Eccentric Flower:199901/dear dad
From Eccentric Flower
«January 1999 «Eccentric Flower
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twenty-one january I'm calling from wherever the hell I am. dear dad: I'm writing this in an "online journal," which in my case is less like a diary and more like me ranting in semi-public about whatever happens to be on my mind at the time. Some people find it provocative enough to read regularly, and I enjoy reading other people's journals, whether it's about politics or the weather or what their day at work was like. It's an odd phenomenon, taken as a whole - all these people sharing their private lives with the world - but it's one I've decided I don't have to understand in order to like. Anyway, Dad, since it's online, you'd never see it, except that after it's posted I'm going to print it out and stick it in an envelope and mail it to you. Why? Well, I'll get to that. There are many things in this strange online world of internet and web that I'd like to tell you about. I don't know that you'd permit yourself to understand many of them; you're usually dismissive of anything that falls outside your own personal experience. On the other hand, some of the things I do online would tickle you, I think. I think it would amuse you, and maybe even please you, that Nonelvis and I are gradually gaining some small reputation for writing about sex online. We've been printed in the online version of Playboy and we're mentioned in a couple of books and starting to get some press. I think you'd probably like some of my anecdotes and observations about chat rooms and flirting online, although it would probably convince you that the more things change, the more they stay the same. I spend about two-thirds of my free time involved in various online activities, Dad. This is a big part of my life. You know nothing about it. Last time you saw me face-to-face, I had never opened a web browser. You don't know anything about my relationship with Nonelvis. You know she exists; you know we're together. You don't know we're engaged, you don't know any of the details about who she is or how I met her or where we plan to be in ten years. I don't know how much of that you care about; I haven't tried to ask you. You don't know anything about the inside of my head. I am almost a completely different person than I was the last time we had any sort of serious conversation. You're probably wondering why there's a picture of a woman next to this text. That's a long story and one I have never bothered to explain to you. I don't tell you about any of these things, because to my mind you are no longer in a fit state to understand, appreciate, or respond intelligently to any of them. Dad, I have an online friend - well, really he's more like an online sparring partner. I have never met him, and I don't plan to. The only face I have for him is words on a screen. He reminds me of you in so many ways. He is often rude and verbally abusive in stating his opinions. He feels that he is always right, unless for some reason he decides to admit that he is wrong; no one else's judgment counts. He is ferociously intelligent but, like you, it has denatured into empty contempt for all the people around him - he feels like he's surrounded by stupid people, and like you he's perfectly willing to be vicious about it. He, too, had his heart set on certain dreams in academia, and then never quite recovered when he found out his degrees and his ideas were useless in the world outside. He, too, wonders why women won't tolerate his fear and loathing and lecherous objectification for very long, inevitably leaving him. He, too, turned to alcohol as an escape. He was working as a waiter until he lost his job recently for sexual harassment. In this case the charges were trumped-up; it was exactly the excuse, I think, that his managers needed to fire someone who couldn't have been especially pleasant to work with. In this case I sympathize with him; but I have also seen enough of his personality to know that the charges could very easily have been real ones. You know, I never really forgave you for molesting my sister. The idea that you could be sexually attracted to her doesn't horrify me in the least; I've seen much stranger things, and she's a sexy person, after all. It's not a lust issue, it's a consent issue. It's that you continued to flirt and fondle even after she asked you to stop. Several times. Do you have any idea what this must have been like to her psychologically, to have to repel the advances of her own father? I don't worry for her; she can defend herself. But I was, and am, shocked at how much your judgment has corroded. But maybe I shouldn't be shocked. It's the alcohol again. When my online friend writes email, I can always tell when he's been drinking. He stops for long periods, but always goes back to it. I don't think he's aware of how much booze changes his tone, the way he thinks and the way he writes. I know you're not aware of how much it changes you. I drink. I even manage to defeat my trick metabolism and get drunk once in a while. I don't do it often, though, because it dulls my brain, and I don't usually want to turn off my brain. It astonishes me - it never fails to astonish me - that you and he do, as often as you do. I can see an occasional escape, but living one's life in a haze holds no fascination for me. My online friend went on a profound drinking binge after losing his job. At this point things become unclear, since all I have are the email reports. I am not sure he was trying to kill himself. It may have been "accidental" in at least some sense of the word. But he woke up the other morning in the hospital, barely alive. If he had died that night, who would have known? Who would have cared? Who would have told me? You could be dead right now, Dad. Your parents wouldn't tell me - they might not even know how to find me - and very few of your other family members get along with you. My online friend has upset me badly many times; practically every email he writes contains some phrase designed to irritate me. Sometimes I vow to never write him again. Sooner or later, though, I always do. Whereas - in the face of similar upsets from you - I haven't spoken to you in years. What's the difference between the two of you? About twenty-five years, Dad. I keep holding out hope that he'll figure out his mistakes and work his way out of them. He's still got time. You do not. I gave up hope, Dad. I hate to admit it, but I did. I stopped hoping you'd ever figure it out. And when I stopped hoping, there just wasn't any point in talking anymore. And back to the question at the beginning, the question of why I'm bothering to send this to you at all: You deserve an explanation. I don't feel a need to keep in touch with you. I don't feel a need to try to help you; I've learned painfully that I can't. I think I learned that the time you stayed with us and we carefully hid all the booze in the top of the closet first. We hid it so well we forgot about it, until one day, weeks later, when we were looking for the vodka and remembered. Climbed up into the top of the closet. And found, instead of the vodka, an empty bottle and an apologetic note from you. You'd searched the house for booze while we were out, Dad. That is pathological behavior. I don't feel guilty about not having anything to do with you. I just feel guilty about not telling you why.
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