Mourning my father.

My father was not a good man. 

He is not dead.

I'm 19 this month, and this makes it 7 years since I last spoke to my father, and 6 since I moved from my home state to Northern Appalachia. I love it here, I call my self Appalachian and would never want to move back to where I came from, but I'll always feel like I left many things behind, including him. I was hoping he would be present for my entrance to high school; for my graduation; for my final day before I step into college and into the real world. I always hoped that I would have a dad. He made this as difficult as possible. 

My father was not a good man. 

I don't remember much of my childhood, but from I do remember was it being hectic. My father was an alcoholic. An addict. A narcissist. If I wanted I could write a list of all the things he could be and on the third wrap around the planet I would be through one fifth of all I could say he is. 

One of my earliest memories are of me as a child, maybe 5 or 6, banging on the door as my mother begged him to stop hurting her. I doubt he'd remember that. Nor the insults he would say to my face, not even having an age with two digits to my name. I doubt he'd remember many things. 

My earliest peaceful memory was when he was in jail. I don't know what for. I don't plan to find out, seeing as I can probably guess exactly what it is. I think I was 6 at the time. By this point he had died thrice and been brought back thanks to the work of paramedics. I remember, a few years back in my early teens, wishing that they were a bit late. Just a few minutes extra. I still wonder what my life would have turned out like, but I don't wish that amount of hate on him anymore.

When I was 7 my father made me drink a can of bug light and had me sit down on the couch with him as he put on a porno. I don't remember exactly what happened in it anymore. I remember hating the experience. I only told my mother years later, after we were far away from him. 

One of my only good memories I can still feel is when we went to a steak sub shop when I was around 11. I still remember the greasy sandwich, overflowing with mushrooms and thinly sliced pieces of steak. My mother and him had already separated by that point. 

When I was 12 or 13 my mother and I were temporarily homeless, no longer wanting to be in the house my father still knew we lived in. It took maybe a week for us to end up moving into my Mamaw and Papaws house in the city. I stayed there until the end of my 6th grade year of middle school. I never changed schools, my mother and I having an hour-long drive both ways every day, waking up early to make it in time, and leaving late and getting home around 5 or 6.

I was 13 when we moved to Appalachia. I made friends with the people I now consider closer to me than a lot of my family. I made my first friend, whom I still consider my best friend, through JoJo's Bizarre Adventure of all things. It was early 2020 at that time, right before Quarantine. I never talked to my father after that. 

My father did a lot more than what I said. All my memories are too blurry to single out. 

My father is not dead. 

I never really started to miss my father until the May of this year. It wasn't long until I would graduate, and, against my better judgement, I really, really wanted my father to be there. I was then hit with the bombshell after talking with my mother about it that my father would be going to prison. She planned to wait until after I graduated to tell me, but after I said I wanted to talk with him about it she decided to tell me now. 

I graduated twice. Once from my vocational school, once from my high school. Both times it hurt horribly. 

I didn't start to mourn my father until I graduated. 

I found out his charges around a week after my final day. I still hate to think about it, but in short, he's going away for a long time. 8 to 16 years. Possibly longer. 

I was born late into my parents life. My father was 33, and my mother was 42. My mother is 61 this year, and my father is 52. I hated thinking about this inevitability, but there is a real, almost undeniable truth that the last time I will have spoken to my father was many years ago. My father, against my will, against all what I would want to believe or let take control, is dead to my reality. 

I don't know what I have to mourn. But I do. Is it the father I wished I had? Is it the father I had? Is it the father I had before he was brought back to life?

I know it's human to mourn loss. I've lost many people. I've mourned many times. 

I feel like it's worse to mourn when the person who is gone is still there.