They say time heals all wounds. That isn’t true. It just makes you lose sight of the scars. Every so often, missing my father hits me so hard that it’s all I can do to keep from coming completely unglued. And the thing is, when you see it coming you can mentally prepare for it. Missing someone can hit you sideways and suddenly the wound seems fresh.
This is great when I’m channeling it for writing purposes. It’s highly inconvenient when I’m at my day job trying not to blubber.
So how did I cause myself such great angst? Listening to Depeche Mode.
Yeah, I know, that’s what DM is for. I was goth, I have the t-shirt. I knew what I was getting into. But the thing is, it isn’t the band or the lyrics. It’s me as a teenager listening to “Black Celebration” and “Violator” until the tape wore thin, ignoring my parents, the alcohol, the yelling. Me losing myself in incense and candles and generally checking out.
And my dad complaining about my loud music, about me not paying attention, about me not caring about anything that mattered. The yelling, the general contentiousness of teenage existence and the pain of a dad who didn’t have a “little girl” anymore.
Yeah, I know. That’s hard for someone to miss, right? Stick with me.
So I hit college and I’ve secured as many scholarships as I can, saved what I could because I know I’m paying for this myself. I have my own car (mini truck, flannel, yeah, you get the picture of where college was going) and I’ve carefully calculated how much a month I’ll have to make to move out.
And I do. I am so out of there it’s not even funny.
Christmas comes and I’m asking my parents what they’d like and my dad says, “I’d really like whatever album that ‘World in My Eyes’ song was on.”
It’s funny because surely he’d heard that song from the hallway a million zillion times but for whatever reason, I was shocked he knew it. And it was probably the first moment since puberty I thought maybe, just maybe, my parents heard me. It was stupidly revelatory at the time. But that’s what college is for, I guess. The point of the working. So you can see your parents weren’t the assholes you thought they were.
Okay, they kinda were, but you kinda were, too.
Anyway, it hit me with surprising force that he was gone. And now, instead of doofy tapes, or even doofy mp3s in portable listening machines the size of my thumb, I’m listening straight from the cloud on Grooveshark. Life moves fast.