Monday, April 4, 2011
Image by Kjirstin via Flickr
Leaving was always the hardest
Every time I had to leave my father’s bed was difficult. A surge of emotions would wrap me up like a straight jacket.
I had a unique relationship with my father, a mirror of that with my mother. I tell everyone that truly I believe I had a fairy tale child hood, minus the million dollars – although, I do not know that a million dollars would have made us any happier as kids. See, my father and I were best friends, much like my mother and I, but not without the loss of parenting. As a child, I was still reprimanded and disciplined as a son by both, but I would rather, for most of my youth, go and hang out with my father or parents for that matter than my friends.
My father and I would get up early on the weekends and go get into trouble, often times with my Uncle, who has always been in my heart and mind, my dad as well. We would get into new stuff all the time, the trio, my brother as well. I am unable to remember much of my youth without my father and Uncle in it.
As my time with my father on any particular visit ended, it became chokingly hard to leave. I would begin to remember all the days he and I were together. All the times he spent at my side if I was sick or hurt. All the sacrifices he made. I would start to lay the guilt on myself. How can I be leaving right now? Am I really giving him, this man that gave me everything he had, my full heart, time and attention. The answer of course was yes, he knew that, and anyone that knows me knew it. However, a convicted heart can be hard to talk with.
Of course, most of this stems from my underlying guilt that I created the issue that sent my father into his transformation.