I wish my father was different.
I wish he loved me more than his money.
I wish he loved me enough to help me with my health challenges instead of denying their existence entirely, preferring to see me as a lazy loser, than as a delicate flower, or “sickly” as he referred to me in my youth.
I’ve known his story for years… The story about how he lost his hearing in his right ear when he was a boy because his father couldn’t afford pay for medical attention for the infection in both ears, only one ear… the cold heartedness of the Doctor demanding payment up front and his refusal to treat both ears based on ability to pay. It was The Depression, and it warped him forever.
Here’s my story…
I have a father with more money than anybody even knows… And he won’t help his daughter when she is sick… Not even to refer her to someone, even though he’s a doctor himself. No suggestions other than to take a cab to an emergency room when I am unable to eat or keep food in my body for 10 days while I handle the cleaning and staging of his (technically my) rental property, alone, in a city where I know no one.
He denies that I have so much to do every spring to make the property rentable by professional standards. He insists that his pathetic eyesight can discern the filthy mess he leaves each year as “clean and ready for renters “
It never is.
I scrub and scrub.
I always leave that place exhausted, overwhelmed and depressed.
Thank goodness he doesn’t leave the Internet or garbage running for my staging efforts!
That would make things TOO EASY.
I chose to be an artist, so, according to him, not only should I NOT make money, I should suffer for the rest of my life for being so foolish.
I do not deserve “easy”.
I do not deserve love.
You “win”, Dad
But only because you’re the one keeping score.