18 December 2000 ~ All I want for Christmas...

I wrote a letter to my father this evening. I really don't have any idea why... Certainly, I'm not going to send it...

I guess the whole thing started a few days ago when I was late to work (they changed my schedule and they didn't tell me), and when I did come in, I found a penciled note that read: "Norman?" and then a phone number, which incidentally, was not Norman's. My co-workers had gone out searching for me by telephone. I was infuriated. What if they'd started calling people in the phone book who have the same last name as me? What if they'd called my dad, looking for me?

I said something to that effect, and Dave, my boss, looked perplexed (which isn't unusual -- Dave usually looks either perplexed or determined, sometimes both). I said, "My dad and I don't really speak." And with that statement came such a wave of shame and unhappiness.

"My dad and I don't really speak," usually seems to mean "my dad gave up on me when I started getting into a lot of trouble in my life and I don't have the guts to go back and ask him for forgiveness." When I've heard other people say similar things, it usually means they got addicted to something, dropped out of school, and were sort of disowned. It means they sort of got their lives back together, and are now too stubborn to go back to their families and say, "look, I fucked up."

But my dad STILL wouldn't approve of my life. I haven't cleaned up ANY of the faults he accused me of. I STILL hang out at all the old hang-outs, and I still have friends with funny-colored hair, and I hang out with guys who suck cock, and girls who shave their heads. I still am not dating somebody he would approve of; he never liked my taste in men, especially the ones who were older than me and could appreciate the arts. Those were the ones, he said, who were only after one thing. He still wouldn't approve of the movies I watch ("Taxi Driver" and "Dead Ringers" last night, and about ten minutes of one with a lot of boobs in it, but I fell asleep during that one...), or the music I listen to. He still would hound me to do the dishes and pick up my clothes. I would still be a disappointment.

I stopped being Daddy's little girl two years ago. And I've come to the conclusion, sad and shameful as it is, that I'll never measure up. I was raised for 18 years by that man's standards and I still judge myself by them, no matter how awkward and unrealistic they may be. I am still Daddy's little reject, the disappointment of the family, and I will probably be saying, "my dad and I don't really speak," until the day I die, or he does. I'm not sure there's anything I could have done about that, and I don't think there's anything I can do about it now. I just don't think he liked me, and I'm sure he still wouldn't like me now.

It's been eight months or so since I last spoke to my father. He called me up to tell me to change my tax forms because he was claiming me as a dependent. He wouldn't allow me a hundred dollars or so on my tax return because he felt he'd been supporting me. I told him he was an asshole and hung up on him. I let the machine pick up when he called back. He didn't leave a message. I didn't get a tax return.

It's motherfucking Christmas. Everybody else has a dad. Or a stepdad, or something. I have a boss named Dave and a boss named Chris, but it isn't the same. And not that I expect them to be father figures or to take care of me, but I have no other significant father-figure role models, and I'm lonely, and it's fucking Christmas, and I don't have a dad.

No card last year. Not even a call or an email. Not even a five dollar bill in the mail. The year before, I got a package of peanut M&M's from my dad. Merry Christmas, Helena. I'm allergic to peanuts.

I want a dad.

I want to be somebody's daughter.

I want not to have to be an adult with my own Christmas tree and my own Christmas cards and my own sloppy apartment. Sometimes, I wish somebody would be my dad, even if it meant getting told not to stay up until all hours online, and being told that I wasn't going anywhere, young lady, until the dishes were done.

I wish I knew what I did to make my dad dislike me so much. Guaranteed, I'd probably do it again, but at least I'd know what it was, and at least I'd know what behaviors or beliefs or words I've been stubbornly defending by not going to my father and apologizing for being such a bad girl.

It's Christmas. I miss having a dad. How come everybody else gets one and I don't? I want a dad for Christmas.

~Helena Thomas*