My first 35 mm camera given to me by my father!
Well, I almost missed it. Been running errands all day. People often say do not speak ill of the dead. I am not sure why? Just because someone is dead does not mean they were not evil and hurtful in life it just means they are dead so… If it were not for Facebook I would forget this day altogether. It was never one worth celebrating once I was old enough to understand it and not just give him something my mother bought because that was what you did. He was no Ward Clever, Mike Brady not even Archie Bunker, even he loved his “little girl” in his own gruff way. To my father children were put on earth to serve him and a result of having unprotected sex with a woman, my mother. I was conceived out of wedlock. It was not until I was 18 did I realize. I was told my mother fell down the steps and gave birth prematurely.I was a healthy 7 lbs 8oz. I doubt my mother cared it was nothing to be ashamed of it was her mother who kept the lie going for years. For a long time, I blamed myself for her suffering through 18 years of misery with him
No, he never laid a hand on me in a physical or sexual way but mentally and emotionally it took nearly a lifetime to recover and some scars you never fully recover from. At 55 I can remember things said and done as vivid as they were just happening. At 15 he sat me down at the dining room table looked me in the eyes and said ” I love you because you are my daughter but as a person, I can’t stand you’ I was not even old enough to be a fuck up. It was just his way. Nothing was good enough. He believed in a double standard of doing as I say not as I do. I just lived with someone for 8 years who lived by that same standard, it is not good at all. He said children were born to serve him. Be his gophers. Even the way he attempted to show affection was gross to me.
He was the truest form of the definition of a narcissist before it was a thing. He was silent but deadly. He hurt in ways no one could see or physically feel but left deep scars.
He said I was fat as a child, constantly on me about my weight but never in a helpful way just a mean way. He never drank not even wine and he did not curse much, he was a bit reserved at least compared to my mother whose emotions and feelings were known. You never really knew where you stood with him just that it was never in a positive light. Every accomplishment was met with disappointment but was credited to himself. Every failure was spotlighted as my own. Even into adulthood. He was not the dad you would go to for advice. He was an ok businessman well at least in his own mind yet died broke but he was not book smart being a high school drop out. Yet he still tried to tell me what to do what little time we spent together in later years.
He was hard to be around, could not escape living in the past and always going back to justify his leaving my mother or divorcing a wife or not succeeding at business by blaming another wife. Everything was always someone else’s fault and he was never wrong. It got old always being brought to the tears of a helpless 16-year-old no matter when in his company or how old I was. Even after I tried to forgive him and move on I would go back for more and the abuse worsened. I was there for him when he needed me most yet he still went on the attack. He just did not know how to love, maybe that is one reason why I have longed for it my whole life but always from those that had not the capacity to give it. The closed up ones that were also silently abused, unloved and abusive. The ones that no matter what I did it was never enough and they were always the ones wronged and the victim. Do as I say not as I do.
It is ironic how we seek out in partners the very thing that abused us as youths. We want to be loved, cared for, protected yet we pick those that are very much like the ones that hurt us as children.
I was recently told by someone very close to me I was just like my father. It was one of the very few things she could throw at me to try to hurt me. It stung for a second but I know I was nothing like him. Not even a little bit. I remembered as a child praying I was not his that my mother had had an affair with our mailman in Arcadia Hills, he was so good looking I suppose I had a man crush. But he was blond with blue eyes and a beard. I always ran to the truck to get the mail and he was always so sweet to me. I knew he could not be my father. I looked too much like my own. When I got older I wished it was Frank Sinatra, I knew he was connected to the mob and would kill for his family. Mine would run from harm to protect himself first. My insane fear of insects comes from his own fear and he would never kill them when I was a kid and afraid because he too was afraid. .
Things got worse and he got older. He married several times, the abuse he served up to his wives and their children is not for me to write about but one was still young when she finally escaped his wrath and to this very day never remarried, I suppose after him that was enough. The last one got it the worst. Why she still bears his name is beyond me. The abuse to his own mother is chilling and the pain I felt when I was left out of my grandmother’s obituary is one I will never forget. There are so many stories of abuse I could write a book.
Was there any good? Someone asked today what he sacrificed for me and I said absolutely nothing he did not even show up for my birth. But I can say that he did give me a few good traits. My love of fine food and NYC. My very first Nikon Camera which I still have here in front of me and most of all he gave me life. As abusive as it may have been and perhaps even my conception was not that of love, passion or affection, I would not be here if not for those little sperms he donated to my mother.
My father died a few years ago, I did not shed a tear when the news came. It was not an easy death. He died alone for the most part. Sad, miserable and in pain not speaking with any of his children, ex-wives and not really any friends. He was a bastard till the end. My brother found out that most of the people in his NYC world had no clue he had children or ex-wives. We did not exist. That hurt. He screwed his kids out of any joy he could have left us and not even the opportunity to say I forgive you dad. He said he felt guilty when his father died because he had not the opportunity to tell him he loved him. I did not ever feel that pain. I showed him in his later years how I felt, I showed him I loved him because he was my father and did what a daughter should do in his time of need regardless of his still abusive behavior. I had no regrets when he died.
He once told me that I would have friends as long as I had money and was successful but if I lost that I would lose my friends. Yeah, not really pop, I became successful in spite of you, not because of you and I have some really good friends regardless of my net worth. As a matter of fact, we, the Vitello’s are all doing pretty well and in September taking a family trip to Italy, something we could not have done with you.
And on this Father’s Day I can say I forgive you, dad, for all that you were and all that you were not. No, I don’t miss you, think of you with love and affection or salute you like others but I forgive you and what I do wish wherever you are is that you found redemption
Love your “first born”
Update: I was just recently asked if I forgave him.I forgave him years ago and even after that he continued to hurt me. It is easier for me to just forgive and move on,I will continue to deal with the fall out of his abuse but it will be on my terms now.
