My Father

My father is a tall man, heavy set with the weight of the world on his shoulders. My mother always told me that he worries too much about everything that doesn't affect him but somehow, in his mind, he thinks that it does.

She also tells me I am exactly like him.

My father had always taken great joy in teaching me about the world until I stopped sharing his opinions. When our thoughts began to diverge, he became angry and frustrated. He never thought me naïve but merely inexperienced. I was always eager to prove to him that observation and intellect can make up for that. Unfortunately, I've failed, and forcing him to watch my failure has made him both anxious and understanding. The dichotomy is strange but fitting for a man like him.

Ever since I can remember my father's been on medication to control a chemical imbalance in his brain. Ever since I can remember he has been dependent on that medication. My grandmother calls it his sickness. My mother calls it his condition. No matter what you call it, he becomes a monster without his medicine. He yells, he swears, he fumes and rages and storms. He is inconsolable and there was a time when I was angry with him for how he acted and sometimes I still am but mostly, now, I am not. Now I understand because I feel the same way. I have the same imbalance, the same medicinal dependency, and sometimes I want to rail against him and at him and let him rail against me until we consume and destroy each other with rage and hate.

But I don't because I love him so very much.