Daddy

Okay. Fine. [crosses arms, like a much practiced 2 year old]

Daddy. You have one. I have one. There. End Blog.

Don't know why I started this damnable blog anyway. Don't no one read it no how.

I remember being cuddled in his lap. I remember the smell of his cologne, his lip ointment (Blistex) and his after-shave (Old Spice). I remember the smell of spray starch (Niagra) that Mom used on his uniforms. I remember him picking me up to give me this big noisy good night kiss. I remember him making me a "Monster Tape" of horrible scary haunted house sounds, including the sound of footsteps of the 'man that got out of the scary haunted house' (Mom was mad, and said that it would give me nightmares). I see a man in Air Force khaki and my neck about snaps off making sure it is/isn't my 30 year old father.

Those are warm and fuzzy memories. I like those. They make me feel -warm.... and fuzzy.

There are other memories not so kind. Not so happy. No reason to put them on the internet. Daddy could read this and would be hurt. Maybe more hurt than I was by experiencing them. I will not absolve him here. I absolved him in my heart - at least I thought I did. Details aren't necessary.



I can weld, I can ride motorcycles, I spent nearly 20 years in what was a male dominated profession, when I started. I fix appliances. I fix the commode. I can shoot a gun with a pretty good accuracy (better than I will admit). I puzzle out that stuff that men stand around and swill beer and converse over. Some would call me 'Fun'. Some would call me 'Whore'. Some would stand in line. Some would never admit that I fucked them, and you know who you are. Some have made accusations, that were true, and some I swore were false, and are none of your business. No, I am not bragging. I am telling you what I can do, and have done.


Apparently, I want to either fight him, fuck him or forget him. I can do none of those things.

There are two Daddy's. One resides in his own body. The other resides in my mind. Is my conscience, or my ka, or my inner me. I don't know what shrinks call it, and I don't care. I can hear him, and he sounds like me. Telling me I am never good enough, never smart enough and if I were a boy, I could do more.

No, I don't want a sex change. Yes, I have penis envy, most who know me, know this. I want to beat you at what you can do. Not rub your nose in it. I just want to do better enough that I know I did better, and you aren't real sure I can tell.

I want him to call me and tell me he loves me. I want him to tell me he is proud of me. I want him to stop ignoring that I live, I breathe, I suffer his absence.  If he does this because I said all that, it wont count. I want him to read these words and know that I cried many times, because Daddy didn't tell me he loved me. I fought him, I hated him. I fucked him. and I left him- professionally, personally, intellectually. I did this in jobs, with lovers and inside myself. Over and Over and Over. I suffer his absence. I miss him. I need him. But I haven't the energy to bridge that gap, except with this cry, the cry of a small child, locked away in the cellar of my soul. Daddy, I miss you. 


It was short. It was brutal. It was the second one today.