Thank You, Facebook Memories, For Reminding Me When My Dad Died
I’m kinda grateful for Facebook memories actually. It has a wonderful way of reminding me how much I’ve grown, how far I’ve come and I also get to see who is still in my life (or should I say, still on my “friends” list) and who got dumped.
It also is a great source of information, that probably should be relatively important to me, like the day my father died. That came up today. My first initial response was “Oh?”. Was it that long ago? 4 years, really?
I had no clue. I totally forgot the anniversary of his death. It never really mattered much to me.
My father never really mattered much to me.
Growing up ugly.
My whole upbringing was ugly. All of it. So was I (at least I thought so). I was raised by strict Italians, who were clueless as to how to raise children. There was little love, no encouragement and affection or support was non existent.
What we had a lot of was anger, hate, neglect and physical abuse. Oh there was lots of that. My childhood was disturbing and textbook dysfunctional. I had strained relationships with my parents growing up.
Our household was ugly.
It wasn’t until I became a mother that suddenly my mom was Mary fucking Poppins and my dad became the grandfather of the year. At least they will love my son and treat him right. There was some comfort in that.
Who needs who now?
As an adult, and eventually a single mother, I needed my parents a lot. I was constantly banging on their door for money. Money for rent, money for the electricity bill, money for groceries. I struggled a lot and they were always there to help me.
Years went by and me begging for money finally stopped but what did happen was mom ended up in a nursing home with Alzheimers and dad home alone needing his kids to care for him.
I would have rather chewed shards of glass dipped in cyanide than help my dad. I had no choice. There were only two of girls available to do that. I sucked it up and did my part. Begrudgingly, but I did it.
You make my skin crawl.
I never liked my father. I hate to use the word hate but ya, kinda like that. He was mean and violent and ignorant and ugly. So ugly. I really didn’t even like being in the same room as him. To be honest, just being in his presence was enough to make the hair on the back of my neck rise.
Years of emotional and physical abuse will do that to a person.
He was aging quickly and dementia was setting in. He would call at 3 am asking me to please come over “I don’t feel good Iva”.
Shards of glass dipped in cyanide.
I went. Every time he needed me, I went. And all I kept thinking was when the hell is this old man gonna die? 3 years after mom went into the nursing home, he finally died.
The day my sister called me to come quick to the hospital, was the best day of my life. You mean finally?? It’s happening!? I went quick!! And I cried. Don’t get me wrong. They weren’t sad tears. They were tears of relief and satisfaction.
We’re good, it’s cool.
That was 4 years ago today according to Facebook memories. Thanx Facebook, not that it really matters. I had no idea it was that long ago he had died. I didn’t even know the date.
But we’re cool now. I forgave him and my mom (who to this day is still rotting in a nursing home waiting for her ticket to the pearly gates) for all the evils they subjected me to. I’m over it. Really.
I realized they raised me the only way they knew how. The way they were raised.They were never taught any better. They had shitty role models. I get it now.
And I forgave them. And I healed. That didn’t happen overnight, but it happened. I finally got it and let it go.
I’m good now, it’s cool.