Dear Dad,
Usually, your birthdays pass by with a smile and an ache in my heart. Your death-a-versary in the spring passes by in the same way. Today, on what would have been your 71st birthday, I will smile and share happy memories, and then I'll laugh until I wipe tears from my eyes as my heart aches. But your birthday last year? It knocked me for a loop.
It felt like I couldn't breathe, like my chest and stomach were in a knot. I was numb and miserable, and even now, I've got tears in my eyes. I'm sure my vulnerable nature at that time was due to loving and missing you. But you combine that with the impotent rage I felt (and still feel) at this cruel cluster-f*** of a world and my terror over my mom's health? I couldn't handle it. On your birthday last year, I called in sick, even though I really wasn't. I slept until 10, then read fanfic and watched Tik Tok videos until 3 in the afternoon. Last year, I felt like a drained battery, dead and in need of a jolt that would only be a temporary solution.
This year, though, it's easier to handle. I miss you, and makes me sad that you're gone, but I'm okay. Growing up, I was your nurse, your cookie. When you came home with scratched and cut hands, I'd clean and bandage them, trying to put a band aid on every scrape, no matter how small. I think about day when I went to work with you, the two of us alone together in a field, surrounded by cattle and nature. I remember the gentle peace of those days. I remember the time I panicked and forgot how to stop the tractor I was driving, how I stared at you through the cab's glass in horror, and how you ran up and fixed it all for me. I remember the time time I took a corner too fast and you almost flew off the back of the four wheeler. I remember when Mom was working and couldn't see my grade school play, but when I walked in, there you were, smiling at me.
I still remember the ways were the same. How the two us connected on a mental level of sharing our interests, of learning facts and history of places in the world. I remember driving through the Bay Area to spend some time with you. And the time I picked you up and helped you pick out clothes to wear to your mother's funeral in another country. I also recall walking though the Asian Art Museum with you, looking at art and carvings and talking about every single one. I remember watching and discussing programs from public television. I think about the month you lived with me while in that ALS drug trial. We had fun, then. But you never understood me.
But a part of me will always mourn for the relationship we didn't have. You never understood my shifting reluctance toward performative femininity. You didn't understand my need for self expression. When I was in high school, I was named for a local honor, and got my picture in the newspaper. When I excitedly showed you, the first think you asked why I didn't do my hair nicer for the photo. When you watched "The Notebook", you wanted to force me to watch it with you and Mom. You were somehow convinced that watching it would make me, I don't know, pine for romance? Learn how to date? Discover the love of my life? You didn't have an explanation, and all I knew was that the movie would leave me feeling more depressed than usual.
As with the high school newspaper photo debacle, you wouldn't listen. I had to scream for you to hear me. Even then, I think it was only Mom interceding that stopped it. I don't think you ever understood what I was trying to say. Or why it broke my heart that you were more focused on my appearance than my good behavior and excellent grades. You didn't understand, and it hurt me.
Since you died, I've learned a lot about myself. I've realized that I can fall in love with anyone (male, female, trans, anyone), but I'll never want to have sex. You wouldn't understand that I'm asexual. And as I've learned more about my neurodivergence, I don't think you would have understood that either. It hurts to know that you never saw me as I truly am. It hurts that you never appreciated the my flaws and oddities. But since you died, I tried to let go of the frustration and resentment. That last eleven months we had together, where I served as your part time caregiver, brought us closer in other ways.
No, I don't think you ever would have understood me. But I know you always loved me. Happy birthday, Dad; I love you.
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