I stopped speaking to my father about three years ago, a few months before my wedding in 2002. It was over a rather minor miscommunication, but it had more to do with years of buildup than that one misstep. In the end, I decided that it was better for my mental health not to talk to someone who made me cry every time we talked. It was a decision that made me really sad, but I felt like I had to make a stand for myself. It was the most selfish decision maybe I’ve ever made, and my father never considered selfishness a good trait, so that makes it kind of worse.
I think he’s probably diagnosably mentally ill, schizophrenic or something. I read Beautiful Mind and the story of his mental illness really reminded me of my dad’s behavior. I’m sure my abandonment is not the best thing I could do for my dad, but I felt it was the best choice for me. My brother, god love him, has decided to do what’s best for dad. That, or he is terrified of living his life with the regret that he did what I have chosen to do. My brother still talks to my dad, though dad takes every opportunity to punish Jonathan whenever possible by breaking his heart again and again. My brother is one of those rare souls who’s sensitivity is way off the scale from normal. (Hmm, I guess mine could be too, but I just maintain this gruff exterior and cry on the couch instead.) Dad missed Jonathan’s wedding and has refused to see his 15 month old child, who is named after my dad. Oh well.
So, since we stopped talking, I have dreamt about dad. I used to get worried, think he died and he was communicating with me somehow. But now it happens so much and he’s still kicking, lives only a few hours away from me. I can’t believe he’s still alive. His body is a wreck. He’s 55 and has had all of his teeth replaced, eats nitroglycerine pills like they were candy, and still smokes and drinks in excess, I imagine.
Usually the dream is that I’m at my granmother’s home, and I run across him unsuspecting. It’s uncomfortable, and I wake up anxious. Sometimes (rarely) it’s a fight, where I scream at him all the things I never said but always wanted to. Regardless, it’s always disturbing. I can feel my conscious weighing heavily on me, telling me how much I am going to regret this when he is gone. But even though I feel that frequently, I can’t make logical sense out of that statement when I look at it from all sides. I mean, I know I love him. Isn’t that enough? The big question is that he must think I hate him. But I can’t tell him, he wouldn’t believe me anyway, even if I tried. Maybe deep down, in his heart of hearts, when he’s having a good day, he knows that I love him. I think that’s all I want him to know.
But last night I dreamed about him, and we talked, and it didn’t totally suck. That was weird, and unexpected. I mean, it wasn’t like old times, but I think it was actually kind of nice. I wonder what that’s all about?