by Malcolm Foster

This is a personal retelling of how Mal Foster remembers his dad, how his dad abandoned him, how it impacted his mental health, and what he did about it to heal and start loving himself. Mal Foster is a guest writer for Human Amplified. If you’d like to guest write for the blog, learn more here.

Like so many aspects of this evolving puzzle we call life, acceptance is unique to every person who encounters it. Every case is different. Each example carries its own definition. For a lucky few, acceptance comes swiftly and organically. For others, it's a curve. A gradient. 

For me, acceptance had been quietly holding my hand for some time before I finally became aware of its presence. There was no moment of clarity. No parting clouds. No warm rinse of internal zen. Just me, my father's headstone, and the understanding that I no longer needed his acceptance. 

During his lifetime…

My father appeared to be many things.

A family man.

A cheat.

A liar.

A charming rogue.

A conveyor belt of constant disappointment. 

My mother, fresh out of a turbulent, teenage marriage was vulnerable and like many others, she fell for my father's better qualities. Somewhere down the line, I came into the world. The youngest in a line of six, seven, or possibly more children my father could claim. 

Unprepared to alter his life, my father became the tired cliche you've seen a million times. The kind that has forged countless cautionary tales of troubled youth. As a result of this, I was raised by my mother and my grandmother. Two of the strongest women you could ever meet. They not only provided for me, but they instilled in me a sense of empathy and a level of compassion I am beyond grateful for in adulthood. 

But as a child, I didn't want understanding. I wanted my dad. 

I wanted him to actually show up the weeks he was supposed to. I wanted to know what he did for a living so I would have an answer anytime someone would ask. I didn't want to be palmed off with convincing lies. With presents purchased as an afterthought. I wanted my dad to remember my birthday. To spend time with me because he wanted to, not because he felt obligated to. I wanted my dad to pick me up outside of school. To listen to the stories I had made up with my action figures in the living room. I wanted him to hug me. To tell me he loved me. Just once, and actually mean it. I wanted all the typical things a six-year old wants from their dad. But all I got was empty afternoons, empty promises, and empty gestures. 

Around the age of eight, my mum had dried enough of my tears. She was tired of having to pick me up every time he let me down - a state that peaked one random afternoon outside of school. 

In typical fashion, he was waiting for me in his car. Unscheduled, unexpected, tail between his legs. Full of meaningless apologies after once again, being absent for god knows how long. This wasn't a phase, it was a pattern. The only one I'd ever known. Only this time, his latest addition to this repeated design prompted an explosive row between my parents. A blow-up that led to my mother making a pivotal decision. As my father peeled out of his stationary position and accelerated out of sight, my eight-year-old legs ran full pelt down the street, tears dripping down my face. 

This is the last image I have of my father.

For me, it was an event that pulled me in two separate directions. For my father, it was the moment he'd been looking for - the excuse he needed to walk away without any baggage. 

That afternoon, despite being very much alive…

My father became a ghost. 

The years that immediately followed were strangely okay. I had an incredibly strong home base to help me transition from one plane to another. It was in the early stages of adolescence where the conflict and confusion began to truly take root. 

In that delicate space between the end of my childhood and the beginning notes of my teenage years, that's where I began to flesh out a better understanding of my relationship, or lack thereof, with my father. I started to fill in some of the gaps and see previously hidden aspects. In particular, I thought about his family.

His real family.

The one he wouldn't leave to be with me. 

These elements changed the overall dynamic of my thoughts significantly, especially when mixed with a malleable, yet immature, level of emotional intelligence. Finding out that my father cast me aside because he already had a family didn't prompt a sense of clarity or understanding. That fact planted seeds that would eventually harvest some of the ugliest fruit of my being.

When I was eight years old and younger, my father's rejection appeared to be based solely on the fact that he didn't want to be with me. That is already pretty damaging in its own right, but, as the picture became more defined in my adolescence, I was left with the understanding that he was choosing other people over me. 

Although the truth is not as cut and dry as that, back then, that's what I latched onto. That's the truth I cultivated. Repeating that thesis ripped open a whole new set of exposed nerves. It created an echo chamber of doubt that would last for years. The idea that I was rejected in favour of someone else established a long-standing myth that I wasn't good enough.

That I wasn't smart enough.

Funny enough.

That I wasn't worth anyone's time.

A glass monument of insecurity that grew taller upon realising my father didn't have to choose between one family or another.

Learning that it wasn't simply a case of black or white, that there were shades of grey my father deliberately avoided only made things worse. 

My discovery of a middle ground and how it was completely negated fuelled years of sadness entwined with anger. For the longest time, I hated that man, and at times, I hated myself.

Learning about his violent past.

The other people he had abandoned.

His cowardice and inability to take responsibility.

These revelations were like aerosol cans being tossed onto an already seething bonfire. I was filled with venom and I had nowhere to direct it. So it stayed inside and built up like a pressure cooker. 

Despite being stuck inside the vacuum of this destructive cycle, the six-year old who just wanted to be loved was still very much alive, albeit buried deep within. Ultimately I think that's what drove all of my anger and to some extent my sadness - a child that for the rest of his life was left wondering what he had done wrong.

A little boy longing to be acknowledged and embraced by his dad…

At the age of 20, I was given the opportunity to ask that question, “what did I do wrong,” to confront those oppressive doubts. Twelve years after seeing him disappear into the distance, my father's presence, or at the least the possibility of my father's presence, emerged over the horizon.

After receiving a phone call from a distant acquaintance, my mother was informed that my dad was in the last stages of terminal cancer. Evidently, he didn't have long left and with what time he had remaining, he wanted to make amends. For the first time in twelve years, my father was no longer a concept, a question, or a string of painful memories. He was a tangible figure. 

In the height of my ongoing anger, it took me, at best, two seconds to confirm my decision. 

For the previous twelve years, my father was nowhere to be seen. That afternoon, outside of my school, he had taken my mum's decision at face value and never once contested it. So I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of thinking he had fixed something he didn't even know was broken to begin with. 

For years I wrestled with a multitude of feelings towards my father - with the fact that he never accepted me. Through various stages, he, in some form or another, was the most prominent cause of discomfort within me. So much so that eventually his spectre became like wallpaper.

Undeniably present, but barely noticed.

That was, until I had to fill out his date of birth and death when applying for my fiance visa to the U.S. It was upon reaching this part of the paperwork that I realised I didn't know either. After extensive searching, it turns out the internet is just as clueless in this regard. So, with no other option, I found myself stood…

In front of his grave for the very first time. 

Twenty-five years after running down that street with a face full of tears, I was finally reunited with my father, and as I looked down upon his burial plot, I felt…nothing. 

I wasn't angry. I wasn't sad. I wasn't resentful or even touched by remorse. I just felt empty. But the good kind of empty - the kind that holds no space for the things that break you.

In the years that followed my father's request, I did on occasion wonder if my decision was the right one to make. Would I have found some closure by visiting him before he passed? But now, I don't question it. I don't even think about it anymore. 

That's because I no longer think of you dad, not really. 

If I do, it's not with the malice or longing that tainted my youth. It's with a sense of pity. 

Despite the deep-rooted feeling your absence cultivated, I now know that I am good enough. That I always have been. 

I feel pity because you never got to learn that. 

You never got to see things I've overcome. 

The person I turned out to be.

You missed out on the strength and courage my mother has exemplified.

You never got to meet your amazing daughter in law.

You missed out on so much. 

I'm not happy about that, but I'm through being sad for the turns you took.

For the longest time, I resented you for the hole you left within. 

Now I thank you for giving me a space I can fill with love.

About the Author

Mal Foster is a lad from Northern England, now living in Texas. 

An only child with a vivid imagination and a curious mind, Mal has been known to wear many hats. The most prominent one right now is that of creator, presenter, and producer of the 'Dimed Out' podcast.

Part personal journal, part universal microscope. Dimed Out has become an audio journey of anthropology. An exploration of everything from self-growth and science to subcultures and curious life experiences.

Outside of this Mal is the proverbial round peg to the world's square hole. He has a definitive love of cats, The Clash and one day hopes to finally visit Tokyo. He doesn't take himself too seriously. Struggles with compliments and writing complimentary things to promote himself and oh, yeah…he's working on a book that he swears one day will be finished.

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