I saw myself

Last night I began reading a self-help book of sorts. I usually roll my eyes at those types of books, thinking that a book could never help me help myself. Last night though, I was feeling quite down. I was feeling defeated emotionally and physically, and I was on the verge of sabotaging myself. I couldn't sleep and I didn't want to scroll through Facebook because that usually makes things worse. I wobbled my tired body over to my bookshelf, and as I was running my index finger across the spines of the many books that sat upon it, I paused. I stood there for a minute and thought hard about whether or not I wanted to crack this one open. An acquaintance from a long time ago gave me this book. I had never opened it, and never planned on it. I sighed, and pulled it from the shelf. What could it hurt?

The first chapter mostly explained how we are conditioned as children to act and think a certain way. I don't want to get too much into it. It wasn't religious, though God is mentioned. "I am God, you are God, we are all God"...something or other. God is light...we are light and what makes up the space between the stars. It was compelling, I read more. Then I began reading a chapter on how we should always be impeccable with our word. We should never say hurtful things because those negative words are black magic and can put a spell on someone, even if it isn't intentional. The smallest word can make a great impact on the person we say it to. Basically, be a good person and stop being an ass. Then I began reading about forgiveness. I try my hardest not to hold grudges, but I can admit that I am not perfect. It hurts me when I put out effort and the effort is not returned. I don't believe in "tit for tat", but I can't help that my feelings are bruised whenever the "tat" doesn't come.

So I'm reading about forgiving people who have hurt you in the past. Forgive them, because holding onto anger and sadness only hurts YOU. It keeps you from personal growth. As the chapter came to an end and I turned the page, the darnedest thing happened. A picture fell out from between the sheets of my book. This book I'd never opened. This book I placed on a shelf after I brought it home. The picture was of a boy. A boy with medium blond hair, brown eyes, and a cheeky smile. A boy of 8 or 9. A boy whose eyes were mine. I saw myself. I saw my father.

I sat there for a while and stared at this boy. He had the light in his eyes that children have that is on the edge of mischief and wonder. He was innocent and sweet. I saw my nephew who is 9, and I couldn't help but think of him and the way he is right now. Cocky, sure of himself, and absolutely convinced that he is and will always be the greatest. Still, they have their moments when they are confused. They don't know why they aren't able to do something, even though they are in fact, the greatest. They're so innocent and so ignorant. The world has yet to sink its claws into their minds and destroy their confidence. I saw my nephew and smiled, and as I studied this boys face further, I saw my nieces and my sister. I saw my daughter, and my eyes watered. I saw myself and the tears fell. I have his eyes, there's no denying that. I love the little boy in this picture. I love him so much that it hurts. It hurts because he has hurt me. This sweet little boy grew up into a man who didn't know how to be a father. He didn't know how to show his daughters love and attention. He thought that trinkets and presents, and cute little diamond stud earrings or a Gizmo furby would help make up for the time that he didn't spend with us. For the time that he did spend with us, but was elsewhere. I have good memories, don't get me wrong! Camping, bike rides, trips to Sam's Club or that Mexican restaurant that I can't remember the name of, where I got all the salsa I could ever want. I loved my father despite his shortcomings. I yearned for more of his attention. I saw him less and less as I got older. 3 times a year, twice a year, once a year. It's still mostly once a year. The 3 times a year started around the age of 13. He blamed my mother for moving 2 hours away and my mother blamed him. I realize now, as a parent, it was both of their faults.

I tried convincing myself as an adult, that I don't need him. That I don't care if he's in my life. I quickly realized how much of a lie that was when at Christmas last year, I was fully ready to give him the cold shoulder, and as soon as I saw him that all went away. I was a little girl again looking up at my daddy, wanting his attention and his affection and his praise. I wanted him to acknowledge my 45lb weight loss. I wanted him to tell me I looked pretty or at least tell me how beautiful my children are. He didn't, and I still feel  unsatisfied. I wanted him to hug me a little bit tighter even though I felt awkward with what little hug he did give me.

I'm not really sure where I'm going with this. Part of me is just typing this just to get it all out. I want to say that I forgive him. I am going to begin forgiving him. The picture in the book was a sign, and I have always believed in those. My father will never be the man I want him to be, and that's okay. I love him anyways. I am not going to attempt to strengthen our relationship, because I know that will lead me down a road to disappointment. I will be upset with him when he doesn't tell me or my kids happy birthday, but then I will forgive him. It'll be an endless circle of disappointment and forgiveness, and I accept that. Why would I put myself through this? Because when I looked at the picture of that little boy, I saw myself. I am half of him, and I choose to love that half.