They Mess You Up, Part 2

Ever since I can remember, my father was my biggest idol. A mentor, a guru. In my eyes, he was God. The ultimate role model. No one could ever say a bad word about him when I was around, oh no. Unless, of course, they wanted to feel my wrath, and, you know. Get verbally abused. He was hardly ever home, but that was alright. I would forgive him anything, especially since, whenever he did show up, he'd bring me gifts, play video games with me, or at least let me watch him play. He was my best friend, but not much more than that, as I realised much later in life.

As you can probably already conclude from the fact that he was hardly ever there, he didn't take a very active part in the process of raising me. He took care of the things he thought to be important, like educating me in all the arts, music, literature, et cetera. Discipline was hardly what he was interested in, and the very few times he executed any sort of physical punishment were only when he found my attitude towards him unacceptable. But then again, how was I supposed to know where the boundaries are if they have never been established?

He had a tough time growing up himself. His father comes from a very wealthy family; French aristocracy that moved to Poland after Napoleon. Everything always came easy to him. He didn't have much to worry about, even in post-war Poland that did not belong to the wealthy elite, to say the least. He had a girlfriend from an equally well-situated family. From my understanding, they led a pretty happy, peaceful life, until said girlfriend had to leave the country for a month. My grandfather got pretty bored waiting, so he decided to have some fun with the maid. And that is the story of how my father was conceived. My grandfather wanted nothing to do with my grandmother or the child she was carrying, but his father was a very honourable man and forbid him from running away from the mess he created. My grandparents got married, my dad was born, and the nightmare began. My grandfather beat the living hell out of both of them regularly, until the second child came along. A girl. You always love your daughter more than the son, according to my grandfather, who never failed to remind my father about this supposed rule. So it began. Running away from home, drugs, generally speaking, self destruction. Sometimes my father would get beaten after coming back home for the first time in a month. I strongly suspect he loved those moments. He at least felt like someone gave a damn. Yet sometimes, his absence or presence, would go unnoticed. My grandmother loved both her children equally, but in her desire to please her husband in every possible way, she’d only show her son affection in secret. She had to hide her maternal love from the tyrant that her beloved man was. J., my father, never grew out of the burning desire to make his father love him like a child deserves to be loved, despite him being almost 50 now. And for that reason, I could never blame him for how much of a dysfunctional parent he, himself, has been.

When I was ten years old, I remember waking up one night to hear my maternal grandparents yelling and my mother trying to hush them. At that point, I hadn't seen my father in a good few weeks. I sat on the bed for a moment before my mother came in to check up on me and, seeing that I was awake, told me to go back to bed. Her voice was weak and even though the room was dark, I could tell that she'd been crying. The next day, I was informed that daddy would be away for a while but I shouldn't worry cause I’ll be able to visit him soon. Fast forward a couple of weeks. They took me to an out of town psychiatric hospital for a visit. At that stage, no one told me yet what had happened, but I had a vague idea, having heard some conversations within my family. My father was going to rehab. Not only that, he put the family in huge debt. His parents quickly reacted by getting a notary and finding a way around the whole situation, and in the end, they never paid a penny. Contrary to my mother's side of the family, which paid the whole thing off. After the rehab, my father got a job abroad, in the UK. Before he left, my maternal grandad, who was the one to pay off the majority of that debt, told him not to worry about a thing, he didn't have to pay any of that money back, but he only requested that he sends money to my mother so she can support me. He promised to do that and left. My mother never saw a penny. I, on the other hand, got money off him a few times years later, before I myself moved abroad. Money for drugs. Which he was perfectly aware of. I mean, how could he not be, since he took drugs with me a few times while I was visiting. He saw me have a near death experience when high and he got me drugs himself. That, and of course I told him what I needed it for. At this point, our relationship was still, in my mind, perfect. Who wouldn't want a father that lets them do whatever they want, am I right? It wasn't until I moved in with him in the UK that I realised how stupid I was for idolising him.

The first big slap to the face happened in Manchester. We moved there from up north, mainly for my university. It wasn't easy. The agency demanded half a year's rent in advance, none of us had a job, we were still a bit green in all the adult responsibility matters, me and two of my friends who moved with us. Because of that, we accidentally got ourselves in some debts. My father decided he didn't like Manchester and moved back up north, promising he’d help me pay off that debt, which was also his as much as it was ours. The day of the payment was getting inevitably closer and I called to remind him.

“I’m sorry honey, I can't afford to help you. I had to buy a TV. I'm just so bored in this small room, you know how it is.”

I didn't. I didn't know how "it is." I called his parents, crying. They helped me out financially, but I’m assuming they called him to tell him off, since later that day he called to yell I’m apparently a bitch for telling them. A few months later, he moved back in with us and everything kept repeating itself. I got so good at noticing when he spent all the rent money that after a while. All it took was him coming through the door and I knew we were in trouble. His “I f***ed it all off” followed by a shrug became a running joke between me and my friends, cause after so many disappointments, all you can do is laugh. And all of this I could probably let go. I understand he was depressed, even when he told me he was planning to hang himself, I managed to keep my cool and politely asked him not to do it at home, if it wasn't for what came a couple of years later. When he got settled and found a girlfriend, things started to look up for him. I was happy for him like any child would be happy for their parent, but there came a day when I needed his help. I lived with my boyfriend at that time, but the relationship started to get abusive. I needed a place to stay, even for a short period of time, but couldn't afford to rent a place by myself. Having a cat, even the cheaper version of house shares was out of the question. As you can probably already tell, he wouldn't help me. I was a nuisance, an annoyance, which he made perfectly clear. He would rather see his only child be homeless than let her crash at his place for a couple of weeks. He had his own life now and didn't need for anyone to suddenly come into the picture.

And that is how I lost my father. A person who I should be able to confide in, who, in theory, should be able to carry some of my emotional burden, yet I’ve always been the one who has to carry his, never the other way round.

A hedonist, slave to the flesh, who put his piece of the puzzle into the whole—the decadent, self destructive, degenerate Nihilist that I've become.