Today Is Father’s Day and I Feel Nothing

Today Is Father’s Day and I Feel Nothing

On the anniversary of my mother’s death, initially factor in the morning, my brother and I text each and every other a tribute to our mom and a message to her that we miss her. This year was in particular poignant since it was the twentieth anniversary of her death.

On the anniversary of my father’s death, at least this year, since I can not recall final year and the years prior, I forgot and so did my brother. It passed like any other day, either April 13th or 14th (I’m not certain), the eighth anniversary of his death. I have no feelings about Father’s Day. I do not miss him and I really feel relieved he and his demands are no longer in my life.

We had a conflicted connection. He generally disappeared, retreating into his depression, when I necessary him most, when I was at my sickest. He created his demands identified — primarily grocery purchasing and maintaining him stocked with cigarettes — when I was commuting from Westchester, NY down to Queens, only ten minutes from exactly where I grew up and my father nonetheless lived. One of my burning inquiries that never ever got answered in therapy is how did I wind up coming house to work?

After work, I did his purchasing. I was greeted with “Why did you get me this sh*t cake?” or “I wanted strawberry ice cream, not chocolate.” I held my pee till I got house since his apartment was so filthy. Eventually, we moved him up to Connecticut, closer to my brother, which he ultimately deemed a error. “He’s like having another toddler,” he observed.

The Author’s Father (1950)

Source: © Cherry Lawn School

When he died of sepsis at a palliative care facility, I believed I would really feel relief. First the migraines began, then the depression which was relentless. Unconsciously, I was tortured by the reality I would never ever hear “you are good enough,” escape his lips. My chase to please him proved fruitless. Eleven months following my father passed away, I attempted suicide. I’m fortunate the try was not fatal, although I was briefly admitted to a health-related hospital to stabilize my essential indicators. Following that admission, I was transferred to a psychiatric hospital for a longer admission.

In therapy, following the suicide try, I came to recognize that my father did the ideal he could with what he had, which admittedly was not significantly. We realized he may possibly have suffered from undiagnosed schizoid character disorder. His parents, my grandparents possessing emigrated from Romania had been not in particular warm, loving people today and they sent my father to a boarding college for his higher college years.

He attended a college in Connecticut and graduated in 1950. Perhaps I get my writing potential from him, for he had a number of contributions to the yearbook. Here is one particular:


Aimless patterns, traced by the wind

in the swirling sands.

Aimless patterns,

of blue cigarette smoke, dying

and getting reborn

By each and every waxing and waning of a breath

Patterns. . . drawn by a thoughts strayed into limbo

Patterns. . . of a child’s initially

unintelligible scrawling

Patterns. . .of a violent death and

the master pattern, it as well, aimless

meaningless to these who adhere to their


on a grain of sand amongst a million other individuals.

— Walter Rosenhaft ‘50

© Andrea Rosenhaft

Source: © Andrea Rosenhaft

Originally published in