I wrote the following just over 2 years ago.  I’m not sure what set me off but I was in an emotional purge.  I wrote it in one sitting furiously typing.  Very cathartic.  But very difficult to make public.  Parts of this was featured in a friend’s blog for Father’s Day a few years ago but this is the full purge:

I never knew my Dad.  Does that matter?

If I never knew him what difference does it make?  Does it make a difference if he is dead or alive?  If he is living on the other side of the world versus being buried in the ground – does it matter?

Does it matter who he was?  Is “a Dad” just an idea or a figurehead if you never knew the person?  Is “a Dad” just an ideal if I never met mine?  Do I just want one because everyone else has one?

Did he really exist?  What proof do I have that he did exist?  Does it matter?  Should I even bother asking?  Or do I just ignore the feelings and move on as if he never did exist and just live my life “as is”?  Do I need to ask any of these questions to have a fulfilling life?  Am I dwelling or rehashing to want to know?  Is my asking questions annoying or childish?

Does my wanting his approval make me weak?  What is his approval?  It’s what people tell me it would be.  There is no physical way for me to have his approval.  So, why does it mean so much to me?  Why do I have to desire most the one thing that I will never have?  Why can’t I accept the approval of the people who are still here?  Why aren’t their opinions enough?

How do you miss “the person” if you never met “the person”?  Isn’t it just the idea of the person that you miss?  I have an amazing imagination but as much as I try to imagine what that person would be like nothing comes up.  It’s a blank canvas.  Anyone can tell me anything and I have no way of knowing if they are telling me the truth.  All I can do is decide which stories to believe.  How do you do that when you have nothing to go on?  I treasure every story that I hear.  I treasure every moment that I have with my Dad’s family because they are the only way to confirm that he really existed.  Anyone’s name can be put on a birth certificate.  Any man’s picture can be put up on the wall.  Any story can be created to satisfy a child, but at least when I’m with his sisters I know that they must have known him.  They look like the picture on the wall.  Do I look like the picture on the wall?  I’m told that I do.

Do other “posthumous children” feel this way?  Am I alone in my feelings?

Is it better to be born before or after?  I have been asked this question before and I don’t have an answer.  There is so much damage no matter how you look at it.  Neither.  Neither is the answer.  There shouldn’t be a before and after.   There should just be time.

Is it supposed to make me feel better to be born after; to have escaped the tragedy?  Did I escape the tragedy?  Not even close.  I remember people trying to make me feel better by saying, “Well at least you don’t remember anything.”

How is that better?  I would give just about anything right now to remember and have something of him to hang on to.  Isn’t it better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all?  Is that just for adults afraid of a relationship?  To me it seems universal.

Why can’t I just move passed it and be happy with my incredible family; my husband and children.  Don’t get me wrong – I love them dearly and they all make me very happy.  I just wish that I didn’t have this desire for more.  I will always be looking for my Dad.  Will I ever find him?  Can’t I just give it up and be content?  Why does my mind always have to move to the thoughts of him and the fact that he isn’t here to see how happy and content we are?  It is a vicious cycle.  The way to know that life has moved on is to wish that the missing person were here to see your progress and your “new” life.  Does that mean that I have moved on?  But how can I move on if I always want him to be here?

I used to believe, or one of my many beliefs when I was little, that my Dad hadn’t died.  He was somewhere.  He was out there.  My Mom was hiding him somewhere.  She and my sister would go to see him but they wouldn’t take me.  They didn’t want me to know him.  I don’t know why they didn’t want me to but they never invited me along.  Why am I not good enough to go along?  Why doesn’t he want me to come see him?  Did I do something to make him not want me around?  Why does he stay away?

I don’t know what, if anything my Mom could have done to change these feelings that I had.  They were just there.  And they were there for a lot longer than I would have admitted.  I think I still have some of those feelings.  Why did he have to leave before I came?  Why wasn’t I good enough to have and know a father?  Would I be a different person if he had been around after I was born?  Of course I would be.  Who would I be?  Would I be a better person?  Would I be smarter, more grateful?  I think I would have just wished for more time no matter how much time I had.  That’s what I wish for with all of the other people that have passed since.  So what difference does it make?

I used to dream about my belief that he hadn’t died.  One dream in particular when I was about 15 was that I was 7 years old and I walked into the dining room of the house we lived in at that time and there was a man sitting there.  He was talking to my sister; my Mom was getting dinner ready.  It was like a normal day.  But, this man – who was he?  I walked up to him.  He just looked at me and then continued to talk to my sister.  I didn’t feel welcome at all.  I was interrupting.  He wanted nothing to do with me.  I started to back up and felt incredible sadness.  And I woke up.

Will I ever let the rejection go?  Will I ever realize that this feeling is a result of unfortunate circumstances and not based on truth?  If I had a picture of him holding me as a baby – would I believe the picture?  If I had a memory of him playing with me as a child would I believe the memory?  I don’t know what it would have taken for me to know and believe the truth.  I hope I get there someday.