Father, Father

I have a father. We all do.

Kaden has a Daddy. I don't.

Before you reach for the phone to offer me an ear, or lean in closer to lend your shoulder, I should mention the fact that I am 29 and completely capable of mending this wound.

Okay, so I'm lying. It hurts. Really bad.

There is no sad story behind my failed relationship with my father, other than the fact that we both have a blurred reality of what it means to meet in the middle. We live in the same state, same county, and even attend a few of the same functions. Yet, we fail to share anything more than a brief hug and casual conversation.

I am holding out. Protecting my heart. Wiping my slate. Catching any tear that had the audacity to fall after years of an emotional absence from my father.

I have his number. He also has mine. Somehow, though, neither one of us will acknowledge the fact that communication requires a sender and a receiver. No one wants to fill either role. Well, what do I know? He may have tried to call, but was faced with constant rejection in the form of an unanswered call or a generic voicemail. I'll just speak for myself. I have not called.

I'm torn, wide-open. My wounds have been exposed for entirely too long. The salt has been thrown and has settled to the point where I can no longer hurt. I just keep layering the bandages and making the wounds 'pretty' in hopes that no one will asks to see my pain. Cover them up so no one will see, or care.

But the person who won't let this wound heal is the same person who stares at them each day. Me!

I have to get over this hurdle. I have to make the leap and reconnect with the person whose blood runs through my veins.

They say never date a girl with "Daddy Issues", and I could not agree more.

If you cannot forgive the person who gave you life, you cannot be in the life of the person you forgive.

Happy Father's Day!