My Hero Never Saved Me

Growing up most of us latch onto one person: someone you always want to follow or be around; someone you want to emulate; someone you think the world of. For most of us, that person is one of our parents. For a lot of girls, it’s dad. We’re all “Daddy’s little girl,” aren’t we? You choose Daddy over Mommy almost every time, because almost always he’ll say “yes” when Mommy tells you “no.” You live for the days you get to go places, just you and him; you look forward to Career Day at school because in your eyes your dad has the coolest job; you dream of the day your dad walks you down the aisle to your soon-to-be husband. All the things a girl needs, she can count on her dad. Right? Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? That’s what I thought; I mean that’s what the songs and movies say…

As a kid, my dad could do no wrong. He was the strongest, coolest, bravest dad in the world and you could not argue with me on the subject. He was always the drummer in some band, he was in law enforcement, and he knew his way around a car so of course that made him ten times cooler. Who wouldn’t want to get picked up from school in their dad’s personally built Camaro? I would confidently brag, “Yeah, my dad built his Camaro from scratch.” And in the back of my mind I’d follow with, “What can your dad do?” My favorite detail to boast about was his music abilities: “My dad is a drummer in a band; can your dad play music?” Like I said, he could do no wrong.

Then as you get older, you start to see things differently. You start to notice stuff, like when he doesn’t come to your soccer games, or when he’s rarely home to say goodnight. And let’s not forget the times he shooed you away from his working on his truck. Yeah, those little moments? You realize they’re not so little and you start to comprehend and it stings you right in the feelings as you age.

When my parents split up, it carved into my brain even more how absent my father was. He’d pick us up on the weekend (as per the custody agreement); we’d have a grand ole time and when Sunday came he’d return my brothers and I to my mom and say, “I’ll see you next weekend.” Next weekend never came. In fact, a lot of “next weekends” never happened for us. He’d disappear without so much as a phone call for months at a time, and waltz back into our lives as if we had just seen each other not so long before. And I just played along. Why? I was so attached to the notion of being close to my father that I let it slide. I allowed it to happen without any explanation because I was afraid to ruin the moment I had just seized with him and I didn’t know when I was going to get another one. Instead of telling him, “You know something Daddy… it kinda hurts when you walk in and out of our lives,” I just smiled and put on a happy face for him because I enjoyed whatever time I had with him. But every fiber in my body wanted to ask why.

After graduating high school and building a life of my own I still kept in touch with him. I… me… I made any and every effort to have a relationship. I made the phone calls; I sent the holiday text messages. One day I had had enough. I was so tired of feeling as though I was the only person to care to have a father-daughter relationship. So I stopped calling. I wanted to see if he would attempt to call me. Maybe he would wonder why I wasn’t calling every weekend; maybe he would worry something had happened to me. Just maybe he would be concerned for my well being… Nothing. I had to face the painful fact that my own father wasn’t that interested in keeping me in his life. He was okay with going months without talking to me. He was fine with not making sure I was at least breathing. And for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why. Was it something I did? Did I perhaps say something that offended him last we spoke? Of course not, because he’s the kind of person to say so if something did bother him. Right? That’s what I was led to believe, at least.

So there I was. Fatherless for being fed up with a father who forgot to call on my birthday (did I mention I’m his firstborn and was his only born for six years?); a father who wouldn’t bother to explain why he hadn’t called or came to get me for a three month period; a father who only seemed to take interest in my life yet never delivered on said interest (played four different sports; came to one tournament). What upset me even more was how I made it okay for all of these things to happen. I said nothing about my heartache. And for such an outgoing, open person (that’s me, I’m talking about me), it almost made me sick to realize that I not once said something about what bothered me.

But why? Because he was my dad? Because I was clutching onto any time I could buy with him? Who, a man who only gave my brothers and me the time of day when it was most convenient for him? Wow. Someone slap me, right? How low could I get? And you know what’s hilarious (not really)? A lot of the personal issues I struggle to deal with slash get rid of today… you can thank my dear ole dad.

I took after him in a lot of ways; my humor, my goofiness, my temper and stubbornness, my love for trucks and classic cars. He was a man’s man and he was the funniest person you would have ever known. I was a starry eyed kid with a dad who could do no wrong. I was so proud to be his daughter. He made me tough; after getting hurt he would tell me, “It’s far from the heart.” He made me laugh 'til I cried. He rarely got mad at me and always took my side. He was the guy who never made it boring. And then I realized he was really the guy who never kept his promises. He was the guy who said he’d make it to my track meet, and the guy who never showed. He was never there when I needed back up with my mom. He wasn’t there the first time a boy ever broke my heart. He was my hero… And he never saved me.