I haven't written in a diary since I was nine years old. The last time I wrote a blog, I was sixteen. I would whine and whinge and bitch and moan and complain. About what? Anything and everything, like any person my age would and does.
My father and I were best friends when I was growing up. I was eight years old when he left. I don't remember him telling me he was leaving, as far as I can recall he was there one night and then he wasn't when I woke up the next day.
He would disappear for days and come home smelling like stale alcohol, cigarettes and a yucky, musky smell that I later (much later) learned was icky sex. He would beat on my mother, abuse her physically, emotionally and verbally. I would be lying in bed listening to them fight, listening to his frightening yells of rage, her cries of pain and fright. My tears would just be rolling slowly down my cheeks, damping my pillow beneath my head.
He didn't want my mother to tell my sister or myself why he left. He said to tell us the marriage didn't work out. My mother sat us down the day after he left and told us straight out that he was gay.
Your dad likes other men.
It was about another year or so before I actually grasped what she meant by that statement.
I stopped talking to my father when I was eleven. I didn't talk to him again until I was fifteen. We had another falling out when I was sixteen and didn't speak for six months.
He had nothing to do with my life. He rarely contacted me - I would contact him first.
Emails wouldn't be replied for anywhere between a week to two months. Text messages were short and very far between. I figured he didn't love me and he made me so mad.
At my year twelve graduation, I invited him and he brought his partner along. He was a nice young man with amazingly soft skin, thanks to the over-use of scented moisturizer. My father barely spared a glance at my portfolio that I had received.
When I was a kid, he was my best friend. When I was eight, my world completely fell apart.
He was like a God to me. No joke. He was my own personal God that I loved and worshipped. I even went to watch him play golf, and I think that is the most boring then ever.
We rarely speak now, if at all.
And the worst thing is, I still see him as a kind of God to me. It sucks. I hate him but I still love him.