I know a lot about my father. I know he was a weed drug dealer in Mexico for years and that he stopped only because of getting a big fat severance pension. I used to smell the burning cannabis and not know why or what it was because I was a little girl and little kids shouldn’t know that much about illegal drugs. It was even on our way between the airport and the house he then owned in Mexico.
I know that one night, years ago when I was walking home along Fifth Avenue (Manhattan) and I was already above the age of eighteen, he had me followed by someone I managed to ditch along the way. The guy followed me for some blocks before I started suspecting him of following me. When I slowed, he did, almost like he was being sloppy so I’d know he was following me, like he felt bad or something. When I faked like I was going to Madison, he went, then I went back to Fifth and he kept going like he’d given up. Anyhow, I didn’t see him following me after that.
I know that he had someone sent to scope out one of my exes when I was dating him.
I know he committed some manner of crime in Bermuda. I actually heard this from the horse’s mouth, though he wouldn’t say what it was. I know he’s had the man I’m in love with beaten tons of times. He’s had plenty of people intimidated and manipulated in other ways.
He’s had the nerve to say he’s an honest person and has never lied his whole life to my face, straight-faced, too.
He cheated on my mother when I was eight by going to Mexico without us with this German girl. That’s what my mother called her years later one night when she was drunk and angry enough to say it in front of me and our guests. That was what sparked their divorce. It took four years to finalize all the details. I know, ‘cause I was twelve when it was over. They paid for therapy for me instead of trying to buy me with guilt gifts.
I know that during the year that I was born, even beforehand, I was on a hospital bed and saw my father and my mother in the lab and felt pain in my head, neck, and spine. They were participating in it.
I know that every day of my life, my father made me feel like I was never good enough to gain his approval. I eventually realized I wouldn’t have it and that I might as well quit trying to get it. I might as well just focus on me, what I think of myself, and gaining my own approval. I think that I’m imperfect, I have work to do on myself, I’m a work in progress, but I mean well and I’m smart. I’m learning to be wiser in life. I know that I never want to be the kind of parent he was. I would teach my kids that I’ll always love them, but that they need to seek their own approval, too. They need to like, accept, and respect themselves no matter what. I think that’s as close to true inner happiness as anyone can get.
I love that his doctor recently prescribed him medical marijuana. He’ll finally chill out and the munchies will help him gain weight since he’s grossly underweight. For someone he’s tried to keep under his thumb well after I turned eighteen, when he should’ve started respecting that I was my own adult, it’s going to be a relief if he actually starts taking it.