Death

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Death

Despite everything that happened, I loved my father and still do. To this day my biggest regret is not connecting with him more. I do not forgive him for what he put my brother and me through, but I regret not trying to get to know him on a deeper level, particularly as an adult. When I talk about my childhood, people always say something along the lines of:

“But you were just a child and he was the adult. He should have done more; it was his fault that your relationship fell apart.”

Yes, he was the adult and I was the child. But that truth does not change my role and my actions towards him. I still made the choice to limit contact. I still made the choice to become emotionally distant. I still made the choice to stop seeing him altogether for years. Despite all that he was and all that he did, I still played a role in our relationship, or lack thereof.

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The Carrion Feeder

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The Carrion Feeder

The morning that I found out that Dad had passed away, I drove over to his house. I knew the process of sorting through his possessions could not wait at all, it had to be done that day.

One of Dad’s neighbours, Jackie, had called to let me know that Dad had passed and that his house had already been robbed. She was distraught. Wailing over the phone, coughing the details out between cascades of sobs. Poor lady, they were so close and now she was stuck living there on her own. She was probably the closest friend that my dad ever had. They would spend hours at each other's house everyday drinking coffee and making art together. Dad of course was her dealer.

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Blackness

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Blackness

Throughout my childhood I would always see things through other people’s eyes. Not in the empathic sense, but in the seemingly literal sense. I would never be truly in my own mind, rather I would 'see myself' from a third person perspective. This was true for most of my memories, dreams, and imaginations. It would even somehow occur in real time. For example, when walking down the street to the local shop, I would not see the goings on from my own perspective. Logically, I would be using my own eyes to navigate and avoid obstacles and the like, but internally, my perception of reality would somehow be simultaneously presented to me from an outside perspective.

It was as if I was constantly observing my life through a television set, watching the characters interact, seeing them move and hearing them talk. Just like when you are watching television, there is little emotional investment in the outcome. You know that it is all just an act and that everyone involved is just pretending. So what if the main character dies, this show is not real. So what if his brother is being bullied, this show is not real. It does not matter that somebody is doing drugs in front of their five-year-old child, this show is not real.

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Fitting In

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Fitting In

Attachment theory proposes that the relationship that forms between a parent and a child can significantly influence the dynamics of that child’s long term interpersonal relationships. The infant’s ability to develop trust in their caregivers will influence their relationships for the rest of their life.

Attachment theory further suggests that how an infant is raised will actually change the internal narrative of the child, the way they look at, judge and observe the world. This carries on into adulthood and will colour every interaction and event. How they view connection, love, and life are all skewed based on the narrator that lives within.

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Lessons Learnt

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Lessons Learnt

All parents want to teach their children the ways of the world. Guide them through the ambiguities of life showing them with a soft and gentle hand, the lessons that they learnt the hard way. Parents will say things like ‘be careful crossing the road’, ‘remember to say please and thank you’ and ‘follow your dreams’ with the hope that their young will heed their advice. Doing so will hopefully result in their child having the skills to successfully navigate their way through life in a much more secure and painless way. To his credit, Dad was no exception, he did teach me some things.

He taught me how to fight. When I was quite young, I had a bullying issue. In the beginning it wasn’t too serious, just some posturing and the occasional threat. However, over time the threats became real and it often turned physical. To make matters worse the other kids were starting to join in. Once I summoned the courage and told Dad about it, he was visibly saddened. He pulled me aside and showed me how to hold myself in a fight. Told me how to clench my fists, put my guard up and how to throw a punch.

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Play It Again Daddy

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Play It Again Daddy

If you have children or younger siblings, you will know just how obsessive they can be when it comes to watching their favourite movies. Often they will want to watch the same show again and again to the exasperation of the rest of the family. Relentlessly quoting their favourite lines and demanding that it is always on.

For the most part, this is a win-win. This hypnotising program can serve as a well-deserved respite from the pressures of raising children. For a few precious hours, they are entertained and mum and dad can relax. They can get onto that project they have been meaning to do, read a book, exercise or have a long overdue adult conversation.

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Just Popping By

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Just Popping By

I loved going for drives with Dad, he would always let me choose the music and never complained about my taste. It’s one of the little things that made him special to me. It made me feel like I was important, no one else let me choose the music.

Dad loved to go camping, and from a young age he encouraged me to develop an interest myself. The long drives up past Ballarat into the Victorian high country allowed for a lot of time to listen to music. Back then he drove around in a yellow tradesman van. It was one with only front seats and a large open space in the back. The windows even had flowered curtains. Similar to his house, his van was a mess. Discarded food wrappers, old drink cans and generally just filled with trash. It always had an interesting musky odour about it, not overpowering, just ever present. But hey, that's what all vans smell like right? Man I was naïve.

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Hoarder

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Hoarder

I realised just how bad Dad's living conditions were about a year after his death. I was talking to a cousin of mine who had recently become a police officer. It’s not often that you get a chance to have a firsthand glimpse into the seedy underbelly of the society you live in. So I jumped at the opportunity, asking for recounts of some of her more memorable highlights on the job.

After describing some interesting car chases and instances in which she had to draw her weapon, she began describing a case where she was called to a disturbance at house in a fairly shady area. The neighbours had heard a questionable noise and were concerned enough to inform the police. My cousin was the one who answered the call and arrived with her partner at the scene.

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A Day In The Life

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A Day In The Life

I always knew that my dad was an addict, but it took me a while to truly understand the difference between my dad and my friends’ dads. However, as I moved from primary school into high school, the differences became more and more apparent.

One of my close friend’s father was a truck driver who drove semitrailers interstate on a regular basis. I remember this friend complaining about how his father was often not at home for long periods, but when he returned they would go to the football or play at the park.

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The Night My Dad Died

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The Night My Dad Died

On the night of my father’s death, I actually had plans to visit him. If these plans were not changed, I may have been the one to discover his passing and in doing so, prevent his neighbour from breaking in and robbing his lifeless corpse ...

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Who Let The Bum In?

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Who Let The Bum In?

By the end of year seven, I was starting to realise just how different my father was from those of my friends. He rarely worked in a conventional setting, and I had never known him to have a full-time job. Thinking back, I am not sure if he had ever held down full-time employment in his life. I only remember him working here and there, helping his friends with basic labouring or graphic design work. That, and the drug dealing.

The lack of a role model demonstrating the dedication needed for full-time employment has left me struggling with employment issues of my own. I know it is illogical, but I can't help but almost envy what he had, the 'freedom' of his lifestyle. Yes, he was very poor, but despite only having possessions of modest value, he had one thing that most people seemingly did not have. Time. Time to spend on projects, artwork and gardening. Time for personal development, for friends and family. Time for anything other than the monotony of the daily grind. Maybe that is just a rose tinted version of the truth.

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