I’ve been spending a lot of time recently writing about the relationship between myself, my girlfriend and her three-year old son. My girlfriend and I have been dating for nine weeks, but it’s mostly the relationship between myself and her son that has me most… concerned.
When I look at him I see a future with an absentee, neglectful father. I see paternal grandparents who can’t be bothered to get involved in his life, and an overbearing passive aggressive maternal grandmother who has alienated both of her own daughters and her son.
I watch him climbing and playing and laughing and totally oblivious to what’s coming, and I can see a future where he spends years wondering why he’s not worthy of having a father… or forces himself to become satisfied with whatever father-substitute he finds.
There are a lot of dynamics in these relationships I’ve recently gotten into… so I thought this Old Post Day would be a perfect opportunity to revisit the first post I wrote specifically about my own father.
A Lying Maoist Revolutionary Con Artist Stole My Family And All He Left Me With Was A Crappy Bike
June 27, 2007
I lived with my father for eight years, but I have no memories of him. I’ve only ever seen two photos of us together, and they were taken within moments of each other. I was eight when my mother left him and took my little brother and I away. The next time I saw him was when I was fifteen, I took a train to the city where I grew up. When I got to the station I walked right past him because I had no idea what he looked like. As far as I know — after I turned around and walked back to him — that was the first time I shook my fathers hand.
When I was a child my father believed he was a great man who was in the middle of a great revolution, and things get sacrificed during revolutions. Like family. Or maybe — as he tells the story now — he was just a magazine publisher who had unwittingly acquired a loyal and slightly depraved following of Marxist rebels intent on taking over… something. Whatever. The truth is pretty simple, however, my father told lies that corrupted and nearly killed the people who trusted him.
I want this to be over. Everything, EVERYTHING… everything in my life comes from the lies my father started telling before I was borne. My father lied to my mother to get her to marry him; my father lied to his friends and family and caused them to follow him into a Revolution he had no intention of ever fighting; my father lied to my mother’s friend and then came Eric; my father lied to his next girlfriend and then came my sisters; my father lied to them and to me and to my brothers and denied us a family… I need this to be over because my fathers’ lies have nearly killed me, nearly killed my youngest sister, have created a situation where I’ll never know my youngest brother and he’ll never know us. My father’s own brothers, most of them, have only recently started to communicate with him. The people who believed in him, the people who raised me, are still living in the horrors that he put them into.
There were several insightful comments left on this post. But there were also two left from a family member who also lived through my father’s bullshit.
In a moment of absolute insanity my brother gave our aunt and her daughter the link to Salted. The very first post she read was also the very first post I had written about my father… who led the cult she had also been a part of.
My aunt used to tell my brother and I stories about how fucked up my father had been. She had been a hero to us because she not only looked after us inside the cult, but she helped us escape. But then I found out, by accident, she had gotten into a relationship with my father just as the 90’s were dying off.
I’m not sure what she expected to accomplish by leaving comments, or even reading my posts, but her first reaction was to defend the cult I grew up in… it was our first communication in several years, and we’ve only spoken once since then.