He didn't raise me, but I am my daddy's girl

My daddy did not raise me. My parents split up when I was a little girl. Ma returned to South Florida where her family lived and my daddy remained in Newark, making house with his new/old family. 

I went through the stages of grief that come along with not having him present in my life. I went from anger to anger to even more anger before I slid into an indifference that lasted for several years.

In college, I figured he had grown up and realized the error of his ways, so I reached out in a way that I thought was fitting for a daughter to approach an estranged father – I asked him for money. 

My daddy sounded as though this was a telephone conversation that we’d been having regularly throughout my college experience, not the first time that we’d spoken in years. He told me that he would wire the money to me later that day – only he never did. When I was able to get him on the phone again, days later, he told me some cockamamie story about being mugged, robbed of the very money he was planning to send to me. I made a mental note that he was never to be trusted again. 

My daddy died a few years later, in the summer of 1988, and his death marks the true beginning of my relationship with him.

I grew up during a time where children were seen and not heard, so asking questions about why my daddy did not step in to care for me after my mother died in 1974 was not happening. I did not dare interject  “well how come this nice guy wasn’t there for his little girl,” when I’d hear relatives go on and on about what a great guy Clint was, how Clint was there for so many people and how great it was to hang out with him.

After his death, I was determined to find out who this Clint fellow was that so many of his family and friends loved so dearly.

Thankfully, because I grew up and realized the error of my ways I was able to stop making his absence in my life all about me. I began to consider that my daddy couldn’t give to me what he couldn’t give to himself. 

My daddy slowly drank himself to death after years of alcoholism. Though I have yet to discover the source of his pain, my daddy used alcohol to numb it and allow him to function. His volatile relationship with my older brothers is still unexplained and the unraveling of his marriage to my mother haunted him even after she was buried, despite his other relationship.

I’d convinced myself that some of the traumatic things that happened to me would not have happened had my daddy been a bigger part of my life. I was certain that his presence would have deterred some of the so-called trustworthy men in my family from even thinking about touching me. I told myself that the confidence that I was so lacking and my reluctance to take a risk would have been buoyed by my daddy’s presence; but I’m not so sure.

What if everything happened exactly as it was supposed to happen? What if the compassionate, smart and private woman that I am today had to experience everything exactly as I did in order for this exciting chapter in my life to unfold?

What if the desire to forgive my daddy and the wonderful life lessons that I learned along the way served as my blueprint on forgiving the seventy times seven that Jesus advises? What if my ability to forgive my daddy was the most surefire way to forgiving myself for putting him on a pedestal that he did not choose and demanding from him what he could not give? 

I have arrived at a sacred sweetness in my spirit whenever I think of Daddy. I don’t have all of my questions answered, and though I’d love to know more, I’ve gotten beyond the “coulda, woulda, shouldas” that a commitment to regret requires. 

I’m OK with believing that Daddy can see my heart now and is resting peacefully in the assurance that I am definitely his girl. 

Michelle Hollinger is the author of The Sisterhood Exchange. Purchase a copy at michellehollinger.com.