A personal essay from an autistic fatherless child
Content Warning for mention of physical abuse, mental health disorders, and abandonment.
It was a normal day when I received the phone call. Early in the morning before the birds even had time to start their morning song. I answered the phone and heard gibberish. The incoherent sentence from a male voice that I only heard a few times in my life echoed through the receiver. I usually hang up, but this time I tried to listen.
“You have to get your degree, don’t be distracted.” That was the only sentence I understood from his schizophrenic ramblings. You see, my father was not like a stereotypical Dad. He wasn’t attentive, in fact, he wasn’t even around. From the moment the divorce papers were signed, I was an afterthought.
I will never say that my father was a good man. He wasn’t.
Some of my earliest memories are of him hitting my mother. Screaming and yelling while I sit holding my stuffed panda bear watching the fists begin to swing. I remember him disliking me. Putting me in a dryer before I was old enough to walk, just to avoid my screams of hunger.
My father was not a good man. I don’t hate my father for anything he did. I don’t resent my father. I pity him.
Where does the line of accountability fall when you have mental health disorders? I often think of that question when pondering the actions of my biological father. Schizophrenia is the reason he was violent, confused, and absent from my life. He never took medication, he never sought help for his internal fight to have a silent mind.
Of the random phone calls I would receive throughout my life, none of them make sense. He can’t speak clearly because his mind won’t let him. I can’t hate a man that was not in control of his own mind.
Now I am left here with no father. Every time a child would say “Daddy!” I never had that privilege.
Birthday parties never existed for me, so there is nothing missing there. The warm hot chocolate on a Sunday while reading a book sitting on my father’s life was just a mirage. I went home to a house with one parent. A parent that did not keep me safe. I wonder if my father was there, in his right mind, would he have protected me?
The idea of a father taking his child under his wing, and keeping them safe, is not a reality. Even if I had a father, it doesn’t mean I would be safe. A strong patriarchal figure does not automatically mean they are a kind and decent person. My father was not a good man.
If he would have been in my life, he would have been a bad man to me too. I endured abuse, but he would have been just one more trauma in my life. I accept that, but still the urge to “call my dad” when something good happens in life lingers.
Milestones that I know he would be proud of, even though he is a dangerous man. He always wanted me to have a college degree, but he is the only person I can’t tell. He lives in his delusions and if I make that phone call, it will unleash that into my life. My Daddy can never be proud of me because I can never share my life with him. Again, this is an illusion.
My father is homophobic, I am queer. If he had that knowledge of my sexuality, he would disown me. Isn’t it funny that I don’t want the absent father to disown me? It is ironic that one person that was never there to protect me is the one that matters the most.
When I hear a child say “I want my Daddy”, I get it -because even at 34 years old, I still want that too.
In a perfect world, I would walk into a restaurant and see my father sitting at a booth. He is tall with dark chocolate skin that always shines because of the oils on his skin. He has three moles on his face under his right eye that oddly make his eyes pop in beautiful brown even more.
He smells of Old Spice deodorant and only wears workout sweatsuits. His sweatshirt is still wet from being at the gym, he lives at the gym. He would smile at me and only stand up one time to hug me. A side hug, he never liked to hug anyone, but he made an exception for me.
The waiter would come and take our orders while we laughed and talked about Star Trek. He loves Star Trek as much as I do. He wouldn’t approve of my tattoos since they “defile” my body, but he would like the Trekkie tat on my right arm.
When I pulled out my Associate’s Degree he would say “Great, but keep going.” I would surprise him with my Bachelor’s Degree and his face would light up. He would still say “Okay, good but keep going.” That is what my father is in my mind, but that is not reality.
I get that phone call every five years or so. The last call that was made to me went like this:
“This is your father.”
“Hi, Dad. I didn’t expect you to call. I got married, you know.”
“You shouldn’t do that. You have to focus on your education.”
“I have my associate’s degree now. I am doing -”
“No, no, you have to focus on your education. You have to work hard, stop-”
Then he trails into gibberish. Every time I think he is coherent, he’s not. He’s not even talking to me, he is just talking to the voices in his head. It will never be about me, his child.
The voice in his head will always be the only important part of his life. The one that dictates how much he loves me. I always wondered if my father was capable of love. The definition of real love is constantly changing and now I know he simply can’t love me.
The longing that I feel and my desire for a real father is never going to be a reality. I am a fatherless child. I will never know what it is like to have a father play ball with me in the yard or take me to a school dance. I will never relate to the nostalgia of presents on holidays and the Dad giving the new girlfriend a lesson in respect.
I will never see my father grow old. Wipe the drool from his mouth. Read him his favorite Star Trek novel while he stares out the window of his home as the sunsets. I won’t be there to hold my father’s hand when he leaves the land of the living. I won’t.
I don’t even know if he is dead or alive. I have to wait for the five-year call filled with nonsensical words and unclear intentions.
If that call doesn’t come, I know he’s gone. No one should ever die alone, but my father will. My Dad was not a good person. The reality of my longing is not rooted in the reality of his existence. I yearn for and wish for a father that is an illusion.
I have an empty space that will never be filled because the man wanted is a mirage and the man I knew is not my father.
The story was inspired by the prompt from Ravyne Hawke — If you knew how great your little dreams are, you wouldn’t let them die.” ― Michael Bassey Johnson, The Oneironaut’s Diary.
The above personal essay was first written for Eng 340 course in Feb. 2023.
Tas The Artist 
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