LJI: The opposite of love isn't hate; it is indifference.

You left me long before you left me.

You left when you couldn't cope with the stress of being a parent. You left when you chose to indulge in your illegalities instead of bedtime stories and tickle fights. You left when you decided it wasn't worth coming home before we were all in bed.

You left when you quit your job and became "self-employed" as a barely making ends meet unable to provide for his family riding your wife's paycheck slacker. Worse, you took her away from me, too, for so many hours a day.

You left when you chose your lowlife friends over your family. You left when you quit going to church and getting out of bed in the mornings was an obligation you couldn't meet. You left when you stopped helping with homework, because the siren song of your obsession called you from the dark recesses of the basement.

You left when you started sleeping on the sofa instead of in your room with your wife. You left when you would move to the room when the rest of us awoke and started our day. You left when you stopped wanting to eat meals with us.

You left when you didn't care if you actually got visitation. You left when having us for the weekend took too much effort. You left when you couldn't be bothered to help us pay for our normal teenage lives, band and sports and car insurance.

You left us.

Worst, you never accepted responsibility. "She left me!" You told me this one day, unprompted. "I want you to know, she left me!"

I was 13, but I knew it was a desperate lie that you told yourself so you could believe that your life wasn't your fault. I just nodded, already wise to the futility of arguing with someone who had left his life behind.

Your terms, or nothing. That was how you remained in my life. I called. I came to visit. I made the effort - every effort, all effort. I went to therapy to learn to cope with being abandoned; I went to therapy to learn to cope with the memories of the Awful Times before she left you - the fights, the sounds of slaps, the holes in the walls, the screaming accusations, the smell of something disgusting wafting up from the basement when you stormed out, the rafters and windows stills shaking at the impact of your anger.

Then I left. College. Law School. Another city. Another state. Another life.

I called, still. I visited, still. I made the efforts, still. I doubled-down in therapy, because I was so afraid I'd be with someone like you.

I loved you, still. So much. And I hated you still, too.

Then you left everything but your body. I came home, to the hospital, where you looked so different and yet, still the same. You were there, looking at me, talking to me, but you didn't know me. You didn't know where you were, ranting at me and begging me to help you get out of jail. You didn't know that you had daughters. You didn't know anything.

Even though I thought my heart was immune to you, you broke it again. For two years, you were only in your own body sometimes. Sometimes you knew me, sometimes you didn't. Sometimes you knew you, sometimes you didn't.

When the call came from hospice that you were leaving for good, I didn't come home. I had nothing left to say. You'd met your grandson, but you didn't know him. You'd hugged me goodbye, and I think you meant it.

At the end, it grew desperate. You wanted so badly to be at home and I did everything I could to keep you there. I was grateful when I got the call that you'd finally left your body for good.

You left us.

But, truthfully, I don't remember a time before that happened.

I still love you.

I miss you. (That is the stupidest thing I've said my entire life.)

Good-bye, Daddy.




This entry was written for therealljidol 04: "Ghosting." If there is voting, I will share the poll. Thanks.