The day I became an orphan, of a sort.
My father, a racist, former alcoholic, and wife abuser, met his end. It was, as I expected, on his own terms up until he lost control of things. He'd stopped eating and chosen to die instead of seeking medical treatment. Of course, he was expecting, and received, attention from my siblings.
As someone who has battled against depression and suicide, I can tell you, this was not him choosing to die. There's plenty of ways he could have ended it, short, sweet and fast. No, this was a last ploy, a last gasp to get back the children his lifetime of manipulation and vile behavior had so alienated.
For those wondering why I am oversharing this, it's because I feel I need a tiny bit of cathartic venting. When my mother sadly passed, I marked the day and time. I wanted a virtual tombstone for the woman who gave me life, love, and countless lessons.
For this, I want a mark when a devil was dragged back to hell.
I will not miss him. I will not cry over him. He showed me that nothing lay in his heart but self-interest and hatred. He never knew what love was, and so therefore was just barely something one could call a human being.
So now, the only family I have are my siblings. His family are just like him. My mother's family was driven off by his. I now have no one to reach back to in order to learn more of my family's past. From here on, I need to make the story that my children will learn of.
And this is one chapter that will be slammed shut, and buried deep after this post. I will not pass on his hatred. Good riddance to one more racist abuser.
