Growing up gay, I never expected to be a dad. I fantasised that I was straight, so I could fantasise that I would be a father. This vision entailed an idealised domestic life with me as a stoic yet loving paternal stereotype. As I apologised my way through puberty, the fantasy disappeared, partly because it was based wholly on The Waltons and other TV tripe and partly because my gayness was fact now, not just fear, and part of that was not being a father. It just didn’t seem possible.
Fast forward a few years to the queer-consciousness explosion of the 1990s, which saw a rise in the numbers of visible LGBT parents. Never one to miss a new wave, I agreed to become a “known donor” for a friend (your mother, of course) in 1997 and, by the end of 1998, was a known donor to you, my beautiful son.
As you know, things were pretty complex and it was hard to call myself a dad through a postmodern haze of personal and political uncertainty. You were three days old when I first saw you. Despite the nervousness engendered by lack of clarity about my role and confusion about what our future together would hold, I felt immediately connected to you. That first night, you slept on my chest. You were part of me, I was part of you. A few years earlier, someone had told me, cruelly, that I was incapable of love, and I believed it. Finally, I knew that he was wrong.
I moved to be closer to where you lived with your mum, and each day spent with you brought strength and contentment. Being your dad was ace and, despite myriad obstacles, it still is.
And you, my daughter, you joined us when your brother was three and a half. He screamed in joy at your arrival and this time I was privileged to see my child enter the world. You came at a time when depression was making itself truly felt in my life and I was struggling in so many ways. But again, the connection was natural and absolute. The love flowed. It still does.
So, here we are, 13 or so years on; you are teenagers. As a dad, I know I have brought you good stuff: a sense of adventure, actual adventure, silliness, physical affection, stories and pictures. I made up silly names, I did silly voices and I sang at least a million songs to each of you. I lay with you each night before you slept and told you I loved you. As one who only knew absent or distant men as a child, I vowed from the beginning that I would always show love, always be present. Not that I could hide my love for either of you.
But I have brought you pain, too. You have seen my anger, felt it, lived it. You have seen me punish myself and isolate myself from others. You have endured massive change as I run towards the next thing that will make everything better. You have been snapped at and shouted at when you absolutely shouldn’t have been. You have seen me so miserable and must have blamed yourself, as I did with my mother.
You have had to live with the reality that your father has depression, possibly bipolar disorder. Witnessing my illness, and other circumstances of adults in your lives, has had an effect.
In your different ways, you both face personal and emotional journeys as teenagers and your need to separate and define yourselves is hard to take, but absolutely right. That I am, and always will be, here is a no-brainer. Please know that I am sorry for what depression and mental illness has brought to our family. Your grandma’s death hit us all hard and the past 18 months have been difficult. Yet we have achieved, too. Son, you have gained qualifications and done new things bravely and joyfully. Daughter, you know your own mind and that brings us a bit of conflict, but I am so relieved and proud that you are confident enough to speak for yourself.
I am making changes in my life, changes that I hope are beyond the quick-fix fantasies of the past. I suppose this is an apology, but I have said sorry many times for my shortcomings. What I want you to know, really know, is that my depression is not, and never has been, your fault.
You have shown me that I have things to offer. That my crazy internal world can bring good things to people too. You have helped me be someone I am proud of. Your dad.
I love you and like you both so much. You irritate me backwards sometimes, and you aren’t perfect. Not quite. A saving grace for us has been that we talk. We don’t pretend things haven’t happened – as we did in my family when I was growing up. Always know you are entitled to feel what you feel and to share that.
You are talented and loving and special. You have faced so much in your lives. You are my heroes.
Love, Dad
