Remembering my "dad"

The man I called "dad" was not actually my biological father. He came into my life when I was 4 years old. We were living in the housing projects at the time. My mom and he had been dating for a while and one night a man broke into our apartment and beat the shit out of my my in the middle of the night. My mother did not know the man, he was drunk and high and actually intended to break into the apartment next door to ours. The next day my "dad" moved in with us. Thus began a life that was not great but did have a couple good times. I remember being afraid of him at first. He was big and hairy. He was a rocker and played in a local band that was quite popular. I still think that band could have gone far if the manager hadn't tried to screw over the band members by trying to sign over all their instruments and tried to get them all to switch from playing hard rock/heavy metal to music like Huey Lewis. My dad quit when that happened and the group disbanded. For many years I remember going to my dad's band practices and when I was about 10 or so he started taking me to the high schools he played at on occasion and I loved it.
Life was pretty good for the most part untill I was 8 years old and my sisters were born. There were a few instances before hand that told me that things weren't all roses and sunshine but for the most part he was mostly indifferent to me. I distinctly remember one incedent that occured pre-sisters that highly upset me. I was sitting on the floor watching TV when he accused me of farting and not excusing myself. I knew that I did not fart and I told him that I did not, he got angry and slapped my face and sent me to my room.
After my sister's were born things started to go sour. there were so many incedents of him verbaly abusing me I couldn't even begin to relate them all. I remember hearing for years from him that I was stupid, that I couldn't do anything right, I was a failure, and that no one could possibly ever love me. Those are the scars that run deepest. My mother's silence when he said these things to me just reinforced those statements in my mind. The physical abuse was infrequent but it was there. Three incidents stand out in my mind the most....
One day when I was about 10, I was sitting on the couch getting ready for school and he came downstairs to get his shoes on for work. The whole rest of the couch was empty but he chose to kick me very hard in the shin and screamed at me to move out of his way. That was one of only 2 times in my life that my passive mother actually spoke up for me and told him to never do that to me again.
When I was 12, my little sisters were upset with me because I would not allow them to come in my room with my friends and I, they were 4 at the time. My sisters went downstairs and told my father that I had slapped them and he sent my friend home. Again I was innocent of that which I was accused and stated so, so he made all 3 of us stand in the corner until someone confessed to lying. I could tell he was getting angrier by the minute and after 45 minutes i "confessed" just to get us all out of the corner. My dad threw me against a wall and kicked me in the ribs several times when I fell to the floor. Thankfully nothing was broken to my knowledge but I hurt for about a week after that.
Incident three happened when I was 15. We had finally moved out of the housing projects and into a home of our own. I had been talking on the phone with a friend and during the conversation I unconsciously tore apart a sheet of contact cold pills. I did not take the pills out of the little bubbles, just mearly separated all the foil squares containing the bubbles of pills. I did not recall doing it. When he asked who did this I admitted that I may have done in unconsciously while on the phone and he made me show him I I could have possibly done it without knowing. Of course knowing that I had to perform the same act over again, I was more deliberate in my actions and actually thought through the process. He did not believe I did it without knowing I was doing it and slapped me hard enough across the face that my glasses came off, flew to the other side of the room, and broke. That was the second and last time my mother stood up for me when I lived with them.
There were times he was good to me, though they were far and few between. When I was in 6th grade a teacher grabbed my by the back of the neck and shoved me. I told my parents what happened and my dad drove to the teacher's home that evening and tore him a new asshole for putting his hands on me. I remember thinking at the time "why would he do that when he does the same kind of thing to me?"
Another time was when I was 14. I was at a local pet shop that had a small game room in the back. I had stopped there on my way home from a doctors appointment to play a couple of games. The clerk working the store came into the room, came up behind me, and unhooked my bra and tried to feel my breasts. I elbowed him in the stomach and ran out the back door to my home. After hearing what had occured my mom and dad went to the pet store and my dad threatened the clerks life in front of his employer. The clerk was promptly fired and moved out of town. This happened a mere 4 weeks after I spent the night at my best friend's house and woke up to find her father attempting to put his penis in my mouth. My parents never did anything about that and I couldn't figure out why they did something about the pet store guy and not my friends dad. I still can't understand that.
I "ran" away from home when I was 17 and in my senior year of high school after a particular abusive barrage of garbage coming from my father's mouth. I packed a duffel bag in the middle of the night and walked out, I could not longer take the emotional pain being inflicted on me on almost a daily basis and moved in with my grandparents. Neither my mom or dad tried to stop me from leaving and although I couldn't take living at home for one more day, it hurt that I was not loved enough for either of them to try and stop me from going.

did not go back to my parents house for over a year after graduating high school. In my own way I guess I was still trying to please my dad by following in his footsteps after HS and joining the Marines. (yes, I wore combat boots LOL) I didn't even make it through boot camp, my hearing was bad and I was sent home.
After I had my first child my relationship got a bit better with my dad in some ways. He no longer constantly put me down but I could still see huge differences in the way my sisters (his bio children) and I were treated. They were given everything I had wanted while growing up. Praise, affection, love, and material items that I had always wanted at their ages through the years.
Neither of my parents once ever told me that they were proud of me or that I had done a good job at something. The closest to anything nice coming out of my dad's mouth to me was said when I was 16 and upset over my first boyfriend breaking up with me. he said " Don't worry about it, your not pretty but your cute. Some guys like cute". I believe he thought he was helping but it was another heavy blow to my already fragile sense of self worth and esteem.
Despite the crappy life, I loved my dad with all my heart. He was the only dad I ever knew. He died 7 years ago this December of a stroke at age 53. I have never met my biological father and while growing up i thought that all dad's were like mine.
Today while surfing you tube I came across some videos of people playing guitar hero. My son Andrew loves these videos because he likes the way the icons light up so he and I watched several. Thus prompting a stroll down memory lane for me. While watching the videos, a thought came across my mind. My dad would have been so good at that game, he would have loved playing it and I would have enjoyed watching him. Despite the shitty emotional life I lived growing up, I still miss him.