My dad died suddenly in December 1992 so close to Christmas it was insult to injury. He was 63. (The older I get, the younger that seems.) Aside from shock, I couldn't articulate what I felt then. At 21, I lacked the self-awareness to understand what I was feeling. And I couldn't separate how I really felt from how I was supposed to feel. Maybe my sadness was just a reflection of what I saw around me. Everyone close to me was sad and expected me to be sad too.

When I think about him now, as I tend to do when I'm getting pummeled with Father's Day commercials for tools and ties, I see that I was sad, but not because my dad was dead. I was sad because the dad I longed for never existed. 

I wanted to be daddy's little girl. I wanted him to read me bedtime stories, not pass out before my bedtime.  I wanted him to tell me I was pretty - the apple of his eye. Instead he overlooked me. I wanted him to ask me about my day at school, not shush me because the Final Jeopardy Question was starting.

I can name my emotions now even if I'm not proud of them.

Sadness because

I never had the dad I wanted.

I thought I was a bad kid.

Guilt because

I didn't accept the dad I was given.

Anger because

He always chose beer over me.

He smelled like beer on the rare occasions when he hugged me.

He always passed out when he held me on his lap.

He wouldn't turn away from Wheel of Fortune for just five seconds to hear what I had to say.

He treated our dogs with more love and affection.

He had no balls.

He never stood up to my narcissistic, domineering, verbally abusive mother.

He never intervened when she hit me.

He couldn't stop drinking.

He let me believe it was my fault.

Inadequacy because

I couldn't change him.

I couldn't change me.

Shame because

I accepted pity and condolences when I didn't really miss him.

My life was easier after he was gone.

Letting go of my real dad was easier than letting go of the one I imagined.

Some nights he comes to me in my dreams - so real I wake feeling as though he's not really gone even though it's been 16 years. He's a good dad in my dreams, just as he's always been in my imagination. Sometimes we play old country songs on our guitars. (We never played together when he was alive, because he only played when he was drunk.) One night we made vanilla ice cream together in my dream. And drizzled it with Hershey's Syrup. It's been months since my last dream of him. If he visits me this weekend, maybe I'll wish him Happy Father's Day.