It would be less than honest if I didn’t admit that I am not looking forward to writing this. In fact, I regretted reserving a spot in the contest about the second after I did. I know, I don’t have to submit, but I think that maybe I need to. So, here goes.

I have a confession to make. I am a sinner. I am guilty of the sin of failing to forgive. As the old saying goes, “To err is human, to forgive is divine.” If that truly is the case, then divinity shall continue to elude me.

My story begins when I was a boy. You see, I never really had a father. He left the family for another woman when I was a toddler. You read it right, he didn’t just bail on mother, he abandoned us all. I was lucky to get contact once a year until I was about fifteen. Then hard times fell upon our house.

For financial reasons, my father agreed to take me into his home with his current wife and my half-brother. I was starting the 11th grade. From the very first day, I was treated like a fifth wheel. I felt like I was a burden and was advised on many occasions with long tirades that I was interrupting their lives. I was a real-life Harry Potter, minus the room under the stairs.

One time, during a heated argument, my father grabbed me and pinned me against a wall, saying, “Don’t ever make me pick between you and your step-mother, because you will lose every time.” I hadn’t even known it was a competition. That wife was traded in for a newer model a long time ago, by the way.

I started working in the kitchen at a local tourist attraction at sixteen, doing dishes, making coleslaw, and cutting bread. It was difficult work in the hot kitchen, but I had a goal. I wanted to join the U.S. Marine Corps and I knew I would need a car if I didn’t want to be stuck on base.

My father told me since I was working, I now needed to buy my own clothes for school. I really wanted that car, so I wore holes in my pants and tennis shoes. Too bad it wasn’t a cool fashion statement in the 80’s. Surprisingly, my father and stepmother were so very proud I had a job.

So proud, in fact, they continuously asked me how much money I had in my account and always wanted to see my bankbook. I was approaching $2,000, which at that time would buy a decent car.  They were all smiles and happy for me until I was about to graduate my senior year.

Then my father demanded my money and took it all, “for the trouble of raising me.” I never spent a penny from my first two years of employment. This taught me some very screwed up lessons about saving money and left me in a financial tailspin for about half my life.

I spent my first two years in the military bumming rides, hitchhiking, or just stuck on base. I wasn’t able to go home for the holidays because I had no car.

Worse yet, my father had refused to drive me to Indianapolis to the enlistment center where you signed contracts and took your physical. I had an incredibly high score on my military entry exam and had told my recruiter I wanted to be in the military police (MP).

At the center in Indianapolis, the contract man told me there were no spots for MP. After being yelled at for several minutes by my recruiter and the unknown men there, I ended up signing up for five years instead of the normal four and went to the infantry. No job skill to be earned.

When I returned home my father laughed in my face and giggled with great joy, saying, “Boy, they saw you coming. I told you not to join up, but you’re too good to be a welder like the rest of us.  They really screwed you!”

I mumbled, “I needed a father there to help me.”

“What did you say, boy?” his sharp tone shutting me up real quick.

The week I left for the marines, my father came up and said, “See you in a couple of days.”

“Dad, bootcamp is four months long,” I responded.

“Awww, come on, you ain’t fooling no one here. You don’t have what it takes to finish Marine Corps bootcamp. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

Now these fathering skills sucked, but you’re probably thinking they aren’t insurmountable for forgiveness. I get you, but let me tell you what is. The second man my mother married was an abusive monster. Yes, mostly mental, but it was bad. Really bad.

I remember my siblings and I sitting around in the eye of the storm, commiserating with each other about what was going to happen when “daddy” would finally come and rescue us. I heard it over and over.

“Oh, Dean’s gonna be in big trouble for throwing me against that wall when Dad shows up.”

“Wait ‘til dad hears that Dean beat me with his belt.”

“Dad’s going to be so pissed when he learns that Dean made me eat my own vomit.”

That rescue never came. One particularly bad day, I was hiding under a desk in a hallway while the monster raged on my mom in the next room, nearly beating her to death and eventually sending her to the hospital. Those were the days when the doctors and police colluded to keep those ‘types’ of things hush-hush.

That was the day I realized my father was never coming. It just hit me that I was alone and had to rely on myself. I believe that at nine years old, I saved my mother’s life. From under that desk, I could hear Dean snarling as my mother screamed, “Please don’t hit me anymore!”

To make a sound meant horrible things for me, but make a sound I did. “LEAVE HER ALONE!!!” I screamed with every ounce of strength I could muster. This was followed by immediate silence in their bedroom.

Then the monster came for me. He stomped out of their room and went to each of our bedrooms kicking open all the doors. This caused him to pass by the hallway desk twice, where all I could see was Dean from the knees down. I still remember his half-tied brown work boots. I was gripped by pure terror, certain he was going to rip away the chair and tip over the desk, finding me. Then he was gone, fleeing from the house.

Later in life, my birth father apologized to me, saying he had no idea what we were going through with Dean. I found the excuse weak. He was dad. It was his job to know. So, lots of people had tough situations. My cousins’ mom died when they were toddlers. Their road has been ugly.  If you’re thinking “Oh boohoo” or I’m seeking sympathy, you have missed the point.

This piece is about forgiveness and my inability to give it. I need to, but I don’t. I should, but I can’t. I want to, but I won’t. My father is Christian now and wants a relationship, but on his terms. I am only allowed to visit his house if there are no relatives from his current wife at the house. He does not come my way, ever.

After all, this is the man who skipped my High School Graduation, Marine Corps Boot Camp Graduation, FLETC Federal Academy Graduation, first wedding, and the birth of my children.  He can’t be bothered to even see my home.

There are no photos of any of my children in his home, and he doesn’t even care to know their names. My father takes it upon himself to play the victim and often sends relatives to let my siblings and I know how badly we have hurt him in life.

I used to pretend that Magnum PI was my father. Just a childhood fantasy. Now I tell people the U.S. Marine Corps was my daddy. Whenever I make progress and feel like I could let this go, I see a movie, or tv show with a good dad and I feel hatred all over again. Now, even movies with bad dads who at least try make me angry, because I find they are still better fathers than my own.

So, there is my problem. I seethe with hatred for the man. I am a Christian, not the best, but still am one. Okay, ‘not the best’ is putting way to good a spin on it. Let’s go with in the bottom half, but not the worst.

The Bible tells us if we don’t forgive, we won’t be forgiven. I’m 53 and I still haven’t found it in my heart. It’s just not there and the past is too painful. I’m not an emotional man, but I actually teared up while I wrote this. A couple of times.

The good news is, I’m a great dad. I’ve been told I’m a better father than a husband. Yeah, I know. Still, I am there for my children, whenever they need me and quite often when they don’t. So, I want to forgive. I do.

Writing this wasn’t about a contest for me. That was my “excuse” to pen this. I am hoping it may generate some advice from you, dear readers, and may even set my foot on the path of forgiveness. Some of you have survived the same and worse and have learned to forgive. I’d even be happy with just one little, tiny footstep in that direction. This is the first time I have ever written anything about my birth father. Thank you for sharing this moment with me.