Today is the birthday of my biological father. I never met him and I never will. When I traveled back to Texas for the 2013 holidays, my mother told me that he had passed away a few months before then. She didn’t want to call me with the news. Better, she thought, to wait until we were together. Just one more piece of information she kept from me until she was ready to share it.
I regret never going to see him. I knew where he worked and the town where he lived. It was less than an hour from me for forty years. Now it’s too late. I may never even get the chance to see a picture of him. I’m told I look like him. I think I physically resemble my mother, but I have nothing to compare.
It’s possible to grieve the loss of someone you’ve never met. A bit surreal, for sure, but the pain is genuine. Of course, I don’t grieve any familial connection. I grieve the relationship that never was, that never will be.
I knew nothing of his existence until I was eleven. That’s when I discovered my daddy was actually my step-father. It was another ten years before I would reach out to my BD through a phone call. He shunned me, told me never to call him again and to tell my mother to stop trying to ruin other people’s lives. As a mother myself now, I can imagine how devastating that was for my mother to see her child go through. She was willing to call him back herself, but I was done.
Yet, I kept a little spark of hope in my heart that someday I would see his face, touch his hand, find solace, and maybe answers to at least some of my questions. That dream has died along with him, another loss from which I may or may not recover.
I won’t say that it “wasn’t meant to be”, nor do I believe I’m better off not knowing him. It simply is what it is. Tragic. Sad. Unfair. I just wish I had a photo of him…..
Had a nightmare last night that I discovered my dad was molesting a seven-year-old girl. I went to my parent’s house and saw the situation. Drew conclusions based on my experiences with him and the way he was acting. Confronted him and he was dismissive, claiming they were just friends, that she was a “sweet friendly little girl”. My mother was in complete denial, angry that I would once again accuse him of something like that. It was sickening, this feeling of anger and rage. Not feeling helpless anymore, though, because it wasn’t about me. I had to save that little girl. Maybe that little girl was me and I just need to save myself. It’s left me feeling out of sorts this morning. And more motivated to help other young people who are going through what I went through. It’s been almost thirty years since my abuse, but the wound was so severe, the scars are easy to access. The tears flowing, dripping silently from my eyes, come quickly when my mind goes back to that place.
