January 26, 2002
I visited Dad's grave today. And, I told him all about Sydney. I asked what he thought, and realized how foolish that may have been. After all, a dead man can't talk to you, no matter how much you wish otherwise. Again, I'd like to think he'd like her. He was always a sucker for beautiful, strong, fragile women. That's where I get it from, I think. After all, mom meets that profile as does Syd. But it got me to thinking -- if Dad was still alive, would I ever have met Sydney Bristow, the woman who has changed my life? I don't think I would have.
Which leads me onto a stream of what ifs, which is something I only follow when I'm drinking alone (just like last weekend, lord, I need a life), at home by myself (again, I need a life), in ratty pajamas thinking of what might have been. Or what never could be, is another way of looking at it. If I was female, one would say I was on an emotional roller coaster, but since I can't show my weakness at work or with any of my friends, I had better have a place to let it out, so this journal is it. Stupid idea mom had when I was eight and dad died, was to keep a journal. Now, over 20 years later, I still keep one. Of course it's not all about how much I hate him for leaving us now. Now it's about my pathetic existence as a human being, seeing as the one woman I love I can never have.
Anyway, I spoke to dad today about her. And I almost felt a feeling of forgiveness wash over me. It was as if he forgave me for hating him when I was younger and naïve, and forgiving of her and her family. After all, dead men aren't supposed to harbor any bad feelings. I know that. The feeling calmed me in a way few things have been able to in years. Not even Alice was ever able to calm me this way. The only other people who have been able to make me feel this way are my mother and Syd. Mom, with her hugs as sobs racked my child body when dad was gone and I was still too young to understand. Syd for two reasons -- first, she trusts me. Implicitly with her life, her feelings and she feels comfortable around me to cry. Second, because she understands me. I can look into her eyes, and know that she understands things about my life that no one else can. The secrets, the lies, the fear, she knows it all. And hers is doubled.
So, what do I remember about Dad? I remember him showing up at my little league games, ready to coach in a dress with the sleeves rolled up, suspenders off the shoulders and shiny black shoes covered in sand. I remember him teaching me how to ride a bicycle. I remember going camping with him, and him being so proud when I went on a roller coaster for the first time. I remember going to Disney Land with him, and having him take a picture of me with Mickey Mouse. I remember the smell of his after shave, that he used to pull the comics out of the paper every day for me, that he used to read to me every night he was home, that he and mom never fought and that he always kissed her and that she always blushed. I remember going to church with him -- I quit going after he died. I remember him going with me to get my hair cut. I remember waiting anxiously, faced pressed against the window, when he was away on a business trip. I remember seeing him cry when mom had a miscarriage, although I didn't understand at the time. And I remember being extremely pissed off when he never returned home. When I found out he was killed while working for the CIA, and I vowed never to follow in his footsteps. But he was my idol, everything I wanted to be, and though that's cheesy, it's true.
I want to be like him, complete with the family and kids. And I want to be able to do things that he never was able to do, so he can watch over me and live through that. God, how much I still miss him after over 20 years. It's mind-boggling.
I visited Dad's grave today. And, I told him all about Sydney. I asked what he thought, and realized how foolish that may have been. After all, a dead man can't talk to you, no matter how much you wish otherwise. Again, I'd like to think he'd like her. He was always a sucker for beautiful, strong, fragile women. That's where I get it from, I think. After all, mom meets that profile as does Syd. But it got me to thinking -- if Dad was still alive, would I ever have met Sydney Bristow, the woman who has changed my life? I don't think I would have.
Which leads me onto a stream of what ifs, which is something I only follow when I'm drinking alone (just like last weekend, lord, I need a life), at home by myself (again, I need a life), in ratty pajamas thinking of what might have been. Or what never could be, is another way of looking at it. If I was female, one would say I was on an emotional roller coaster, but since I can't show my weakness at work or with any of my friends, I had better have a place to let it out, so this journal is it. Stupid idea mom had when I was eight and dad died, was to keep a journal. Now, over 20 years later, I still keep one. Of course it's not all about how much I hate him for leaving us now. Now it's about my pathetic existence as a human being, seeing as the one woman I love I can never have.
Anyway, I spoke to dad today about her. And I almost felt a feeling of forgiveness wash over me. It was as if he forgave me for hating him when I was younger and naïve, and forgiving of her and her family. After all, dead men aren't supposed to harbor any bad feelings. I know that. The feeling calmed me in a way few things have been able to in years. Not even Alice was ever able to calm me this way. The only other people who have been able to make me feel this way are my mother and Syd. Mom, with her hugs as sobs racked my child body when dad was gone and I was still too young to understand. Syd for two reasons -- first, she trusts me. Implicitly with her life, her feelings and she feels comfortable around me to cry. Second, because she understands me. I can look into her eyes, and know that she understands things about my life that no one else can. The secrets, the lies, the fear, she knows it all. And hers is doubled.
So, what do I remember about Dad? I remember him showing up at my little league games, ready to coach in a dress with the sleeves rolled up, suspenders off the shoulders and shiny black shoes covered in sand. I remember him teaching me how to ride a bicycle. I remember going camping with him, and him being so proud when I went on a roller coaster for the first time. I remember going to Disney Land with him, and having him take a picture of me with Mickey Mouse. I remember the smell of his after shave, that he used to pull the comics out of the paper every day for me, that he used to read to me every night he was home, that he and mom never fought and that he always kissed her and that she always blushed. I remember going to church with him -- I quit going after he died. I remember him going with me to get my hair cut. I remember waiting anxiously, faced pressed against the window, when he was away on a business trip. I remember seeing him cry when mom had a miscarriage, although I didn't understand at the time. And I remember being extremely pissed off when he never returned home. When I found out he was killed while working for the CIA, and I vowed never to follow in his footsteps. But he was my idol, everything I wanted to be, and though that's cheesy, it's true.
I want to be like him, complete with the family and kids. And I want to be able to do things that he never was able to do, so he can watch over me and live through that. God, how much I still miss him after over 20 years. It's mind-boggling.