Day 48: Had a Dad.

Had a dad
Big and strong
Turned around
Found my daddy gone.
- "Had a Dad," by Jane's Addiction

Back on Day #12, I talked about the reasons I've always been fat.

Well, I used the euphemism "heavy" because it made me feel better, but today I feel like I should just call it like it is. I might carry it well, and I'll reluctantly admit to being vaguely attractive despite the weight (when I make an effort, anyway), but 70 pounds is 70 pounds.

On Day #12, I talked about fat as a "Suit of Armor" that, among other things, kept the boys away. I quickly veered into a conversation about liking girls, but never addressed the more basic issue: Why would I have wanted a suit of armor in the first place? Why did I have a hard time trusting men from the get-go?

Well, I'm gonna go all Freud on your asses and bring up the first man in every girl's life ... Dad. Good or bad, present or absent, loving or cruel, dads seem to matter. They have a fundamental effect on their daughters' lives ... even if the daughter never met him or can't remember a single thing about him. I'm not saying adult women should blame Dad for their problems ... I'm just saying it's a relationship to be aware of.

My father left when I was four, and that was that. I'm told there were birthday presents for a few years (picked out and mailed by his new wife, who obviously felt a whole lot guiltier than he did) and even a few phone calls. And then it all stopped. I never heard from or saw him again.

I don't have any memories of him. There's nothing beyond the nine pictures I've seen and a few stray facts my mother's told me. I supposedly adored him, I always wanted to go places with him, he rarely wanted a baby tagging along. He thought it was funny when, while learning to walk, I tripped and fell down. He liked sports cars. He gained weight easily. That's about it. It's not that Mom is holding back - she just doesn't remember much. Mom believes in cutting bait, and when she moves on, she takes as little as possible with her.

If only I could be like that. Unfortunately, wallower that I am, I've been thinking about this prick my entire life. For a long time, I claimed not to care. Whenever anyone said something like, "Don't you want to go find him?" (which people used to say all the time, at least until I got old enough that the expiration date on 'finding daddy' had passed) I would merely sneer and say he didn't deserve to know me.

But I was lying. I did think about finding him. I wondered who he was. I wondered why he'd left. I wondered why he'd never bothered to try and know his daughter. And so, finally, I broke down and called him two years ago. I'd tracked him down on the internet and discovered that he owned an art gallery/antique store in Florida.

When I called the store, an innocuous-sounding man answered ... and I immediately hung up. I never called back, and I shoved it from my mind.

Being abandoned sucks - I'm not the first and I certainly won't be the last. I'm embarrassed at being such a cliche, but there it is. Maybe it's why I always have to be the first to bail, why I can't bear to be caught off guard, why I despise looking like a fool.

And maybe it has something to do with why I keep the extra pounds on. I mean, if I lose the weight, what will I blame for future failures? Future rejections? Future losses? And, most of all ... future abandonments?