Dear Dead Dad

Sometimes when I think of you, I think of how much I’m like you. It’s ironic because I spent so much of my life thinking how different, how far apart we were. For some reason, I always sensed you didn’t like me very much. I think you loved me … it’s just that you didn’t like me as a person. I know there were a few times that I felt your disapproval — when I wasn’t butch enough throwing the ball at a game; if I styled my hair a certain way; if my bell bottoms were too wide; if I spoke too softly. Was I right? Did you feel that way, or was it just in my own head? I guess I’ll never know. We talked before you died, but it wasn’t what I hoped it’d be. I told you that I loved you, and you probably did, too. But why is it that I can't remember those words coming from your lips. Still, it was nice getting real with you. So I'll be a little more real: I’m gay. My bad. I should have told you so that you could have gotten to know me better. But I was scared because I thought you’d like me even less. Did you somehow know this? Did it make you feel uncomfortable around me? If it did, I understand. I was uncomfortable with it, too, and for a long time. Most of my life. So, really, we’re very much alike. I didn’t like you because I thought you didn’t like me. Maybe we both didn’t like ourselves. Maybe that’s why we both became alcoholics. Maybe that’s why we both isolated … why we both wanted to be left alone rather than go out with friends, or take a trip, or start a new career. I wish we didn’t have to spend our lives together like that. For the past five years, I’ve been on a journey of sobriety. It’s also a journey of self-acceptance, learning to love myself and also others for who they are — not who I think I want them to be. One more thing. Even though you’re no longer on the planet, I sense your presence. Sometimes at night when I dream, you come to me and hug me, telling me that it’s all good, that you’re thrilled with me. Thrilled. You’re good, too, dad. I love you, and I like you. Love, Don