LJ Idol Season 10, Week 6: Heel Turn
My father and I got along famously while I was growing up. He and my mother played "Good Cop, Bad Cop" and he was always, without exception, the Good Cop. He was the parent that played games with us, took us out for ice cream, took us to play mini golf, took us to the movies, taught us how to swim, went out in the ocean with us. My mother was the disciplinarian, the one who sent us to our rooms, the one who spanked us, the one who took my brother and I to our almost monthly doctor's appointments.
My father was my idol. As a child, I thought he was perfect. As I started to grow up, I began to notice things that tickled my uncertainty.
We never had a lot of money, and I remember my mother saying "Let's go help feed people at church!" It wasn't until a decade later that I realized she only partially wanted to instill in us a desire to help others. We mostly went to those dinners so we could have something to eat, too. But my father always had enough money for his two packs of cigarettes per day.
My little brother has struggled with mental health issues his entire life. He would have extremely violent tantrums that included throwing dining room chairs across the room, breaking TVs, breaking all of the dishes in the kitchen, breaking windows, and more. This was a six-year-old child who was upset when he lost a level in Mario, and my father refused to acknowledge that anything was wrong. My brother sometimes got violent with me, jumping on me, hitting me, biting me, pulling my hair whenever I dared to do anything he didn't like (for example, pouring his drink last at dinner or beating him at Candy Land). My father told me I just needed to keep him happy, that nothing was wrong with him. It was my fault my brother was angry with me.
My father told me he and my mother separated because my brother and I have health issues. He told me I ruined my college graduation day because I chose to go out to a nice dinner with my mother and friends instead of cooking hot dogs on the grill at his house. His girlfriend's birthday was the day before, and he had taken her out to dinner. So obviously he couldn't afford to take me out to dinner, too. Therefore, my college graduation day was ruined for him.
My father was livid that me and my siblings never stayed the night at his house after he and my mother divorced. The problem was, he smoked two packs of cigarettes a day INSIDE his house. Then, when his girlfriend moved in, she smoked 1-2 packs a day inside. So every single day, they were smoking upwards of four packs inside a small and dank house. My brother has a severe heart condition and I've got my own health issues. When I tried to talk about it, all he would ever say was "Well, we don't smoke while you're here, so I don't understand what the problem is."
But still, I hung onto a relationship with him. I called him once a week to check up on him, and he was happy to talk. We always chatted like old friends whenever we spoke. We got each other gag gifts for birthdays and Christmas. He listened when I called him, crying about a breakup or my awful job or a fight I'd had with my mother. He was my dad, and I loved him.
A part of me still loves him...will always love him.
When my sister graduated high school in 2010, my father started making plans for retirement. He said he wanted to stay here until she was out of high school and then wanted to retire to beautiful, sunny Florida. He had some repairs he needed to do on his house and wanted to do a thorough deep cleaning. It was a big project, but he was convinced he could get everything finished in 18 months.
I didn't visit him much during the repairing and cleaning phase. We were still on good terms at this point, but our relationship was, for lack of a better word, fizzling. We didn't talk as much. I rarely called him and he almost never called me. Our conversations were far less in depth and usually only lasted five minutes.
I still wanted to hang on to that relationship. I was convinced if I kept trying, things would change. I was Googling like crazy, looking up various personality disorders and realized that most of the bullet points for Narcissistic Personality Disorder fit my father like a glove. But I was in denial. Looking back, I later realized that not a single thing he ever did was done to benefit anyone other than himself. If others benefited, then that was just icing on the cake.
The last straw came when he wanted to show me his newly repaired and cleaned house. I reluctantly drove to his house, not expecting much. Part of me thinks I should have known better.
The house was immaculate. The dark, dank, moldy, mildewy, smokey house I'd visited for more than ten years was bright, clean, and airy. He'd brought in professional cleaners. The dark corners now had lighting. There was fresh paint on the walls. There wasn't a hint of smoke in the air.
"Isn't it great?" he asked me. "I can sell this baby for a ton of money and move to Florida! We even stopped smoking in the house so we could sell it quicker. Aren't you proud of me?"
I stared at him, looked around the living room, and asked "So you cleaned up this place and stopped smoking in the house because you wanted to sell it? That was your incentive? Your sick children coming to visit you weren't incentive enough?"
He looked genuinely confused when he responded. "Well, you know I've always wanted to move to Florida. Aren't you proud of me for finally being able to do it?"
I'm pretty sure I just stared there, blinking at him for a solid minute, before doing a literal heel turn and walking away. He kept shouting at me, asking if I was proud of him because he finally found a reason to stop smoking in the house. I ignored him and drove away.
He still calls me on my birthday and on Christmas, but I don't call him. His number is in my phone contacts. I'm not quite ready to delete it. But I won't be calling him. I can't tell you why that was the last straw for me, but there was a look in his eyes as he was basically telling me his desire to move to Florida was more important than the health of his children that I just couldn't ignore. I had to walk away.
My father was my idol. As a child, I thought he was perfect. As I started to grow up, I began to notice things that tickled my uncertainty.
We never had a lot of money, and I remember my mother saying "Let's go help feed people at church!" It wasn't until a decade later that I realized she only partially wanted to instill in us a desire to help others. We mostly went to those dinners so we could have something to eat, too. But my father always had enough money for his two packs of cigarettes per day.
My little brother has struggled with mental health issues his entire life. He would have extremely violent tantrums that included throwing dining room chairs across the room, breaking TVs, breaking all of the dishes in the kitchen, breaking windows, and more. This was a six-year-old child who was upset when he lost a level in Mario, and my father refused to acknowledge that anything was wrong. My brother sometimes got violent with me, jumping on me, hitting me, biting me, pulling my hair whenever I dared to do anything he didn't like (for example, pouring his drink last at dinner or beating him at Candy Land). My father told me I just needed to keep him happy, that nothing was wrong with him. It was my fault my brother was angry with me.
My father told me he and my mother separated because my brother and I have health issues. He told me I ruined my college graduation day because I chose to go out to a nice dinner with my mother and friends instead of cooking hot dogs on the grill at his house. His girlfriend's birthday was the day before, and he had taken her out to dinner. So obviously he couldn't afford to take me out to dinner, too. Therefore, my college graduation day was ruined for him.
My father was livid that me and my siblings never stayed the night at his house after he and my mother divorced. The problem was, he smoked two packs of cigarettes a day INSIDE his house. Then, when his girlfriend moved in, she smoked 1-2 packs a day inside. So every single day, they were smoking upwards of four packs inside a small and dank house. My brother has a severe heart condition and I've got my own health issues. When I tried to talk about it, all he would ever say was "Well, we don't smoke while you're here, so I don't understand what the problem is."
But still, I hung onto a relationship with him. I called him once a week to check up on him, and he was happy to talk. We always chatted like old friends whenever we spoke. We got each other gag gifts for birthdays and Christmas. He listened when I called him, crying about a breakup or my awful job or a fight I'd had with my mother. He was my dad, and I loved him.
A part of me still loves him...will always love him.
When my sister graduated high school in 2010, my father started making plans for retirement. He said he wanted to stay here until she was out of high school and then wanted to retire to beautiful, sunny Florida. He had some repairs he needed to do on his house and wanted to do a thorough deep cleaning. It was a big project, but he was convinced he could get everything finished in 18 months.
I didn't visit him much during the repairing and cleaning phase. We were still on good terms at this point, but our relationship was, for lack of a better word, fizzling. We didn't talk as much. I rarely called him and he almost never called me. Our conversations were far less in depth and usually only lasted five minutes.
I still wanted to hang on to that relationship. I was convinced if I kept trying, things would change. I was Googling like crazy, looking up various personality disorders and realized that most of the bullet points for Narcissistic Personality Disorder fit my father like a glove. But I was in denial. Looking back, I later realized that not a single thing he ever did was done to benefit anyone other than himself. If others benefited, then that was just icing on the cake.
The last straw came when he wanted to show me his newly repaired and cleaned house. I reluctantly drove to his house, not expecting much. Part of me thinks I should have known better.
The house was immaculate. The dark, dank, moldy, mildewy, smokey house I'd visited for more than ten years was bright, clean, and airy. He'd brought in professional cleaners. The dark corners now had lighting. There was fresh paint on the walls. There wasn't a hint of smoke in the air.
"Isn't it great?" he asked me. "I can sell this baby for a ton of money and move to Florida! We even stopped smoking in the house so we could sell it quicker. Aren't you proud of me?"
I stared at him, looked around the living room, and asked "So you cleaned up this place and stopped smoking in the house because you wanted to sell it? That was your incentive? Your sick children coming to visit you weren't incentive enough?"
He looked genuinely confused when he responded. "Well, you know I've always wanted to move to Florida. Aren't you proud of me for finally being able to do it?"
I'm pretty sure I just stared there, blinking at him for a solid minute, before doing a literal heel turn and walking away. He kept shouting at me, asking if I was proud of him because he finally found a reason to stop smoking in the house. I ignored him and drove away.
He still calls me on my birthday and on Christmas, but I don't call him. His number is in my phone contacts. I'm not quite ready to delete it. But I won't be calling him. I can't tell you why that was the last straw for me, but there was a look in his eyes as he was basically telling me his desire to move to Florida was more important than the health of his children that I just couldn't ignore. I had to walk away.