Harsh words

Hey. Dad. Why don't you just call me?

My email still works, too. I'm a little put off by this monitoring of my blog. If you want to know how I'm doing, if you're concerned for my well being, that would be a great way to express it. I'm doing this blog for my own personal reasons (I was told it would be therapeutic, but that's debatable). I feel like I'm a sick dog in a kennel, being looked in upon with pity once in a while and then backed away from because no one wants to get too close. Maybe it will die soon. Who's going to check today?

Maybe you feel you have nothing to talk to me about. Maybe you feel I'm not worth the effort it takes to communicate. Possibly there could be some regret or guilt, I don't know. For much of my life I've been intimidated by your intellect, afraid of the judgements that would make me feel inferior. I may have my own voice and ideas, but when faced with your scrutiny, I always feel like I don't measure up.

A few years back, I thought you were softening and that somehow we'd be able to talk without it being uncomfortable. But I must have a quality that is cringe-worthy, because our few conversations left me with the impression that you would rather have a root canal than speak to me. When you commented on my Facebook after Sharon's death, it was the most words I'd seen from you in my entire adult life. Maybe it's easier to have a conversation via electronic text because one can take their time and craft their words to perfection before hitting the send button.

I suppose that all is well and good from your perspective? You've made up for any shortcomings, real or perceived with a couple of heartfelt stories? I'm not holding all the years of absence against you. I never made myself all that available, either. I'm really not even thinking about the years of bitterness I had during my childhood. I let that go a long time ago and considered my own part in the failure we had in bonding. But what's bugging me, is now. When I need someone's wizened perspective the most, literally crying out for someone to care, what do I get?

Silence.

It's been a couple of years since the "Soon, I promise" response to my asking for a little catch up time. I'm not holding out any hope that soon is going to be ever.

So, I guess, while I'm at it, I'll give you another reason to cringe. Remember Sharon's and my wedding in 2003? Of course not, because you weren't there, having elected to attend a symphony instead. Neither Sharon nor I could believe you were actually telling us this. You said you had the means to get there, private airplane or something, and that it would be no problem, but that you had season tickets to the philharmonic, and, well, I must understand.

No, I didn't understand. It did not compute. Were your priorities that far out of whack? It seems pretty clear that you were avoiding any (potentially uncomfortable) interaction with me. I can assume some of the blame for being the type of person one would want to avoid. Or maybe it was my mom you were trying to avoid, I don't know. But would it have killed you to play nice and step out of your comfort zone to attend your son's one and only wedding? In hindsight, maybe?

I wasn't that surprised that you wouldn't attend, but it was the reason you gave which I still have a hard time with. Concert tickets? Really? While that may have been the honest truth, I would have appreciated a well crafted lie. "I broke my leg"  or "My friend's plane is in the shop." Anything.

There. That's only been bugging me for 15 years. How about you? Are there any wrongs you feel I've done to you that need to be addressed? Do you feel slighted or ignored on birthdays or father's day? I don't know how long either of us will be alive, but wouldn't it be nice to feel you've done what you could to make peace with your remaining family?

I'm not expecting an apology from you. Hell, I'm not expecting anything. I'm just asking for a conversation. One that I'm not going to guarantee won't be uncomfortable for both of us, but one that is necessary. I'm not going to beg you to talk to me. If you're satisfied to just peep from the perimeter, analyzing my blog from afar, I guess that's up to you. I may not make it available for public viewing, though. I get a little clammed up being observed.

Hey, you might get lucky and call when I'm not in the house. It happens from time to time. Then you could just leave a message and feel like you did your part and now it's on me to call you.  Then we could play phone tag while you are conveniently out when I call. In that way, we never have to talk at all, and you can avoid all the unpleasantness, while not feeling like you ignored my plea completely.

"Way to go, Dad."

Sorry, I couldn't help that sarcastic little jab. I find Mr. Watchmaker God to be as uncommunicative as any earthly father figure. Out there, lurking, judging, observing but never interacting. Sure, He created the heavens and the earth and all that inhabit them, if that sort of notion appeals to you. He just doesn't want to have anything to do with them after the big bang. He's off smoking a cigarette and scheming his next cosmic copulation in some other multiverse.

Yeah, I can see why you might not want to call.  And you may just want to tune out from reading this blog in the future. I'm just a mean and nasty old dog, and that's why everyone is keeping their distance. I guess I may never know what's really going on inside of you. Maybe I couldn't handle it. Perhaps you are just like me, with a more carefully painted veneer. If that's the case, you may be thinking you are doing me a favor by sparing me the pain of having an honest conversation with you.

And you might be right, at that. But can you see how I might feel a little abandoned and rejected by you at the moment? And a little hurt that you wouldn't at least try to reach out, when I'm making it so obvious that I need reaching out to? And does it seem understandable that I might be irked to know that you are reading this blog, monitoring my pathetic status and just hoping the problem will go away? Time will go by, eventually we'll both be dead. Problem solved. No need for all that messy human interaction, right?

One thing I know is that I'll never win an argument with you. It's something indelibly etched in my memory, growing up. That's not my intention. I've said my piece. Judge away. Plenty of stuff here to tisk at.