Welcome to Gaia! :: View User's Journal | Gaia Journals

I was supposed to write a personal narrative out of necessity for my AP English class. I wanted to write something quirky that would have everyone laughing. But a certain subject was nagging at me and it wouldn't leave me alone. I didn't want to write about this, I was driven to.

Its rather sad, but its extremely honest and I think kinda heartfelt.

Do enjoy. biggrin


“Your father left you a message on the machine. You should listen to it,” my mother greeted me. I shut the front door behind me and looked at her.

“Huh?”

A feeling of worry began to burn in my stomach and sweep through my body. I walked over to the phone with it’s new message light blinking madly. I stared at it for a moment.

“I called him back, and we had a pleasant conversation. I can tell how he is by the sound of his voice; he’s clean now, Megan.”

The acid in me grew. Clean? Why does that matter? Having a father as a separate entity in the family is something foreign to me. The woman in the room who cares so dearly for me, has, in all practical purposes, been both my mother and my father. Ah well, it has been easier in some ways; I’ve never had to worry about more presents on holidays or the strange noises parents make when they think their children are asleep. Anyway, I didn’t think anything my mother was saying was true, so I numbly pressed the play button.

When his voice came on it was like a flood of memories. It still had the same tone: deep, slightly scratchy and softened with an air that seems as if he still thinks of me as a young child. He misses and loves me.

I stiffened with my backpack still on my shoulders. The acid inside me changed, spread through my stomach and lodged itself in my throat, making my neck muscles cringe and my jaw clench.

“He’d really like to talk to you. I told him that you’ll be home by 7:30 and that you might call him at 8.”

Really now? Call a man who I have only seen in sporadic fragments for the past 15 years?

My mom looked at me. “Do you want to talk to him? It’s your choice. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but here’s a chance. You’re a young adult now, if you want to get to know him . . . call.”

I trudge into my room and toss my backpack on my bed. I sighed, and sat myself next to it, welcoming the fluff of my comforter. The burning acid went away in exchange for a heavy burden. That gray fog pushed down on my shoulders as unwanted emotions stirred in my head. Anger, sorrow, emptiness, love. I tried to brush the fog away but it refused to leave.

Why is he doing this now? I’m ok without him . . .this is only going to cause more frustration for me.

The truth is that I hadn’t completely healed yet. I hadn’t completely forgiven him for what he’d done and hadn’t done. He was always gone and the times I saw him only jerked at my heartstrings and reminded me that I still loved him. My mother walked in with one of those tender looks on her face that melts the cold and always give you strength.

“Underneath it all he’s basically a good person, Meg. His use of the drug is the reason why you never really got a chance to know him when you were younger. But now . . . now that he’s clean and sober and wants to see you, this . . . this might be the opportunity where you could get to know your dad.” She hugged me and left the room. I reached out my hand and took the cordless phone from its charger.

My mind knew what I wanted, but my body hadn’t agreed with me yet, and I couldn’t get my fingers to search through caller ID and find his number. The digital clock over my bed blinked past several minutes. When it read 7:58, I finally did it. I held my breath as it rang.

And when he picked up, I talked to him. Not stiff and nervous like some parents do with unacquainted children; we always had a way of making it seem like we had talked just the day before. He told me what was going on with his life and how well he was doing, and I filled his ear with niceties and all that was good in my life.

I’ve always told him things that would make him proud of me to give him something to hold on to. But never have I asked him, not once, the deepest darkest question. Why? Why did you choose meth over me? Over our family? I’m afraid to ask him. I feel that if I did it would shatter him forever. Someday I know I will have to . . . but for now I leave it be.

A date was set for us to meet, on his birthday no less, and we said our goodbyes. I hung up the phone and I felt, well, happy. I felt like the hole inside me in which I crammed sorrow and hate was brushed clean and filled with its missing piece. I had a father again and I felt like I could brag about it.

And so, after years without contact, my dad and I know each other again. I’ve met with him a couple times to just spend time and talk. There is a man behind the problem; he’s my dad and I love him. The unreliable glimpses I know of him from my past will be replaced with good memories. There’s still so much I’d like to know about him, and I’m glad that I now have the chance to ask questions. You miss someone most once they leave this world; but this way I know that I will never have any regrets.

Sorry if this left you depressed. At least I wrote it well, ne?