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I was a month and half away from turning 2 when my father died on 5/4/81. From what I have been told he was not the greatest of guys but hey, he loved me more than he loved to breath. He loved me so much that he stole me away to Arizona and didn't return until he "had" too.



I just turned 30 this year and I have only been to my dads grave once. It took me 23 years to get there but I did, and somehow their was a slight weight lifted off from my shoulder once I had felt the cold stone that rest above my fathers rotting corpse.



The point of this little entry is to finally say that I am not over this. I've never dealt with his death, just lived with the knowledge of it. No one wants to talk about due to the circumstances behind it but I know bits and pieces from this person or that person and I've decided that it doesn't matter. He's dead. The End.



My mom calls me at approx 10pm on 9/17/09, and decides to tell me that it's my fathers birthday. OF course, stupid me says "Mom, Dads birthday was the 7th" and accuse her being senile once again. She says, "I mean Ronnie, your real dad. I thought that you were old enough to know and you should remember him today, even though you don't really remember him". Soooo, what would you think. The subject of his birth had never came up, just his death. I'm seriously kinda at a loss.



Is being a father more than donating sperm? Is it some sort of right or claim? Because honestly, my first reaction was about my step-dad who has raised me since I was 4. Should I feel guilty for not ever wanting to know my real dads birthday? Should I take into my self the man that beat my mother up every time he drank, or the man that kidnapped me when I was literally just out of the hospital, or the man that loved me sooo much that he died for me?