One year ago today...

My father (I use the term loosely) was celebrating St. Patrick's Day just like a true Irishman. He was drinking with his friends, dying drinks green, and anticipating the traditional Irish dinner of corned beef and cabbage. When he passed out drunk in a kitchen chair, his friends thought nothing of it, and moved him to a bed to sleep it off until dinner was ready. When someone went in to wake him up and he couldn't be roused, they called an ambulance, but not before clearing everyone out the the Florida apartment. When the EMTs got there, they noticed that the bottoms of his feet were colored green. The police contacted my cousin from a piece of mail they had found in his living room. If she hadn't been communicating with him, it might have been months before we found out. We were all pretty much convinced it was a heart attack. As we came to find out from the toxicology report a few weeks later, it was alcohol poisoning. My father, who was an alcoholic for most of his life, had finally out done himself.

Even now, a year later, I still don't know how I feel about this. My parents divorced when I was 1½ years old, and he disappeared after that, so I never had any type of relationship with him. The only contact I ever had with the man was a phone call on Father's Day of 2002. He was drunk and sounded like he was severely mentally retarded. My twelve year old self was shocked and scared. All I could think to do was cry. I wanted to scream at him, wanted to tell him how much of a coward I thought he was. I was only twelve years old and I had all of this sadness and rage inside me. I wanted to ask him, "Why couldn't you just stop hitting her? What was so screwed up in your head that you couldn't control your anger? Didn't you think of me or my sister, your daughters? What about your son, didn't you ever think of him? Couldn't you imagine the effects your actions would have on your children? Or did you just not care?" I wanted to tell him about how the fathers of friends that I had only known for a few short months were more fatherly than he ever was. Looking back, I wish I had said something to him.
I wish I had the opportunity to have an actual, adult conversation with him, instead of me silently sobbing into the phone and him drunkenly babbling and calling me by nicknames I had never heard before, names my mother, brother, and sister all said he had never called me once.
I don't regret growing up without a father figure. My mother did the best she could to raise three children indepently, but she asked for help when she needed it. She's been more than I ever could have asked for, and I am more than eternally grateful. She did what she had to to keep us safe, and make sure we grew up with at least one parent in our lives. It was never easy for her, but she never gave up.
I'm not sad that my father is gone. Like I said, I don't even know how to feel about him anymore. Before, it was easy to hate him because there was always the option of contacting him if I wanted to. More than anything, I wish I had. So that, if nothing else, I could have made my feelings known to him. I wish I had known that my cousin was speaking to him. I wish I had known that was going to happen. I wish I had exploded at him that day almost four years ago on the phone. I wish I had known that would be the only chance I had to speak with him. Because no matter how much I say it doesn't matter, that because I never had a relationship with him it doesn't make a difference that he's gone for good, no matter how much I have always said I hated him, it does matter, it does make a difference, and I never hated him. And maybe it's just because I was too young to remember how bad it was, but he was my father. And more than anything in the world, I wish I had been able to say to him, just one time, "I love you."