Apparently you’re expecting me to call you for Father’s Day. I hope you’re not holding your breath. I have no intention of speaking to you, now or in the future.
You’ve had every single chance to be, and you’ve never been. You’ve run from every challenge, every opportunity, every growth, every encounter, everyone, every me.
You are the epitome of cowardice, the example of what I’d rather die than become. I’ve spent my entire adult life fighting to be anyone but you.
To me you are a loathsome and pitiable thing, one who could have been so much, could have flown so high, but instead lives a life of fantasies and could-have-beens, pretending you blame yourself for hubris when you’ve never dared approach the authenticity necessary for pride.
Without exception, there is no one I would less like to emulate, would less like to become. You are a mouse and not a man.
I could have been a better man than you. Some days I believe I am, hidden inside these X-chromosome pairs. The fact that you got to be considered a man and I never will is one of the grave injustices of my senseless world.
I have no room for your voice in my future, no room for your condescension, no room for your patronizing. I have no room for your trumped-up reality, which exists only in your own mind, that makes your miserable life bearable only by dragging others into it, enwretching them, and viling the whole repulsive mass out at your own feet, something to allow you to feel whole by comparison.
Your “faith” is nothing. Your “knowledge” is nothing. YOUR “God” is nothing. Because you are nothing, and they all come from you, only you, without exception or independent origin. You create an illusory world and inhabit it, because you’re too much the weakling to face the one that is.
And I’m through.
I have a life to live. I might yet become. I might yet matter.
But freeing myself from you, scraping all vestiges of you, your influence, your attempts to mold me, your warping of all that was good and beautiful and POWERFUL in me OUT, no matter the wound I leave behind, is crucial to my path forward.
You are too toxic, too radioactive, too poisonous to touch. And for so long, I could not escape your touch.
This effort has cost me dearly already, more dearly than I ever could have imagined. I missed my last chance to see my sister alive because I finally found the courage to refuse to see you.
And as far as it depends on me, you’ll see her again before you see me. I reject you with the strength and the power of my identity, which you’ve never made the time, made the room, to see. I exist in my own right, as a subject, not merely as an object in yours.
And the day you dare to become a subject to yourself, to live even your OWN life as though you might actually matter, willing to face the agony of existence, maybe then you may be a man.
But you’ve had every opportunity. And you refuse them. Over and over and over you refuse yourself. I will not fill that void for you. I will not let you manipulate me into being something small enough to be safe, but bigger than you’ve ever dared to be.
I would celebrate Father’s Day if I had a father. But you have chosen to be nothing.