Trying to Write about My Father

A treasure map of memories, the estrangement of this father and daughter, and it’s, the father’s fault, as it would always, AND forever BE, the ADULT’s F-A-U-L-T in situations similar to this one,  translated…

Shouldering ALL of My Parents’ Economic Burdens on Me

Since growing up, writing had never been difficult for me to manage, but, toward the subject of, “My Father”, I could just, never, seem to, get it, just right.

My father was very successful in business when he was younger, thanks to the economics taking off, I was, raised in a well-to-do family.  My parents were, very traditional, but that was also, a tragedy of the times—my father, although carried the “title” of being the “head of the household”, took care of the household economics, but he’d, never cared about everything else of our family, he’d had, whores, whores, and more whores outside.  And my mother, due to her own weaknesses, and all of her, unrealistic expectations, she’d become, the one who’d, always caved after the arguments they’d had.

like this??? photo from online

After the economics crumbled, my father owed a lot of debts, and, their topics of argument, went from his whores, to the burdens of the household economics.  Back then, I was in my most fragile, most vulnerable, teenage years, and, being the eldest child, every time, I’d, gotten awakened, in the middle of the nights, at their voices arguing louder, louder, and louder, and I’d, listened in, on what they were, arguing about.  And, in that age, when I could only, make out partial of what was, going on, I’d, magnified all those fears, and, placed the burdens of the household economics that were my parents’, on my own two shoulders, whenever I’d needed to, pay the fees for school the following day, I’d, fallen into a state of high angst and high anxiety.  And on the evenings when I’d, asked my mother for the money I’d needed for school, I’d always, feared that after my father came home at night, they will, start arguing again.

And perhaps, it’s because of this shock I’d felt in my family, I’d, quickly entered, into the years of my working career.  I’d, paid for my own, dental treatment, it was, bliss, using the money I had earned, to pay for everything, and, that time, I’d, only needed to worry about the discomfort I’d be, feeling during the sessions, unlike from before, I’d not only get troubled by the pains, but also, the bills that came afterwards.  After over a decade’s time, every time I’d, thought about that young child worrying, I’d wanted to hug her tight, tell her, that everything, shall pass, that nothing is too serious.

After I’d started working, because my father’s gambling habits, and his, hedonistic way of life, he’d started, asking me for the money.  That was a very weird, and made-up atmosphere, first, you’d, hear him, scattering all the loose change onto the tables, then, there would be, that sigh that belonged to him especially, with the smell of cigarettes, and that air that’s, pressed out, by the realities of things, slowly, coming towards you, causing, your heart to skip a beat in time, and you can feel, that something was, on the verge, of happening.  Then, he’d, walked past you a couple of times, and, called out your name so sweet, that same way, he’d called out to you, when he’d, wanted to, borrow some money.

“Do you have $2,000N.T.s on you?  I need to pay a bill, but I don’t have enough!”

Recalling how the first time it’d, happened, and how careful I was, on how I’d, worried if, I handed him the money way too fast, it would, damage his ego.  It’s, just that I could’ve, never imagined, that my father who’d, almost never talked to me, as I started making my own way, he’d, come to find me, to borrow the money a lot—every time he’d come, it was, for money, nothing else.

One night as he’d returned late, I was doing the dishes, he’d said leisurely, “So wonderful, you’re, doing the dishes!”, back then I’d felt, elated, and carried on in conversation with him for a bit, felt I, finally had a dad.  As I continued with the dishes, he’d asked, “Do you have $2,000N.T.s?”, I’d replied, “Yes, I’ll give you in a bit.”, then, he’d, walked away, it felt like, someone had, punched me hard, and my tears fell, uncontrollably.  I should’ve, never hoped, to have a dad.

If I Took the Perspective, of My Quiet Father

Slowly, I’d, grown stronger, from my weaker self, plus my mother had, often used the voice of the enabler, saying how we’re, all she had, that without us kids, her life would become, meaningless.  It was like, I was, her protector then, and I can’t even, understand what was happening to me, but I’d, started combating my father, using my fatigue, but strong will.  And, after awhile, my relationship with him became, even more, estranged, I’d even started hoping, that he would, leave me alone, and I’d, stopped wanting to, hand him the money.

Until I was married, became a wife, and started arguing with my husband on the miniscule of matters, I’d realized, that being a man is quite hard through my own, introspection; the box that men set for themselves that’s, boxed them in, the limitations of the society, how they’re, not the least bit, able to, dissect themselves, they’d, selected flight whenever something was happening in their live.  And, they’d always, come up with a way, of convincing us women, with their own set of false beliefs, which set them even, more firmly, in their own, miseries, and it’d, made us, wanting to rely on the fortress you’d built with him, out of something that was, bad to begin with.  There are, so many books on psychology written, to wake women up, because they’re, willing to learn, willing to share, willing, to understand.  And yet, for most men, they seemed to, only want to, stay within the realms, of they know best, living in the boundaries, they’d, set for themselves.

After I’d, come to understand some of this, I’d known, of my father’s fragility and timorousness. I love this woman, but, I’d, never stood on the perspective of my father, who’s not the least bit conversational.

a man, escaping his responsibilities toward his family, photo found online

I’d, used the ruler that was, broken to bits and pieces, to measure the love my father had for me, and because his love never, made it to my expectations, so I’d, stopped myself, from getting too close.  I’d wanted to, protect that miniscule me, and, yet, I’d, taken away the freedom of the simplicity of how she could, get along with her father.

Perhaps, I can try, writing on the topic of, “My Father”, and, I may begin the essay with, “He has a pair of rough hands, but my father had, never patted my head with his hands, I’d, wanted to touch his hands, I’d wanted to be close to him, to play coy with him, like all the daughters in the world with their fathers, asking, ‘Daddy, are you, blessed?’”.

And so this, is this woman’s, tracing back to how her estrangements with her parents started happening, and this still showed, just how much those childhood days are, impacting our lives, without us being aware of them having this sort of a bad effect on us.