rough house
Benjamin James Ochsner - Two girls and sheep in spring, 1920s-1940s
I finished rough house by Tina Ontivores on Friday. It is Sunday, and her words are still with me. I have never seen myself so much in a book. I have never see my relationship to my father so much in a book. I have never seen my own experiences so much in someone else’s.
Sometimes what I want to say feels so daunting, so beyond capable, that I do not say it at all. I have wrote before that words get stuck in my throat - a thick, coagulated substance getting stuck in a funnel. There is so much inside of me, and I experience it all so heavily, so physically, that I would rather shut down than begin the feat of trying to bring my emotions outside of myself through words. Tonight, I will try to write what this book has done for me, but just know that words cannot fully encompass it.
This book took me back to the intensity of my experience while my dad was dying and the year after his death. Being reminded of those times sometimes can be a relief. It is as if my dad is near again. Like his death wasn’t three and a half years ago. Like it has only been a week since I spoke with him on the phone. Yes, he is gone, but he is freshly gone. Meaning, he was just here. No one new has moved into his house, and my call log still shows his name. I have not yet had any big life events that I am unable to tell him about. I still catch myself thinking he is only a phone call away. My grief still feels insurmountable, but at least he remains close by.
This book put into words many things I have not been able to. I saw myself and my dad in her pages. I remembered how my dad never once made me question whether or not he loved me. I knew my sister and I were the most important things in his world from the day we were born. She writes not to expect anything from love except love. It does not promise safety or consistency.
She writes about her father crossing boundaries, about the lessons he taught her, about what parts of him she carries as gifts, about his abuse, about his addiction, about how he loved. She writes her father in the way I see my father: complicated, not completely one thing. I finished feeling validated, understood.
I miss my dad beyond expression. Tonight is one of those nights where the idea of him is so near that it feels unbearable to know he is gone for good. He did inexcusable acts, and he was also one of the only people I could say I love you to first. I do not know what my relationship with him would look like today if he were still alive. I do not know how I would grapple with the memories I’ve uncovered if I could still see him, hear his voice. He is frozen in time as the last version of him I knew. On our last phone call, he spoke clearly. I remember thinking he sounded sober. He sounded okay. I wanted nothing more than for him to be okay. I did not know this was the last time I would speak to him, but I wonder if he did.
Dad - I do not know if I forgive you, but I love you. I miss you. For forever, it seems.