calling my dad
The wind was blowing, the sound of the train a rhythm. I think I was in middle school, and my dad was explaining the intricacies of World War II. The sea breeze was setting in, a much-needed relief from the hot July day.
That was a defining memory. We didn’t spend a lot of time alone, but everything that I know about geopolitics and world history, along with a bit of physics and math, I owe to him. Those are the fondest conversations I remember.
I think it’s been a few months since I spoke to my dad. Our relationship hasn’t been the best. I haven’t returned his call in a few weeks now. I don’t even know what I’d talk to him about. Our calls don’t last more than a few minutes at a time. He knows to say exactly the kind of thing that’d trigger me. His messages on WhatsApp are archived so I can stop myself from spiraling
He has never been happy with my decisions. He has made that clear, but I tried my very best to be the role model son. I was the firstborn, and I did everything that was asked of me to the best of my abilities. Stayed out of trouble. Never fucked up.
I’m my own man now. I turned 28 this year. The years of searching for a father figure are now gone. It’s a sort of acceptance. It has also dawned on me that my relationship with my dad will probably never be alright.
I just wish he’d get the help he needs. And sometimes when I catch glimpses of him in me, I freak out. But then I remember that I am aware and I have it in me to change. I don’t have to go down the same path.
I can be kinder. I can be empathetic. I can have friends. I can build the life I like.
May God give me the courage to pick up the phone and dial his number one of these days..