Seven years past

It was on this morning in 2012 that I found out all my fears were there for a good reason.  The friends and family were, in fact, avoiding me.  A bartender does not take off a random Saturday night for no reason (if he truly lives on tips, which was the story), and there were plenty of chances to meet family during visits, but no invites.  Not a one.  My fear was that I would not be welcomed, and I wasn't, because to maintain a living meant I had to go where the job was, and it wasn't there, and I was shunned.  I blamed myself and fell into drinking again, which at that point I had never really given up, but fell far harder than I had before.  This day was the proof, and it all went downhill from here.

(It wasn't even the job thing or not living there that they disapproved of, I believe, but that is the less hurtful thing to believe so let's stick with it.)

It was never going to succeed.  Perhaps if my life was like it is now, it would have, but remote working was not yet a thing.  And now here I am, about to make enough to live on my own again, anywhere I want, and work from home to boot.  It is a weird thing to make your living in your underpants half the time, and weirder to be paid well for it, yet I do now.

But seven years ago, I got the news.  And the reaction showed no empathy, no emotion.  It didn't matter what I thought of him, he was my father, and this morning in 2012, he'd died.

The reaction was, I believe I am quoting it correctly, "That sucks."

I've never pretended that I wasn't at fault for what happened afterwards... if that was his reaction to the life-changing event of losing my father, maybe we shouldn't be together after all.  He was kind to not move out while I recovered in the hospital from my stroke.  Heck, he was kind to trek across the country to live with me in a dopey town like Dayton.  But all the puzzle pieces I'd ignored coalesced in that moment:  his friends, his family, never wanted to give me a chance, and maybe even hated me from the beginning.  His younger sister said maybe five words to me, his older one wouldn't let her kid meet me, which for some reason he thought he should tell me.  They didn't approve and I saw it all clearly when he said those two words... "That sucks."

It "sucks" that my father was dead.  And I knew then the clock was just ticking on him walking out, regardless of what I did, so I slid into the hole deeper to help numb the pain (hint:  that never works).  

Seven years past.  Sometimes I wonder if he even knows I am still alive.  Or, to be honest, cares.