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Growing up, my father was my favorite person in the world. He was funny, full of life, and always around when I needed him.
At least, that’s what I believed.
You see, my mom was always the villain, but my dad… Well, my dad was the one who took me hunting, who did silly dances and listened to crazy music and got me a karaoke machine for Christmas because I wanted to be a singer. There’s one particular memory I’d always cling to on bad days, my best childhood memory. It was the year I got said karaoke machine, one of the only happy Christmas moments I remember. I was six or seven years old, had just recently been diagnosed with bipolar, and was having a hard time coming to terms with all the new changes in my routine. My dad disappeared as my mom brought a present out of the closet. It was big and heavy, all around me family ooh’d and ahh’d and made coy comments like, “I wonder what this could be…” I tore into it and my mom plugged it in, and as I revealed a screen smaller than most phone screens, words blared to life. White on a grey background, little rectangles counted down the beats until my dad’s voice rang out:
“If you see a faded sign at the side of the road that says
Fifteen miles to the LOOOOOOOOOOOVEE SHACK!
Love shack yeah”
