It’s heartwarming to see all the posts of people sharing special moments with their fathers on this day, or remembering with fondness the moments they’ve shared in the past. I still struggle, though, to not feel a twinge of bitterness and to keep away the pull of sadness on days like this. As you know, I did not, and do not, have a father I can, in good conscience, celebrate. For me, father’s day is a reminder of the darkness of an abusive home. It is a reminder of tears shed at every hour of the day, and of the screams that still sometimes echo in my dreams.
I’ve worked hard to come to a place where things like this don’t affect me as much, but more than I’d like to admit, I’m not completely there yet. For me, father’s day opens many wounds that are still fighting to heal. Each year, I find myself combing through my memories is desperate search of some bright frame in the storyboard of my relationship with my parents. Each year, I return from my search empty handed. Instead, I find myself slipping back into the emotional and mental rhythms that I’ve worked to free myself from.
I do not intend to bring down anyone who is blessed with happiness on father’s day. You all have a wonderful thing that deserves to be celebrated. It is important, though, to remember those who are not so blessed. It’s important to remember those who struggle to deal with these days, for whatever reason.
While this post is a confession of what this day means to me, it is also a hopeful reminder to all those facing similar situations. It is a recognition that, somewhere, there is someone who shares your experience. There is someone who, without ever having met you, can love you, simply for what you’ve been through. This post is a recognition of undying hope. There is hope that I will be better to my children and my wife. There is hope that I know what mistakes not to make.
There is hope, that one day, I will celebrate father’s day too.