boys, through and through in my mind, they were all boys. Jones is a man.
He's the ultimate: wrestling champion, teddy bear cuddling, porn star, best friend, top chef, brain genius in my life. It's as if God has repented for all the times I've felt let down by the men who should have been there for me and given me this miracle that makes up for all that loss. I know I'm not an easy person to deal with, and I can talk for England and I know I have up's and down's like a bipolar bear that isn't sure is it's a killer grizzly or a teddy, and I know all this is one big explosion of personality that is suffocating especially on an everyday basis, but he seems to take it all in stride and isn't put off by it. I think I talk so much to Jones because for 19 years I was subdued and couldn't get anything out, and if I did I knew no one was interested or could even be bothered to pretend to care. Whether he cares or not is irrelevant, the fact that he spins his chair round and listens to the cascade that pours out of my mouth the second I walk through the door is wonderful.
I feel like I've become rather like a child now in my current state of mind, maybe because I'm making up for previous years, most days are rather like: "Jones look at my drawing!" "Jones look at the blog page I made pretty" "Jones I baked a cake" "Jones I cut my own fringe!" "Jones look at what I made" "Jones I saw an angry man on the bus and I snapped at him today" "Jones I'm hungry" "Jones I neeeeed some icecream." "I still neeeed icecream Jones."
If I didn't speak to him everyday now I'd probably end up talking to the wall! or Jerome.
or everything would build up inside my head and after a month or so my head would explode...stranger things have happened!
Am I yearning for approval? Probably.
Is all this weird on some psychological mental level? I wouldn't be surprised.
Does Jones suddenly mean everything to me and I can't imagine life without him? Well, yes...Begrudgingly yes.
Posted by Miss Siviter at 12:42