Today is Father’s Day, a day I hate. I didn’t have a father. The violent drunk my mother married never forgot that I was someone else’s kid. I tried talking to him after I found out I was adopted. He said he wasn’t my real father. That explains why I was never his real daughter. That explains why he gave his kids an allowance but didn’t give me an allowance until I begged for one. This explains why he hit me but not his real kids. I’d share a happy memory, but there are none. I’m supposed to be grateful that he gave me a name. I had a perfectly good name before I was adopted. Instead, I’m the family shame because my mother wasn’t married when I was born. That was a big deal in 1952. She married The Drunk a month before my fourth birthday because she didn’t want to send me to school without a father. That was for her benefit. She was a violent, drunken narcissist and never did anything for anyone else’s benefit.
Father’s Day and Mother’s Day are days when I am forced to remember that I never had parents.
Today is Tina’s yahrzeit – the anniversary of her death according to the Hebrew calendar. On the civil calendar, her anniversary is June 24. Of the three siblings I grew up with, she was the only one who seemed to like me.
And so I’m depressed. I’ll be okay as soon as the antidepressant kicks in.
Deb's Art 