My dad had his first heart attack when I was ten. The night it happened, his friends came over for a bonfire and barbeque where the drinks flowed, drugs were shared, and the kids were free to do what they wanted. I liked hanging with the adults. I lent out my bartending services and would make almost fifty dollars each party. My dad spent most of the night barbecuing and chopping wood. His arms repeated the same motions: flip the burgers, chop the wood, flip, chop, flip, chop. The attack started with shoulder pain and quickly spread into a fire that overtook his body.

After his heart attack, my mom tried to change the whole family’s lifestyle. She envisioned us as a family who went on runs together, and made kale smoothies–a fit family. We began eating fresh veggies, something we could never afford but had to now. My dad would pick at his dinner of baked, flavorless chicken with steamed broccoli before giving up and going to the store to buy junk food. That’s when he began filling our house with treats. Now we had ten different kinds of cereal, baked goods lining the perimeter of the table and chips resting in the middle.

After twenty five years of marriage, my dad won’t eat my mom’s cooking because she’s making healthier alternatives. She stopped eating meat and began saving money for fresh veggies. Every Wednesday, she goes to the Farmer’s Market down the street to load up on fresh greens. My dad hates her lifestyle. He thinks that she’s doing it to spite him, to make him suffer, to make his stomach growl and body feel malnourished, but she just wants to save him.

I’m terrified that I’m going to end up like him, because I used to be him. I would take a bag of chips to my room and eat the whole package while reading whatever paranormal romance I was into that week. My mouth became numb from how much salt I consumed, and I’d poke the inside of my cheek until feeling came back. I began devouring some bag of junk every night, stashing the evidence in my purple Jansport backpack so my mom didn’t know. The wrappers piled up so high the zipper got stuck, and when I got to school, I’d put all my force into yanking the zipper free. When I turned my backpack upside down, shiny red and yellow wrappers danced out–a reminder of the damage I’d done.

My dad had his second heart attack when I was fifteen. He was asleep on the couch, hands resting on his belly, head tilted back and mouth wide open. My mom and I were standing in the kitchen beside the living room when we heard a gasp. We watched him sit up, right arm clutching his chest, redness taking over his face as he started groaning. I don’t know why he didn’t try to change his diet, I don’t know why he didn’t go for a walk every now and again.

I have no idea what my dad’s favorite book is, if he has a favorite character or a favorite passage, if he likes fiction or nonfiction, fantasy or romance; I don’t know if he’s ever finished a book. My dad formally dropped out of high school, but one day when my mom was ranting about how stupid he is, she said he stopped going way before that, some time in middle school.
My family doesn’t talk about these things. Anything that has room for judgement is kept a secret. I did that for a long time, I still do. I hid my drug use, I hide how I feel about my body behind false confidence, I hid how scared I am to trust someone by kissing random boys and not making a connection with any of them.

I don’t know my dad’s political affiliations. Growing up, I assumed he was a republican: slamming beers and toting guns, yelling at those “damn yuppies” on the news. But as I grew up and became aware or who he was yelling at, I realized he hates everyone. He hates Bush, he hates Obama, he hates “that damn newscaster” and the “damn weather man.” he hates The View and Regis and Kelly, he hates the legalization of pot, but he hates drug control. I don’t know what he likes besides Gunsmoke and pills.

I do know that my dad spends all of his money a week before his next check usually arrives. He gets paid every two weeks from Goodwill, and the check is supposed to come on Friday. I only hear my dad’s side of it, or more his screaming of it, but apparently Goodwill often won’t send him a check. He sits around, sending my sister back and forth to the mailbox as he anxiously awaits his check. When the check does come, he races to the bank in his minivan, cashes his check, and immediately hits up the store. He’ll fill his cart with as many sweet treats as he can handle before going to Panda Express across the street.

I know that he loves Chinese food. Probably from all of the sugary sauce that they drown the deep fried chicken in. I know that he’s actually a good mechanic, but he’s lazy and only makes it so the cars can go from point A to point B. I know that he loves me, even if it’s not the kind of love that I’m wanting.