I’ve decided that I spend too long wondering, and pondering on things, rather than doing them. Sometimes, I can actually talk myself out of an idea that could go somewhere, or lead to excitement and I want to stop doing that. The only person who ever holds me back, is me. And I don’t want to just ciastcalong, being a person of inaction because I’ve spent too much time worrying and not enough actually DOING.
I’ve attempted contact with my estranged father. I think that’s the nicest term to use; I haven’t seen him for over 27 years, and there has been no contact at all throughout that time.
He was pretty easy to find, and I’ve sat on his address for a while now. Waiting. For what, exactly, I’m not sure. I don’t know much about him, really – my mum has been so careful to never say anything bad about him that I’m almost not sure that the little I do know is entirely true. And he’s not spoken about bunny family (I have always been in contact with his mum, and some of his siblings – he disappeared on them too, and they’ve had the same lack of contact as I have).
I was worried for a while that he might be an addict. For a few reasons, that are (to me) justifiable. And then I worried that the overwhelming silence from anyone I try too speak to about it, about him, is covering something that I should probably know about before I make this step.
And then I thought – fuck it. I’m thirty one years old. A grown up. I’m a mother myself. I don’t need answers, or reasons, or explanations. I don’t need a father figure, or a happy fairytale ending. I don’t feel a part of my life puzzle is missing, or yearn for someone I’ve never had. I don’t feel angry, or hurt, or hopeful (indifferent, is probably an accurate description, though i feel that looks brutally harsh). I have zero expectations, or hopes.
But I do want to stop wondering if I should make contact every few years or so. I do want to know what’s going on here, so I can explain to my kids when they ask. I’d like to put it to bed, find a resolution and not have it lingering over me. However it pans out, and whatever comes – or not – of this, I’m ok with.
So, the letter (more a note, to be honest about its briefness) is sent. My piece has been played, now the balls in his court.