Keep My Words

Today I found out that my mom didn’t tell my dad that I resigned from my job.  Seeing as how my father and I rarely speak, I have not told him either.  From what I gathered, their conversation on the matter went something like this:

…

“Ashleigh wants to quit her job and go back to school full-time,” says Mom.

Dad ponders for a moment while attempting to come up with the worst idea in the world.  Success!  “If she wants to do that, she should move to Virginia, live with us, and finish school here.”

Mom, driven by concern for her daughter and personal desire to avoid conflict with Dad, responds with “I agree.”

…

After discussing it, my mother and I have decided that he doesn’t need to know… not yet, anyway.

Incidentally, Sean asked me the other day what my relationship with my father was like growing up.  (It stemmed from a conversation we were having about our attraction to men who are emotionally unavailable.)

Growing up, my father was never around much.  He worked twelve hour days, six days a week.  He provided for our family.  We had a huge house, a swimming pool, an allowance, and televisions in every bedroom, along with other luxuries.  As a teenage girl, I didn’t value these things.  As I got older, I began to understand how hard my father worked to allow my family these comforts.

One recent Thanksgiving when my father was particularly intoxicated off of Crown Royal (on ice with just a splash of water), he looked at me and said, “I was a bad father.”

“Are you kidding?” I asked him.  “Why would you say that?”

“Because I was never there,” he answered.

I told him that he was wrong and that he was an amazing father.  I assured him that even though I was your typical ungrateful, rebellious teenage girl, I understand that I led a privileged life growing up.  I also said that I know it is because of how hard he worked, and I never take it for granted.

My father is an amazing man, and any of my friends who have met him will attest to that.  The lack of communication between he and I is not a product of hostility or resentment.  It is just how we have built our relationship.

Sometimes I fear life passing by without us knowing each other as well as we could.

What’s another thing my father told me that Thanksgiving?  “Don’t talk to boys.  All they want is sex.”

Father (above)

Father & Daughter, 2008 (below)

My job was posted on the interoffice job board today.  It says “college degree required.”  Amazing.  I can’t even apply for my own job.

Also, I had a talk with Des this morning:

“Doesn’t he read that blog?” Des asked.

“I don’t care,” I replied.  (I’m casting my care away, remember?)

“Just wondering,” Des said.

I didn’t mean to sound so indifferent. I continued.  “I’m trying not to hesitate writing whatever the hell I feel like writing.  He read it once.  I doubt that he keeps up with it.  But I suppose it’s a possibility.”

Des laughed.

I couldn’t help but wonder why she asked the question in the first place.  “Do you think it is bad that I am saying these things with the possibility that he might see them?  I refuse to censor myself.  Are you getting at something?”

“No, I don’t think you should be censoring.  I guess I was just wondering how you felt about the possibility that he might be reading,” Des answered.

I hesitated.  It would be a lie to say that the possibility hadn’t crossed my mind.  Then again, my mind is a junk drawer full of possibilities.  “The possibility – and I would be shocked and flattered in a weird way – that he reads it makes me want to not see him more,” I said.  “That may not make sense.  But.  Maybe because I am… because I write about him.  And that’s gay.  So he knows I’m gay.  And not all calm and cool and whatevs about it.  So it’s good.  Because I should run away.”

“You are so emotionally retarded that it hurts me,” Des said with a smile.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, you silly betch.”