incompletion pt 1
What creates the feeling of incompletion? Does completion simply stem from familial relations or maybe from friendships at a young age? I don’t know, I don’t know what creates a feeling of completion because I feel incomplete.
And maybe this is a very familiar feeling for most everyone? I don’t think many people talk about it. I wish someone would.
I wonder why I feel this way. Let me think, hm. I didn’t have a very complete relationship with my father. I also didn’t have a very complete relationship with my mother. A long time ago, I did but then it all began to fade as I grew older. The facade slowly shifted and revealed true colors, I suppose.
It’s hard to configure feelings while being young and impressionable, and it’s even harder to look back on those configurations and try to create some form of thought years and years later. But, if I have to look back and consider, what realizations do I have?
My relationship with my father began as stable. I loved my father and I know I was a very wanted daughter, he wanted me. I was loved and cherished, as a daughter should be. I remember going to the pool with him and laughing in the shallow end while Justin pushed his head underwater and I screamed to let him back up. I always felt the need to protect him. He was always mild and meek and less than, or so it seemed, as far as my emotions could comprehend. So I would push Justin off of him and my dad would reemerge with a grin on his face. I’m okay, he would tell me. I remember the times with my dad before the discomfort overtook our interactions. I remember him pushing me on a swing and helping me learn to ride a bike. I remember choking on a gumball beside his small, red car and him whacking my back as I coughed it out. As years continued, the feelings surrounding our relationship shifted.
Suddenly, his lack of effort was what took over. His lies and secrets, and the web he created that I got wrapped up into. I really thought I hated him. He knew about me and I knew about him. My mother’s constant disapproval of him somehow merged into disapproval of me. I was just one with my father, or so it felt. We felt like one in the same. And I saw how much my mother loathed him and pulled his hair and screamed in his face, while Justin and I sat back and watched while tensely eating our spaghetti. Two hours later, still eating.
These years dragged on and on, and finally the truth was unveiled and the lies were extinguished. He sold his small, red car and life shifted. At this point, every positive interaction with him felt like a facade, like a performance to uphold some kind of peace. But why was keeping the peace put on my shoulders? I didn’t like him, I’d hardly speak to him, really only if necessary. I wanted to live a childhood with a single mother and forget his existence. But maybe, really, I just wanted to forget my own existence. Seeing so much of one person in yourself can become so difficult especially with constant turmoil.
The years continued, and embarrassment of him and who he was dimmed. I really didn’t mind my dad much as I got older, closer to adulthood. But I realize that when trying to find a conclusion to this feeling and configure where we’re at now, I can’t. I don’t know what ever actually changed and I don’t know why. I love my dad and I feel so, so much for him. I feel so bad for him. I feel so sad for myself. It’s just as I said, like father, like daughter.