It’s almost two months past Father’s Day: here and there. Here – where I am at the moment; there – where I was born and grew to become that thing, that left ‘there’ and arrived ‘here’.
My dad was a drunk. My dad is a drunk. Q v P. He somehow was a case of ‘a frog and a prince’ for me. My first ever memory is the evening when my parents had an argument and he threw plates across the kitchen. My mom cried. I was three. That’s how I’ve met the frog. But when my dad wasn’t a drunk, he was the smartest and the most interesting person I have known. At these times he was even more than a prince – he was a fucking king. Maybe that’s why, for many years, I have tried to become smarter, more well-read, better at chess and simply more like him – as if all of that could remove the evil charm from him and maybe the frog would simply disappear – never to come back. At the age of thirteen I got to the point where I just wanted him dead. At the age of twenty I erased him from my life and didn’t look back even once for over a year. When I was in my mid-twenties he has more or less quit drinking. When I was twenty eight he was the one that told me all of my paintings are sad. When I was thirty one he has spent several days by my hospital bed, feeding me soup with a tea spoon.
When we were small, my sister and I, it was my dad that used to tell us bed time stories. I honestly can’t recall even one in which the princess would have to be rescued by a man – most of the times it was her that not only saved herself but also the knight; quite often, in the process, she would also befriend the scary monster or the dragon.
Few years back K asked me if my dad ever verbalised some sort of sorrow of not having sons, but only daughters. No, he has never. Truth to be told – until that day it has never even crossed my mind that this could be an issue.
My dad didn’t raise me, even though, paradoxically, he made me the way I am now. There is so much bad and it’s not exactly clear to me how – with all of that, there is still space for some good. But there is good there as well – and for that I sometimes think I could probably even produce the sound that resembles “thank you”… That is – maybe, probably not, but in potentia, I could – if we were ever to speak about feelings and similar non-intellectual stuff. But we are not. It might be better this way, after all.
 the motherfucking King.
 and we would live happily ever after.
 it didn’t stop me from attempts to become even more like him, only now I also hated myself for being ‘daddy’s girl’.
 or – to be more precise – I’ve made myself that way – for him or and because of him.