Are you my father?

Today has been a real downer of a day. I am not sure if it is the weather or just “the blues”. I have suffered with mild cases of depression for years and usually they occur in the fall. But this time it is hitting in late January. I wonder if it is related to the upcoming anniversary of my father’s death in 1978 on February 14^th. I was 18 and just starting what I thought would be a career in the US Air Force. I get a call that my father had died and so I jumped aboard a south bound flight from Washington State to the outlands of Texas named Lubbock.

When I arrived in Texas, I found out, contrary to the coroner’s report that my father had not just died from a heart attack but from a heart attack caused by the small gun shot wound to the back of his head. Yes, my friends, either my dad committed suicide or he was shot by my stepmother. Either way, he had enough clout to have the coroner not list the gun shot as the cause of death. He was 54 years old. He was an alcoholic and was suffering from the ravages of that lifestyle of drinking. I really cannot blame him, though.

He spent 6 months in a German POW camp during WWII and then became a top criminal defense attorney in Texas. Those two things would drive anyone to drink. I never really had a relationship with him because my mother and he divorced when I was 4 and I would see him on odd holidays and summers. I was much too young to remember much about him. Perhaps that is what is driving this funk.

I do remember sitting on the curb when I was about 6 or 7, waiting for his Lincoln Towncar to drive up the street. Being young, I did not understand the time that it took to drive from Lubbock to Waco, where my sister and I lived with our mom. All I remember is the wait and the disappointment when he did not show up as expected. When he did finally get there, he took us to the motel where he was staying and then to dinner and out to the “strip” in Lacy Lakeview, (Waco was a dry town), to get his liquid fortification. I had to stay in the car. It seemed that I was waiting a lot in those visits.

The last time I saw him alive was at the Hospital in Temple, where he was being treated for cancer among other issues. Nine months later he was dead. When I got back to my home in Washington, my friends seemed to notice that I had changed somehow. I didn’t see it but who does see how they react to things themselves? All I know is that I felt like I had lost a father for the second time and this time there would be no chance of getting to know him ever again.

My mother and I have not been on speaking terms for about five years now and while I know I should be working on resolving that issue, I cannot bring myself to see or talk to her. So I feel like an orphan or abandoned by my parents. My stepfather divorced my mother after 19 years of marriage and walked completely out of my life. I tried to communicate with him when my son was born but was rebuffed by his office staff. I know that he directed them to prevent us from talking because it happened on more than one occasion. I went to his office when I knew he was there and he refused to admit my family in.

I think I am an orphan and it sucks!