Grad school took center stage in my life for a while and I guess I forgot I had a wordpress. I’m back, though. I miss old-school tumblr enough to get back into this–shouting into the void and all that.

Life updates: I’ve moved out of Portland–I do wish I still lived there, though. I’m conditionally licensed to practice clinical social work–that feels pretty cool. I remember talking with my therapist before taking the licensing exam and she asked me if I would finally feel competent once I passed and I said “no, Andrea. Don’t you know me by now?” She and I shared a laugh, but then she did what Andrea does best and challenged me by asking “why not?” One thing about growing up looking different from anyone else around you does is make you feel inferior no matter what you do or how hard you try.

Oh. Also, my dad died. I use the word because I don’t know what else to call him. The man who impregnated my mom doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. I am still processing how I feel about it. He had lung cancer that had metastasized to pretty much everywhere else including his brain. He was 56. It’s weird when someone society tells you you’re supposed to love no matter what, even if you don’t know them, just dies. I always imagined that when he died I would hear about it after the fact. That maybe he overdosed and was found in an alley somewhere. That maybe he’d gotten shot again. That maybe someone hit him with a car because they didn’t see him begging for money on the corner. I never thought I would get a call during work, in the middle of a Wednesday, telling me he was in a New Jersey hospital and likely hours away from death–with cancer everywhere. None of us knew he was sick, but I’m sure he wanted it that way. I know he was ashamed of the way he lived, for one. I’m not sure he knew what he had, but I’m sure he knew he was gravely ill with something. He weighed 140ish pounds when he died, which is about 100 pounds less than what my mother knew him to be. He wasn’t a slightly built man. He was thick, muscular, and walked proud. A lifetime of hard drugs and abuse will do that to you–even without the aggressive cancer lumped (no pun intended) on top.

My whole life I clung to the hope that someday I would have a(ny) relationship with him–that I would have someone I could call “dad” and have it mean something. That will never be. Every time I see a father with his children I well up with tears–these days they’re harder to hold back. Why couldn’t I have one too? God, that sounds pathetic. I know it was for the best, considering his life choices and how he treated my mother, but it still feels like having a father was stolen from me. Dramatic, I know–even still, it’s how I feel.

Oh, and another thing I talked with Andrea about is how guilty I feel about it. I didn’t go to the hospital. I couldn’t bring myself to see him. I feel so guilty about it and I cannot figure out exactly why. Is it because it was the last chance I would ever get to see him in person and not as ashes on a shelf? Is it because I never reached out to him in all of my 31 years? Is it because both my sisters went and I stayed home to cry alone? Is it because I knew we would be making the decision to withdraw care and I just couldn’t handle witnessing it? Is it because I couldn’t bear to see another person’s last breath? It’s probably all of those things and more. Andrea says I should try not to feel guilty about any of it “you were the child–it wasn’t your responsibility to reach out to him.” She’s not wrong, but I could/should have done more, right? I’m exceptionally sad–mostly because my dad is dead, but also because I don’t think I would do things differently.

I’m writing this very late at night, while I should most certainly be sleeping. I have an early start tomorrow, but here on the couch I sit, teary-eyed, writing this blog that nobody will read.