This is my response to my "Dad's" comments to my amazing and heartbreaking post "Dear Daddy". If you have not had a chance to read it, you may want to check it out first. It is interesting either way.
Well, I finally know my dad. Turns out, I was wrong the entire time. I've come to realize he just doesn't have it in him to be a good man. In fact, he is downright vicious. VICIOUS. As if updating me on all of his material things wasn't bad enough, I now get to know deep down in my heart that he is just a piece of crap. Nothing more, nothing less, and he will never be anything else.
When I spoke to my brother about my post, "Dear Daddy," he told me that my writing seemed one to be one sided, like I am just mad. He said that I came across as a spoiled brat (far from it). You bet I am furious. No doubt about it. As I type this post, my face is flush with anger and complete horror. Of course, there are two sides to every story, and I know there is a gray area in middle of my parents' version of the past. But, this story happens to have a lot of people involved, and this is my side.
The fact of the matter is I am is a grown woman who has been through a way more than you can imagine and I happen to be a great writer. This is my story. Writing is what I do, and will continue to do. If you don't like it, don't read it. Even still, I feel as though for continuity and curiosity, I should should clarify a couple of things here.
First of all, my dad did bail me out of jail so I could go to rehab, which I really, really (THOUGHT) needed to do. At the time, I thought it was nice of him to put himself out like that. Now I understand, he wasn't putting himself out at all, since he has "multiple" buildings.
The truth about my father's first, somewhat responsible gesture, is that he put up my $200,000.00 bond for me then immediately retracted it because my mother went after him (not the best timing) for child support THAT HE STILL OWES, and has never paid because he lies and says he is a handy man who only makes a few dollars a week. Fortunately, the judge saw right through my dad's disgusting motives and I was released upon my own recognizance. To this day, my dad loves to talk about how he and my step-monster lost their house due to that legal battle with my Mom. Lie much?
The most amazing thing is that he isn't even ashamed of what a total fucking scum bag he is appearing to be to me and to anyone else who reads this. I gotta cut him some slack, though, he spent his brain power scheming up ways not to pay child support, why bother going back to school?
My father did not send me any money while I was in prison, he did not even take my collect calls.
My father did not give me any money in rehab, he took me shopping and out to eat.
When I was released from prison, I was in a half-way house because he would not let me stay with him. My mom was living in Colorado at the time, and I could have went to live with her, but I had my heart set on Emerson College, and felt I should stay in Boston.
Bravely, I asked my father if I could do my laundry at his house because I had no money, and he let me. Unfortunately, my curfew came before the laundry was dry and my father said he would finish it and bring it to me. Two hours later, he showed up with my step-monster and my wet clothes in a garbage bag with the complaint "that they were not going to do my laundry."
Really, I mean, I am your daughter, do you think you might ever be able to do anything for me besides try to make me feel like shit for what YOU DID.
When I was finally released from the half-way house, I rented a room in a cheap and filthy rooming house in Boston. I made it my own with feminine furnishings and loved having my own space. One day while I was at work, my room was broken into and I came home to things missing and all of my stuff had been torn apart. At that moment, I never wanted to be in that room again, let alone sleep there. I called my father and demanded that he come get me and let me stay with him.
There was no way I was taking no for an answer. He said I could stay at his house on the couch until I found another room. The dirt bag charged me $50 a week rent, even when I got sick and could not go to work because he was too cheap to turn the heat on in the middle of winter. Another highlight from this time is when he read my journal and got totally wasted before he could talk to me about it. My response to him then are the words that will grace my gravestone one day: IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, don't read it.
This falls under the category: why ask if you don't want to know the answer? Most people really can't handle the truth, but don't get me started on that one.
At 30, I took incomplete grades in all of my classes at Emerson and relocated from Boston to Las Vegas to stay with my mom because I needed to escape an abusive relationship. When I was getting organized to move, I wasn't sure how I should get my things to me in Vegas, and I spoke with my father about it in a casual way.
As usual, he tried to play the big shot and told me that he has a buddy who owns a shipping company and that he would pick my stuff up and have it shipped out to me in less than a week.
Always the little girl looking for her dad to take care of her, I agreed to let my Dad help me, and like every single time I waste my time with him, it turned out to be a nightmare.
My father met me in a parking lot in the city and picked up my treasured book collection, family photos, my painting portfolio, as well as everything else I owned in the word, including all of the materials I needed to graduate. He gave me a hug as he promised he would get it out to right away. "Don't forget," I said, "I need this stuff to graduate in May, like I am scheduled to." I'll never forget, nor believe his response: "don't worry, I am a man of my word."
TWO YEARS went by and I still did not have my things. The B.A. that I was two classes shy of earning (and worked my ass off to pay for by myself) hung on my dad's promise. I would not be able to graduate without at least retrieving that one box. Finally, after calling him every single day for almost six months, he answered the phone in December. He said "Merry Christmas, Ray (I HATE THAT NICKNAME BY THE WAY AND HE IS THE ONLY ONE WHO CALLS ME THAT-EW), I sent your stuff to you. If you don't have it by the 3rd, give me a call.
I was pretty sure he meant January 3, so when it did not arrive, I tried to call him. The coward didn't take my calls, surprise, surprise. Finally, in June, when I still did not have my stuff, I got on a plane to Boston. Since I don't know my father's address, I went to his shop and found him there. He told me to come back tomorrow and I would be able to finally get my belongings.
Well, when I went to get my stuff, it was all water-logged and full of mildew. My father had a flood and let my things sit in water for Gawd knows how long. Instead of just telling me about it, he avoided my calls, and I wasted time and money flying to Boson unnecessarily. Not exactly for free, huh, DAD?
My trip to Boston turned out to be yet another major let down by my dad. I spent the remainder of my visit at a friend's house sorting through my things that were nothing more than stinky garbage now. Everything I owned prior to moving to Vegas was destroyed. I managed to salvage most of my books and the negative for "BLUE MONDAY," my final film project. I had everything shipped to my house in Vegas for less than thirty dollars. As for rest of my stuff, I cried as I threw away my baby albums, pictures of my mom and brother as we were growing up, and some of my most treasured possessions because they were covered in big, fluffy, black mold.
Just so you know, I did finally go on to graduate, but it took a lot of pleading and negotiation between me and the registrar's office at Emerson! Thank you Michael Selig, I would not have graduated without your support, and the fact that my favorite professor was now the Chair of the Media Arts Department. Talk about LUCK!
Three years ago, when I got off drugs, my father did help me to get my own place in San Diego. He provided me with a deposit and sent me $200 a month for a little over a year until I got a job where I was making enough money that I could pay the rent myself. When I landed that job, I sent the money back because I just couldn't justify taking it from him anymore.
Funny how things work out. I thought it was good for my dad to feel like he was helping me out while he was sending me money for rent. Of course, this was when I was still under the impression that he is a good man.
Well, dad, you can't make chicken salad out of chicken shit, and I am sick to death of trying. Since I don't have to be confused about anything anymore, I will have a nice life now that I have swallowed this big chunk of truth about you. How can I deny who you are or pretend anything else now that you have been so very clear? Thank you so much! I am a grown woman and you FINALLY got honest with me.
