Daddy Issues

It's now 11:15 a.m. on Saturday morning and I still have yet to sleep. My eyes feel hot and wet but not due to lack of sleep or yawning. I wiped the last of a few tears but a few minuets ago while sitting on the bathroom floor and decided that my age old confident, paper, in this case Microsft Word, should bare the brunt of some of the weight I carry.

I finally heard from mami about 36 minutes ago but have been waiting for 48hrs. She said that papi was finally released from Jackson Memorial where he was held for observation to no avail. That means that they apologized for not knowing what it is that has been ailing him this past month and a half. They need to run more test; seek other specialist they say. In the meantime my dad gets to bleed internally and paint the toilet bowl crimson red as his family frets over what could possibly come next.

And yet, for me it's not so much the next, per se, which has me all worked up but rather the unresolved past.

While a young kid I thought my pop to be was the handsomest, coolest, all eyes-on-me, can do it all, next best thing to sliced bread ever. Everyone thought so. Papi was indeed the life of the party, Señor Bad Ass, salsero monster, Mr. Popularity, alpha dog supreme and the list can go on but that's a natural side affect that someone's misguided sense of grandiosity can have on children.

Children tend to believe that crap, as they are not yet clouded by the bitter poisons of life and experience. So go and imagine the blow received when you come to learn the alpha in alpha dog implies hierarchy and if one thing is alpha, all other things at the very least come second. And so my life was marked by feelings of always coming in fourth or maybe fifth.

And so, I did everything that my little self could do to get his attention, a shred of praise, the nonchalant almost dismissive grace of his greasy hand rubbing my head for a second, whenever he forgot to stick to the script of his stagnant demeanor.

I wanted to be his best friend but he was already tight with Johnny Walker and couldn't make room for anyone else. That fun socially apt man that everyone loved and whose smile always attracted attention, was an unfortunate tireless unloving selfish tyrant and bully at home.

He thought me a great deal such as to be suspicious of "loved" ones, to be honest- like when he'd tell us exactly what he thought of us, the immediate command of attention the back of a hand to the face receives, jealousy means you care, whiskey means you don't have to, if someone loves you-you have the upper hand, and how to tie a fishing hook. Not in that particular order though.

He began preparing me for the name-call faggot in elementary school perhaps because he was intuitive, overflowing with foresight, or just the asshole we all made him out to be.

I think that there were times that I got the crap beat out of me just for the sake of maintaining normalcy, should a few days have gone by without my gaining new welts.

But, at least he had to pay attention to me in order to hit me.

I came to relish those moments when he would go tic-tic-boom. Blow after blow I'd stand my ground looking him dead in the eyes with either an unyielding smile or look of contempt on my face. I'd hold my ground as long as I could, my lack of tears and or defiance only further enraging him, quickening and strengthening the blows until at last strength would falter and reveal the broken boy.

Hence, time which could have otherwise been spent fishing was expended in other more tactile forms of bonding.

Bonding....The one thing I, we, have tried to do our entire lives, our missing family glue and what his platelets are now not doing. 'And I am so angry, have been for so long, mostly for caring, caring over the embarrassment of drunken antics, caring for his attention, approval, apology and now health and longevity.

The man who made me grow up too fast and has reverted back over the years to near childlike behavior, the singular most responsible person for screwing me up with lifelong issues, now requires compassion, prayers, attention, and responsible adults to tend to him.

The fucking irony!

The worst part is that despite the dysfunction, I care, 'not sure why but I'm sure that it has something to do with the power that the word family has on me. Furthermore, the situation forces me to think on the past and that often opens up a plethora of canned wormed emotions.

Mostly, I try and forget the past and pretend that it was hunky-dory, but I do so only in-between long distance calls, bad nightmares staring daddy as the boogie-man, and the list of dysfunctional relationships I have endured with selfish, petty, loveless assholes, to try and resolve the love papi was unable to provide.

Thanks dad!