This woman used to email me when I was in college and tell me about my father. She was his girlfriend, and his severe dyslexia, among other things, kept him off the computer from finding out things about my life and what I was up to. She would use Google to track me down, and I accepted her messages even though they weren’t even remotely welcomed. I haven’t spoken to my father since I was nine years old and that was for a reason.
A few months ago she friended me on Facebook and sent me a message thanking me for accepting her request. I didn’t realize it was her when I accepted, and frankly, I probably would have accepted her no matter what because that’s the sort of behavior I’m up to lately. I don’t really care.
So I friended her thinking it was an innocent blog reader and she sent me this message telling me that she had broken off from my dad because of his drug use and how he was abusive to her own child. His drug use? I never knew.
My mom was the kind of mom that loved me so much that she would have never broken my heart by telling me that my father used cocaine and pot as a means to cope with his own emotional problems. It ripped me apart to confront her about this. I can’t even tell you what it’s like to get my mom to confess to something so sad, but it is, without question, the thing I enjoy least about living. Like asking her to tell me where babies came from and why people die, my mom, my very best friend in the world, had to explain to me why this woman would write such things. At the age of twenty-five whole years old I still can’t comprehend it fully.
My dad is an man who lives in Pennsylvania and still treats children as horribly as he treated me and he uses drugs. And that breaks my heart. I would love to love him. I really would more than anything, but it’s way too late. Maybe some day we’ll work it out, but for right now, I’m concentrating on me. And I hope he’s concentrating on him. And for this woman that told me so many things about my own father that I wasn’t prepared to hear, I hope it made her feel better.
There are broken hearts on each coast. That’s all I know for sure.