That's Love

 There was a period of time I can remember, maybe middle school, it must have been middle school. My mom was in the hospital that time period. She had a non-cancerous tumor behind her ear and in her thyroid. She stopped smoking after that. I remember my grandma decided to come over while she was in the hospital to put up a tree. She said something about wanting her to come home to a really nice tree. It was a fake tree and I was unsure of how to feel about that. I can't even remember having a tradition other than a real tree, the colored lights, the mis-matched ornaments all over in strange places. But, that year, it was fake. It was white lights. It was gold and maroon ornaments. There was a thick ribbon that cascaded down the tree from a bow on the top. I can't exactly remember why I hated the tree so much that year- as a mother, I think back on this memory and I can't for the life of me remember why it was so horrible. I guess I was just missing my mother. I was feeling sad and lonely and the tree was like a magazine, but I really hated the style and didn't quite know what I liked then, but I knew I hated that tree. It had no life. No soul. It was fake. Everything about it. My mother was so vibrant and lovely- full of laughter and all over the place. The tree wasn't my mother. It was sterile. It was too perfect. I hated to think of my mother to lose her spark, her sparkle, her colored lights and mismatched ornaments. My mom was in the hospital and I had voiced my concerns about her smoking for many years- the D.A.R.E. program really got me hyped- and I was ecstatic to learn she was going to quit. It was music to my ears. My also, non-cancerous, ears. She was happy when she came home. I really thought she would be mad. I thought she would say it was too perfect. That she would say, "this really isn't me," but she didn't. She was grateful. She loved that it was done. I was heartbroken about it. For years afterwards, the strange St. Nick that appeared by the tree appeared in strange places, for fun, because I think my sister also thought it was really not the right vibe but found a way to make it a joke rather than be straight about it. 

I grew up knowing the phone calls weren't really going to come when I wanted them to. I knew enough to understand the phone calls weren't exactly reliable. I cannot recall a single birthday except the one in 4th grade when my friend's down the street came to my surprise birthday party in the dining room. My gram never let us go in the dining room. It was like a forbidden room. Hidden beyond the kitchen. Beyond the bowl of rainbow crystal sugar that I would sneak finger licks until it was empty. It was a room for guests that long since stopped appearing. A long beautiful wood table with a table cloth and a faux red rose from my childhood crush, Lorenzo. I remember licking icing off the bottom of the stem and that it tasted of the room above the "little house" on the other side of the driveway. There were crafts and treasures up there that I would explore. The room was filled with random things like bags of sea shells that never was used as far as I could tell. I would sneak in occasionally, smell the weird craft store smell, then wander down the stairs and back out to the bleeding hearts around the garage. I thought the room was a wonderful place I wasn't allowed to touch. Just like the dining room. It tasted like freedom. That fake rose. But, there was no phone call. No one saying, "Happy Birthday, Bets!" 

We moved after that. I no longer had my crush. No longer told my crush's little brother about math on the hour long bus ride to school. I lost all my friends. I had to start over. I wasn't able to run over to the little house and hope it was left unlocked to look at the sea shells. No longer able to play Gargoyles in the turrets of the garage. No longer able to grab a soda from the front porch fridge with the bright green astroturf floor. No longer able to be Bootsy for the talent show at the funeral home turned busy house full of children. No more surprise parties with the fake rose. No more crystal sugar in the fancy bowl on the bottom of the bar cart in the forbidden room. 

I remember that year, 5th or 6th grade, in the townhouse, with the fake tree, that I was the loneliest I had ever felt. I was taken to Herkimer Diamond mines and to watercolor paint class all summer, even if it was late, and I wanted more. I wanted the idea of the parent I had all summer to reappear all school year- but he didn't. He wasn't there. He acted like he could care less. He might call. But, not my birthday. Not Christmas. Not when the tree was fake and I knew my big brother was suicidal and that mom called the cops on him for having a tackle box with mushrooms he got from a friend. There wasn't a phone call for any of that. It was just up to me. I just had to... know what to do. I had to know how to process it all. I was supposed to deal with it and just be fine with it. 

I had a boyfriend that year, I remember I thought he was a little weird, but he was cute, and he asked me to be his girlfriend, so I said yes. I loved boys so much- I wanted a boyfriend. I wanted him to pay attention to me. He finally did. He called me, when the commercial for Herbal Essences shampoo was really euphoric, I even used the brand shampoo. He made fun of it, or maybe he was just looking for an excuse to make sexual noises on the phone, but it left me feeling very uncomfortable. I didn't know what to do. I didn't have the dad to say, "hey, young men shouldn't talk to you that way and you don't have to listen to it. You can just hang up." I didn't have that. I didn't even have a phone call on my birthday. I had a fake flower from Lorenzo Varisano, but no daddy to call me and tell me he cared which would have validated my worth as a young girl. 

Looking back on it all, it was all there. But, I was a child. I didn't know. I simply had no idea. I thought, finally. Someone who actually put time into knowing me. Someone who actually cared. I remember my father actually asking about the relationship. Asking if I liked my mom's husband. If I liked my step dad. He sounded almost frantic. There wasn't anything wrong then. Or at least, nothing that I even understood at the time, but now I know, there was lots of red flags. I was just a kid. I didn't know. I felt like he was asking me to corner me. Like I wasn't worthy of a father's love. Why would my mom's new husband show me attention? Why would he care about my birthday? I suppose every young lady hopes that they have the tools to be solid. To feel like they are strong. Instead they are always the object to some pervert's fantasy. Whether they want it or not.

Now, I know. I know what it means. To not have daddy call. To not have a real relationship with someone who helped raise you. He was there. When he was legally obligated to. I read recently that misogamist men abandon their daughters when they hit puberty. It struck a chord with me. I really didn't feel like he was all that into it starting in middle school. Maybe I just didn't realize that he was no longer interested. Maybe I just started to understand. It's hard to say. Like the chicken or the egg theory, did dad stop liking me because I grew boobs which made me untamable or did I start to pull away because I understood it was a one sided love the whole time? 

Maybe I was sad about losing my real father. Maybe he pulled away because a new step dad was filling my time. It's so hard to say looking back on it all. My mom was sick. My sister had a new boyfriend. They have been together ever since. My brother was flunking out of college and getting counseling in between the suidical thoughts voiced aloud. I was utterly lonely. I wanted someone to pay attention to me. And there he was. Offering to wash my back in the tub. Completely innocent, but it did feel strange given that I was in middle school. It seemed almost like he was just interested in spending time with me and I liked being in the bath. I was used to being alone in the bath. But he wanted to wash my back. I remember it feeling awkward at a certain point. I remember that exact moment when I thought, "I am too old for this to be okay?" But then my mom came home and everything was normal. It was fine. Of course, he was just keeping me company in the bath. It was all just... normalized I guess. Nothing was wrong then.

All the red flags were there. All of them. It was a perfect storm. 

This was just one of the many things that made me realize that what I was taught about love was so disgustingly wrong. And I didn't deserve it. None of it. I deserved a dad who called on my birthday. Every year. I deserve a dad who would come see my house. I have been here for twelve years and he's never once seen it. He's never shown interest. The most pathetic thing of it all is that I just want him to ask me if he can visit. But, that would be the work of a father who actually fucking loved me and clearly I don't have that kind of relationship. It's a hard pill to swallow. Knowing that my mom was always so wrapped up in dealing (or not dealing) with her own childhood trauma to actually notice I was unhappy and my father still to this day acts like it is fucking rocket science to call his children on their birthday. We don't even ask him to be present any other fucking time of the year. We go to see him and make an effort 1 week of the year and it is the hardest fucking thing for us all. We are all angry, sad, frustrated, and annoyed. Off and on, we trade off hating him and being fine going out of our way for him. For what? 

For love? Well. 

That's not good love. It's the kind of love that is hard to get and not worth the effort to put in. At least I go to therapy to love myself instead. If I didn't have that, maybe I would be suicidal, too. 

I do have to say, that even though my childhood brother didn't commit suicide, he still died in my mind. The child who wasn't allowed to be themself, that wanted to die than live in a world where their parents didn't even understand who they were, that child is gone. He is no longer with us. They got stronger. Just like I did. Maybe they get lonely about a dad who doesn't call on their birthday, I don't know. I can only imagine, not assume. But, I can speak on it. My birthday has come around the same day every year for 38 years. I am not that hard to forget. If you choose not to know me, that is your loss. I am strong enough to be grateful to those that do care I exist. And if sometimes I seems like no one cares, I still do. I still care. I would never make my child feel that way. It's really gross to think there are parents out there really okay with that.

This year, I put up a real tree. With two different types of white lights and mismatched ornaments. No boyfriend that makes me feel uncomfortable. No men in my life except the ones I allow to be there. Only the people I want to know will feel my love. Everyone else... well. You didn't quite make the cut. A cancerous tumor that has been cut out.