Today is my dad’s birthday. He was born October 19, 1944. He would have been 72 today.
As I am sitting here looking through these photos of my dad, I see something in these pictures that I never noticed until now. Love.
I assumed that since he was hard on me as a kid that he never loved me. For years I hated him. I took all his love for granted. He had loved me from afar because I had pushed him away. It was my fault, but not on purpose.
See I believe I started to push him away when I was three. The night I woke up and the cops were there taking my mom to the psych ward. They created such a ruckus it woke me up. I rounded the end of the hallway to see two cops trying to get my mom into handcuffs. They weren’t having much luck. She was pretty strong.
I was traumatized. I thought the cops only took bad people. My dad was not doing anything to stop them from taking her from me. In my eyes, he should have done something. After all, I was a toddler. My mom was my world. I resented my dad from then on and I hated cops my whole life. This helps explain my problem with authority and cops during my teenage years and during my twenties.
It also explains why I pushed my dad away. Every time the cops showed up to take mom away, dad was always the bad guy. He was the one who called them or signed her in. But he had to. She was a mess. She was schizophrenic, after all.
I took his love for granted. He never stopped loving me. I just didn’t allow it. Man this facing the truth really sucks. It’s true though. Every man I have ever been involved with, I never trusted. They may have loved me, but I wouldn’t allow it. I left them before they had a chance to hurt me. A fear of being hurt has been my pattern with men all of my life. I was a runner.
Love is hard sometimes folks. Save yourself a long day of crying and go to whoever you think doesn’t love you and welcome it. They do love you. If you only allow them to.