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I am going to bring up a topic that I never talk about. My real father. Names aren’t important.

We were never close like the other kids in my family. Due to my mom’s divorce as a small child from him to another man who’s Idea of parenting was very rarely talking to their child. I grew up in a broken home, as most do in the conventional family definition. My real father would come over periodically. No, not to pick me up to go to a game or visit a museum, but to carry over a 5 pack of Miller light (sixth in hand) and get drunk with my mom and current “dad.” He would then take that time and try to teach me “The ways of the world” complete with slurred speech. I have seen the wrong side of parenting, and I vow to NEVER treat my kids in this manner. There will always be love and connection in my family. I won’t let it be otherwise.

I am not a vengeful person. I have no hate in me… but this father figure that I was forced to call, “Dad” fills my heart with disdain. My blood boils… but I can’t do anything. He has passed away, and I am left without an outlet to channel my… hatred. Hatred for him  never being there. I am currently 39 years old and this baggage has been with me as long as I can remember.

I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feeling in my family but this has been eating at me for years, Am I wrong for feeling this way. No. I am not. Do you (my family) have a different view of events that may have happened? Sure. You might.

It still doesn’t change the fact that my feelings are real… and I take them everywhere I go.

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