Why do I allow it?

I don't like my dad right now. I've said those words over and over in my head for the last week or so. Actually, when I first said them I was sitting by myself in the car with lots of pounding, yelling, and tears. And the word "hate" replaced "don't like."

My dad and I have never had a "healthy" relationship. It's a very long backstory that isn't terribly interesting; suffice it to say that dysfunctional sums it up pretty well. But I don't think I've ever realized just what a poor father he can be until this Thanksgiving.

I always see my dad over Thanksgiving. Even if I just pop in to say hello, I always go to his house. You could almost say it's a tradition. So this year, when I got into town, I called my dad on Wednesday and asked him to call me back and let me know what time I should come by. Wednesday passed. No call. Thanksgiving day came and went. No call.

Finally on Friday evening, he called. And his words were "We just got so busy, I didn't think about calling you." My own father forgot me. Forgot his first-born. His own flesh and blood. And I hated him for it.

I hated him for making me feel insignificant. I hated him for acting like it was no big deal, like it was funny. But most of all I hated myself for allowing him to let me feel like that; for letting him ruin a holiday that, up until that point, had been wonderful. I had spent time with my mom and brother and aunts and uncles, eaten lots of good food, seen some old friends. So why did one sentence from a man who I haven't considered a "father" in years absolutely tear me to shreds?

And I can almost feel my heart hardening in my chest. But I don't know what to do. And it hurts. And I'm tired.