Father’s Day: One Big, Fat, Fucking Trigger

My dad is charming. He’s intelligent, funny, a good dresser. He’s nice looking, loaded with degrees and accolades and — oh! He’s a pedophile.

He’s a man who ripped his family apart through his manipulations, lies, actions and deeds.

I loved my dad and still do. I love the person that is under his sick disease. And I feel like I go crazy with analyzing that particular statement, “I love the person that is under his sick disease.” What is his disease? Is it simply him? Who is he anyway? How can you ever tell where the mind and heart of a pedophile begin?

And my dad — was he such an awesome father to me for so long because he was simply grooming me? Or was any of it real, untwisted, unblemished by this horror of who or what he is sexually attracted to?

I put on blinders for most of my days.

I simply tune out thoughts of my dad or experiences growing up. I have to; I’d be completely crazy if I didn’t. But when Father’s Day rolls around each year, every year, I feel hit and smothered in all directions.

Stories abound on those priceless dads, the ones that are just like mine — smart, handsome, funny, charming — only they don’t dig kids, if you know what I mean. Or at least no one thinks they do. Which leads me down another rabbit hole, because no one thinks my dad does either. He’s extremely well-respected in his circles.

I hate Father’s Day.

I hate being reminded of my dad, of the pain that I feel when I remember his smile, his jokes.

I hate missing him.

I hate that I even wish he would just die so I could grieve — and won’t have to explain to my kids why they can’t see their grandpa.

I hate Father’s Day.

I hate the insidiousness of pedophilia — how it literally drenches every memory. I hate that it warps and twists my own mind, wondering who is really who they say they are, wondering if any father is truly healthy in his actions with his children.

I hate having my blinders down.