Dad...

I'll apologise in advance for anyone who is expecting a laughfest... though considering most of the people reading this are friends, I hope they'll indulge me.

I wrote the other day a Valentine to all my gorgeous girls, with the intention of following it up with a similar blog on the boys I love and have found I've struggled to do so. Not because there aren't any, as there are, though interestingly not as many boys as there are girls.

And what's been interesting for me, is how I've struggled to write about them, these boys, old and new, who have influenced, guided and encouraged me. I've drafted endless paragraphs in my head about them, but haven't been able to post something.

Today, one of those very new boys, told me that I often make dismissive statements, like 'I forget you're a boy' or 'of course, you'd say that, you're a man' etc. He's right, I do. There's some part of me that struggles to understand men, and I told him that the scary thing about him was that he didn't scare me... I think he's more than a bit perplexed... as he's not a scary person at all... quite the opposite, as he's been nothing but friendly and supportive and nurturing...

Bottom line is that I don't trust men... not easily... and therefore I let very few of them get close enough to truly know me... and in talking to a friend tonight realised that I can't write about those boys without writing about the first male to influence me... and I've been sitting here re-reading something I wrote about him in the weeks following his death. Below is the edited version of that writing:

My father died on September 3 2003, Age 68. He was a manic depressive, though he went undiagnosed until his 40s, prior to that self-medicating with alcohol and frequent trips in and out of hospital when the self-medication didn't work and he self harmed. We were estranged at the time of his death, something I chose to do, as I found that in order to be happy and healthy I needed to step away from the demands of his illness.

I've been thinking a lot about him lately, since the anniversary of his death, which coincides with the date I started my current job and it feels like the start of another chapter of my life. I've known for awhile that I needed to write about him...just couldn't work out in what way.

I loved him... as only a little girl loves her Daddy, but I learned very early on that I needed to read him to determine what kind of mood he was in, and as a consequence, learn to adapt my mood and temperament to match his.

While Dad was diagnosed as manic depressive what he really suffered or was blessed with, was too much emotion. He felt things deeply, and sometimes was unable to filter out those feelings till they overwhelmed him, and he'd need to retreat to heal himself.

He was quite open about his illness and taught us not to be ashamed of our emotions, nor to ever be ashamed of him or ourselves.

He would announce he was cured, flush all of his meds down the toilet, and then a week later give away all of his worldly possessions and often other people's worldly possessions and then ask for them back when he felt more himself.

His illness made him selfish, often cruel and thoughtless. He disowned and reclaimed us dozens of times in the years after he left Mum. And he used his illness sometimes as an excuse for terrible behaviour.

He was a naturally funny man... but behind some of the jokes, there was often an underlying cruelty. And while openly affectionate, every kiss you received might be followed with a slap!

For a chubby, shy and easily embarassed girl, having your father act the Court Jester was often a terrible thing, particularly when it was at your expense, probably why I'm so quick to make funny, biting remarks about myself... if I use those words, they're mine, I own them, and they no longer have the power to hurt me.

Probably also why I struggle to receive compliments, I keep waiting for the tagline... and for me to end up the stooge.

But despite all of that, I loved him. My Dad knew what it was like to be perfectly content and almost joyful and knew great happiness by taking pleasure in the simplest of things.

He loved a good joke - the cornier the better. Did you hear the one about the 2 peanuts walking through the park, one was a salted! If a bricklayer lays bricks why doesn't a plumber lay plums?

He was the first person to make light of a subject, particularly himself. He terrorised the neighbourhood kids with tales about his lost fingers (he lost 4 fingers on one hand at the first knuckle in a workplace accident at 15), telling them that that's what happened if you picked your nose!

He loved food - particularly sweets. ‘What’s for pudding” was often far more important than what was for dinner. His favourite words in the universe were 'all you can eat buffet'.

Dad loved music, almost all kinds, but particularly music from the 30s and 40s and the Broadway musicals, especially Rogers and Hammerstein. He had the soul of a musician but not a single musical talent at all, but it was a form of escape for him and we were able to judge his mood by the music he chose to play.

If he was playing You'll Never Walk Alone or Oh My Papa - he was best avoided. But more often then not he was prancing around the house singing I'm Going to Wash that Man Right Out of My Hair, or Oh What a Beautiful Morning.

He also loved movies – a legacy that lingers on his children and grandchildren, but he especially loved anything that was about families, Mrs Miniver, the Best Years of Our Lives, Cheaper by the Dozen, Little Women. Dad used to cancel bed times if there was a movie in the TV guide he felt we needed to see and I can remember sitting curled up on his knee watching Little Women (the June Allyson version) and we both cried when Beth died. And being allowed to stay up late to watch Carousel and crying with him again.

Movie’s for him had to be one of three things, they had to make you laugh, they had to make you cry and they had to have a happy ending. I guess that’s why he loved musicals.

He was simply a study in contradictions.

And I have discovered that I am very much my father's daughter. His legacy lives on in me, in my wry and slightly twisted humour and my willingness to play the clown. And also in my love of the shared experiences of meal times and conversation, music and laughter surrounded by family and friends - each are such healing things for me.

But at the same time I know I am stronger than he was... or I strive to be... aiming to make the most of every day and every experience...

I like to think I am the best of him...that after 45 years of trying... that I understand who he was and accept him for who he was...

Now I need to do a little bit more work on accepting who I am... so that when a handsome, witty, charming, intelligent (and modest) boy tells me that I'm funny and clever that I'll believe him... even just a little...