Why Would I Call You Daddy

Man was God’s first choice, he saved the best for last and made man. He gave him reign over the entire physical earth. He said, “This is all for you.” He gave him a wife and said, “This is yours.” After Adam understood the purpose of a wife, he experienced fatherhood. This is the beginning of all the problems in the world. We could blame the first murder on Adam getting his family kicked out of the most beautiful place on earth.
Psychologists will relate any problem to the absence of a father figure in a child’s life. If they are doing drugs- the father wasn’t present in the home. If they are picking their nose- the father wasn’t present in the home. If they are killing cats- the father wasn’t present in the home. If they are having random spasms and flailing on the floor- well you get the point. Our entire development positions a great deal of responsibility on our fathers. Very few people grow up with their biological fathers. They generally have a step-father. Instead of dad, they generally call him Frank. If our fathers are borderline lethargic, we generally over compensate by responding to everything rambunctiously. If our fathers are violent, we flinch when pigeons embark on their flights. Whatever our father is or isn’t, we generally spend our whole lives trying to make up for it.
Now, somebody who is held responsible for all the psychotic mayhem in our lives- we call him daddy. We give him this adoration which he doesn’t deserve. Don’t get me wrong- not all fathers suck at being daddy, but most do. Most don’t fumble with a ponytail holder on the mornings that a mother had to go to work early. Most don’t read bedtime stories. Most don’t take us shopping- offer to buy us prom dresses. Most don’t want us to have as many friends as we possibly could have. But mine- mine does. And here’s the thing, I still don’t hold him up on this pedestal and give him soul responsibility for my entire development.
My “Daddy” isn’t my male role model. He hasn’t shown me what to look for in a husband. He isn’t ever home, has little to say that isn’t negative. I don’t base my ideal of a man on him. He is violent and spiteful. He loves drama. He loves to shed first blood. He loves to hurt. If it’s not his way, it’s the wrong way. I’m not complaining; you learn to live with it. But ironically, I still call him daddy.
He wasn’t always this way. I remember when he would take me to play at the park. I remember when he would take me for rides in the woods really early in the morning, before anybody was awake. He would try his best to put my hair up for me, and even though it always fell down within thirty minutes, I still said thank you. I remember him being my hero until I was about five- until I lost my innocence. Then he slowly turned into this monster. It just continued to get worse and worse. Every day, I did something new that was wrong. I lost more faith in him each day. This went on for eleven years.
Here I am now. I am a psychological mess. I develop more symptoms each day. Everyone can see it. I give a therapist the right to blame this on him. I make every attempt to overcome this road block, but everyday it grows larger. It is a wedge being driven into the center of my being and I’m beginning to break, crack right up the middle. So here is my decision. My daddy, he’s fired. He isn’t allowed to be responsible for me. I pass the buck to all the other respectable men in my life- Grandpa, GranDarryl, Bro. David, Sherbet, God- I saved the best for last. You can teach me what to look for. You can teach me how to be loved because you haven’t failed me yet.
“Daddy of ten years ago, I miss you. You were a good man. I don’t blame you for what you’ve become lately. Just promise me that you won’t forget to be all those things for Sarah. She needs you. Mom, she misses you too. We all miss you. I can’t wait until I get to see you again. I love you.”
You should call him mister-