Pedastool -who’s on yours?

Have been doing some writing and wanted to share this part of the book and my own personal reflections.

Who’s on your pedastool? For years it was my dad, he was my hero and despite being a full weight TWAT many a time his position never shifted from the pedastool a position I had created for him. Growing up knowing that he had always favored me over my sister (there is more about that in the book) but growing up I almost felt compelled, obliged to return the favor. I was fiercely protective about my dad, looking back in hindsight though, I now recognize and realize that I had placed dad on that pedastool when I was myself a very confused person, kid, a child myself. It’s only when we grow older, wiser, that we can start to see through the fog of ignorance, reflect and see things for what they were, but at the moment, in that moment in time that fog of ignorance is a bastard, it blinds us of our own reality.

This isn’t a pity party, it is what it is, it was, what it was ‘at that time’ and i’m ok with that, because at 48 years old I am starting, learning to make sense of why I placed dad on that pedastool for sooo many years. I dont begrudge his position or place on the pedastool, i just want to understand “why” he was there for so long.

It wasn’t until years later that I had taken dad off this pedastool and instead, sat on it myself and i learned that it was a perfect fit for ME the pedastool is my throne now, there is only room for one on this stool and that’s me, there are a select few who I allowed to sit beside me though! now it is reserved for the people who I love, respect, admire, even when dad was finally taken off the throne, he was allowed occasionally to come back and sit alongside me but only When he behaved. 

The book

There were no specific routine contact arrangements with dad, so we would see him every so often, often he was later or didn’t turn up. Which according to mom happened frequently, its funny isn’t it, I don’t have any memories of this but its something mom painfully recalls, in particular there was one time, when me and my sister had been waiting on the corner of our street, we were stood waiting in the pissing rain, we were stood there piss wet through and after a while she had come out to us to tell us to come inside as it looked like Dad wouldn’t be coming. We both flatly refused, indignant about the suggestion that he wouldn’t be coming and refused to come back inside, just on the off chance that he did turn up, I mean ‘how would he feel if he did arrive and we weren’t there? He would think we didn’t care? He would stop coming? So we stood outside for a while longer, until we realized that he wouldn’t be coming or couldn’t come!  perhaps something had happened? He might be tied up with work? The car might have broken? He might be ill? There had to be a reason, didn’t there? I could always find an excuse for dad, there was always had to be a reason, right?

Whereas with mom, I found it a lot harder to excuse her behavior or attitude away, even when she was trying to comfort me, I always felt that deep down that she was really pleased that he hadn’t turned up, or let us down because that way life would be so much easier if Dad wasn’t in the picture. That day, for example, mom recalls the moment we finally came indoors, out of the rain, I don’t. I was obviously sad and disappointed with dad that he hadn’t turned up, but any anger I might have felt, that was always reserved for mom, I could never express my hurt or anger towards Dad I would never have the courage to tell him what I really thought of him, so mom would always be the second best option.

I could feel myself changing and almost losing my innocence. The innocence that I felt living my old life at Woodseats felt like it had been a bubble and us moving to a new life, new area, the bubble had popped, fucking exploded and it was slipping away, my environment had changed, my friendships were changing, my home life had changed, I was changing and I didn’t like it,  behind closed doors, alone in my thoughts I would often feel scared, alone, but I would never ever have shared those thoughts I had with ANYONE, because to admit that I was scared would be admitting I was weak. As our teenage years went by, my sister however developed more of a nonchalant attitude towards dad and his constant let downs, it never seemed to bother her like it did me, she started to almost become desensitised accepting of  the fact that Dad would let us down and she just seemed to get on with life, whereas for me, Dad was still my hero, my dad.