Late birthday post. Happy Birthday to Me! Even with people trying to screw it up, I manged to make my day as decent as I could.
The fact that Father’s Day is around my birthday is ironic:
Because I don’t have one. I don’t have a father.
Never, not ever, has a male figure been in my life who was worth saying, “Happy Father’s Day” to. And not for a lack of wanting one either.
What I have is a sperm donor. And a woman who gave birth to me in an attempt to keep this sperm donor in her life. And it didn’t work. So my life is hardly charmed. I grew up poor. In the hood. With a messed up family and no loving parent, not even one. When it comes to my conception, I ain’t got nothing to be thankful for and no one to be thankful to.
I have no doubt that there are people out there who have perfectly wonderful fathers.
I am just not one of them.
My truth is just as valid as theirs. Maybe arguably even more so. No sparkly illusions about daddy dearest fill my head. I am proudly not groomed to worship the ground men walk on. I see horrible men for what they are.
What makes me the most mad about growing up fatherless wasn’t the part where I grew up fatherless. No, what makes me the most mad about growing up without a father was finally meeting the man who called himself my dad.
I had hoped he was a better person and it was all a mistake that he wasn’t in my life.
He wasn’t. And it wasn’t a mistake. Another story for another time.
What makes me mad is how people treat me: Like my life is worth less because I come from a single-parent household. Like I’m pitiful because I don’t know the love of man. Like I’m damaged because of I’ve lived without the love of a man. So I’m not angry about my fatherlessness nor am I bitter: I’m offended.
I am a survivor. And I became a good, smart, passionate, beautiful person on my own. Without a father. Without one man in my life who supported me. I did that. There’s nothing pitiful about me.
So Happy Birthday to Me.