My Father
Today my father told me I’ve cut his heart in half and then he hung up on me. He’s referring to a part in the book where we had a drunk conversation and he said something that freaked me out. While I was writing the book I told him I was going to write what he had said, and I even repeated it word for word to him to make sure I was getting it right, and he said he was ok with it. What he isn’t ok with is that I added: “It had sounded rehearsed, like an excuse he had been telling himself for years in order to forgive someone else.”
Those were my exact thoughts the day after that night I blacked out, I even wrote it in my journal. But herein lies the problematic essence of memoir. It’s one person’s remembrance of events and that same person’s reactions. So while I confirmed with him that those were his words, I interpreted them in my own way. He adamantly says it wasn’t a thought he had come up with before, it was something he said on the spot in response to my drunken, pilled-out queries about childhood fears.
There is no further mention of my father in the book, because I stopped speaking to him for a very long time after that. I’ve been waiting in dread for him to read the book, specifically because of that chapter. I’d like to state for the record that in no way do I believe anymore that I think my father is covering up anything for anyone. It was nearly impossible for me to think clearly back then, and I was conveying my fear and confusion in that moment. There is a much larger problem here, one that I wasn’t ready to look at — mainly my sheer fury at him for things that happened long ago, things that were born out of stupidity, neglect and brainwashing, but not any kind of intentional evil. I love him very much, but there are still things I need to explore and will continue to do so in order to figure out why I ended up the way I did. But I think enough damage has been done for now. When I do begin again, I will make sure he is there to give his side.
