Dear Dad

 

 

I don’t know how many years it’s been since you passed. I don’t acknowledge your birthday, or death day because I can’t remember the dates.  I haven’t been to your grave since your funeral.  I might even have a hard time finding your grave.  I know I would.

 

But, I miss you. I think about you. I laugh about memories that come up, and so many have been coming up.  I compare men I meet to you.  I wonder if you would approve, or silently disapprove as you were so good at doing.  Would you be proud of me now? Or still waiting for me to “get serious”? 

 

You never told me you didn’t approve, your silence would be the message.  I knew I was in deep shit when you didn’t respond to me, acted like you didn’t see or hear me.  That worked better than any yelling ever could have.  It cut deeper.  Or you would tell my mother, “Kathy, blah blah blah” and then she would come at me with her screaming and hair pulling.  She never did that in front of you.  I think she knew you would stop her. 

 

You didn’t biologically create me.  You would watch me get picked up on random Sundays by my sperm doner and you never said a word in front of me about how you felt about it.  But you would be very quiet, while we all waited to see if he would actually appear.  And when it would finally become evident that he was NOT going to show this time (again) you would turn on again.  You would be your normal self and then I would be too.  I felt your relief as my own.  You never said you hated him, but I knew.  You never made me feel bad about him.  You never made me feel torn between you.  But you were always there when he was not.  Even when he was present, you were always “there”. No one could say you were not my father. You took me to court and gave me your name so you could legally call me yours, and so he could not leave me waiting for him on any more Sundays.

 

I moved back to New Britain after all these years and I’m perfectly comfortable.  At peace.  I find myself in Berlin most days because I’m so close to it.  I feel at home.  I remember living in Berlin with you and her on Porters Pass in the upstairs apartment.  I remember your friends and your roommate, Nate.  Oh I loved him so much because he gave me the Mrs Beezley doll.  He was so handsome, and his girlfriend was so pretty and nice.  Your other friends, The Greek, Potash…….those names stick in my mind.  Potash used to take me for rides in the Dune buggy on the sand pits down the street from your garage.  I have so many memories of that garage – of being sent to “find screws” in the back of the garage when  your friends on bikes would roll in, loud and exciting- the men riding them fascinating.  You didn’t like it when anyone swore or talked inappropriately around me, or my mother…….you thought women and children should be treated a certain way.  You were protective.  But I did get to go for rides on the bikes sometimes, so young that I sat in the front until I was big enough to hold on.  It wasn’t often, or far- but I believe it started my lifelong obsession with men who ride.

I don’t think you cared for that much. Or maybe you just wanted me to be treated well and kept safe.  You wanted me to “get serious” about school, about life

 

I remember waiting for you to come home at night hoping you would get there before I had to go to bed.  Your car would pull in and you would walk in the front door, covered in bondo.  I still love that smell.  You would pick me up and the dog, mopsy, would bark and jump and nip at my toes while you ran around with me laughing.  Then you would take me down the hall to my bedroom and throw me in the air to the bed, tuck me in, make sure my stuffed animal were in the correct place (I rotated) give me a big kiss and tell me to go to sleep.

 

Or the nights you came home at a normal time and would sit in your recliner, that yellow Lazyboy.  I would crawl  up onto the kitchen counter to reach the Calverts bottle on the top shelf of the cabinet and pour you a shot.  I felt important bringing you a shot and a beer.  That was my job.

I didn’t know what an alcoholic was then. I never knew the difference between drunk dad or sober dad until I saw you fling a plate of food at the wall during dinner one night and heard the words between you and her as I sat under the kitchen table where I automatically dove to be out of sight.  I have always learned so much when people have forgotten I am present.  “alcoholic” was learned in my kitchen sitting under the table.  And I knew it wasn’t a good word by the response it got.  Shocking and scary because it was totally unlike you to yell, to throw things.

 

I remember sitting at that same table in that same kitchen years later as a teenager telling you that you loved to drink more than you loved me.

And years later sitting at that same table in that sane kitchen smoking cigarettes with you while we discussed the people in rehab that I had met while visiting you there.

 

The drink got you in the end.  But that’s not what this blog entry is about.

 It’s about how many memories keep popping up because I’m living back in the area I first met you.  I went to the market we used to walk to the other day.  Its still there, owned by different people now.  I stood in the back ordering lunchmeat and looking at the same exact door to the meat freezer.  I felt like a little kid, with you holding my hand as you talked to the butcher.   I haven’t been able to drive by your garage- it’s still there.  I don’t know if Kenny is still running it- he has to be in his 70’s now.  The town is so different you wouldn’t know it as Berlin.  Central pizza is still there, and I got my sausage and mushroom pizza – thought about you. Its seems like most of my memories of you are in Berlin and thats weird because we didn’t live there a long time together before you and her bought the house in Middletown.  Maybe you were never at home in Middletown.  Maybe Berlin was yours.  Maybe that’s why I feel you there.

I was thinking I should go to your grave, find it. You are buried in New Britain as you requested.  But I’ve never been able to bring myself to go to your grave.

You were such an important part of my life, always there for me even when you didn’t have to be.  You and I had our quarrels, and I know that I pissed you off……..disappointed you with some of my choices.  And you disappointed me too at times.  I know you were sick, that you didn’t do it on purpose – that you struggled with alcohol just like your father before you.  I have your addictive personality even though we don’t share blood.  You raised me.  You did.  She maintained me, noticed me when it was convenient- used me, but YOU raised me.

I feel you everywhere like you are trying to tell me something.  I’m listening. 

here i go again

I'm reading a new book called "Power: surviving and thriving after narcissistic abuse" by Shahida Arabi.  I thought it looked interesting, and I've had it suggested to me by several people that one of my ex's is a Narcissist.  So i picked it up, thinking i'd take a quick look.

First chapter i can't help but take out a pencil and begin underlining what is reaching out and smacking me in the face -

You rationalize it, and minimize it, hoping it was just an off-color comment or misunderstanding (no one is ever going to mistake you for a model)

New people, as well as new forms of torment, begin to show up; he introduces them into the sacred space of your relationship.  He ignores you while he extols them; he demeans you while he praises them.  (Oh, I've been friends with her for years.  She's just a friend.  You over react.  You have me on a short leash.  Why can't you be more like her?)

You become needy for approval, for any scrap of kindness, any leftovers of sincerity, any inkling for the dream he once constructed of meeting someone who truly saw you.

Once, you binged on his affection, and now you are starving from his lack of praise.  You attempt to restrain yourself from feasting on the love of others while pretending to be satisfied with crumbs.

Closure is the only fairy tale, a myth, a legend.  The only true closure can come from within.

This is the type of love story where the happy ending lies in not finding Prince Charming.  Rather, it lies in the realization that he never existed at all.

After years of taking two steps forward and finding myself slipping back over and over again, of having people look at me with impatience and pity (if not outright anger) of learning to not speak of it, not out loud..........i am finally rounding a bend.  I'm taking active assessment of the damage that i allowed to happen to my self esteem, self worth. 

Because?  I didn't know any better.  I confused love with addiction.  Some are addicted to drugs, alcohol, sex.........i was addicted to him.  Still am.  Always will be.  Just like that cigarette I can never take one drag off without needing to smoke a pack a day.  He is something i cannot treat casually without the sickness returning.  I cant' have a phone conversation with him without him taking me to pain, or talking to me the same way he always did.....with disregard.  He reaches out to make sure i'm still trapped in the web.

I'm near it, but i'm running fast in the other direction.  I've hung around that web, trying to figure it out for too long. It's hard to realize that it was never about me, it was about my gullibility, my eagerness to please, my need to love and be loved....each of those characteristics an individual sticky strand that made up the web he wrapped me in. Until he decided to find a new web.

I believe people can change if they want to.  If they realize what needs changing, and growing and make that conscious effort to do so.  But sadly, many won't take a long hard look at themselves, let alone try to improve, or become a better person.  It's safe to say that men like him don't change themselves, they change their audience, their location........but not themselves. 

I'm always going to remember the love, (manipulation) and the times i was treated well (when he wanted something) and that is the part that has ruined my ability to love that deeply, that freely again.  These scars, this sadness will eventually disappear for good and stop popping up when i least expect it to..........but the trust, that will never return.

Women Only

 

My daughter told me I can be really mean.  I’ve learned to filter my “honesty” into gentler words, or better, simple silence.  Years and experience have taught me silence can’t come back and embarrass you at a later date.  Anger has a way of unlocking the ugliness and it comes out BIG and unforgiving. 

 

Anger is also a waste of time at this point in my life.  It serves no purpose.

 

So, when it hits me and becomes unreasonable, I talk out loud to myself.  Crazy?  Not the talking, but probably most definitely the content.  Then it works itself into sense as it circles down and the sides become smoother……...it’s almost always the same things that bring me to anger.  I’ve had practice.  I know how this goes now.  Without knowing, I’m going to say that this is part of being an introvert.  When I try and “work it out” with another person while this anger is in my throat all I do is escalate, and then…….shut down. 

It’s funny, in a not a haha way, that I’ve had two very serious conversations recently regarding friendship and changes.  Realizations.  These conversations led me to thinking about how I feel, approach, act in my own relationships. 

The last few years have taught me that I have a circle of women that stand by me through thick and thin, even when it’s difficult, especially when it’s difficult.  That they sacrifice, do not judge, offer comfort, offer wine – laughter and tears without me even having to ask.  And when the occasion arises that I do need to ask for help, they are there without question.

Friends I haven’t seen very often, but have known for decades.  Friends that I see daily.  Women that have been my backbone when mine was jello.  Women who get angry for me when I can’t muster it myself.  Also, women who tell me to knock it the hell off. 

If you cannot be open, honest, loving- with your circle why are you in it?  If I have to hear hard truth I want it to come from someone who loves me and has my back.  If I’m in need of redirection because I’m acting a fool, I want it to come from a friend.  And they do.  They love me enough to make me angry.  They love me enough to tell truth when it hurts.

When I obsess over the past, which I do tend to do, I am reminded by them of of how far I have come.  When I want to do things that I will certainly regret, I am warned that I will regret it, and of how far I have come. 

I don’t have to change who I am or be perfect or have a perfect life.  Nor do they.  We just are who we are and we accept that and more, love that.  We celebrate the differences and rely on them. 

I do not know how any woman gets by in life without her girlfriends. 

There was a time in my life that all I had was my husband.  And look how that ended.  Even after years of isolating myself from the women in my life, they rallied and stood behind me.

 

Because that is what we do.

 

 

When my life exploded 2 years ago, it didn’t matter that I was a hot mess that could barely put a sentence together without having a breakdown.  They rallied.  They took over.  They would have tied me up in a basement to keep me away from what I thought I needed.  They gave me time to see sense.  And light.

Because that is what they do.

When I want to write about things that have been a topic in my life for entirely too long and take up too much space, they stand by me, telling me to let it go.  Make space.  Let in the light.  The past is gone and has taught me what I needed to get where I am.

 

Why write this blog when to many women it is obvious?  Because not all DO know how important our female friends are.  How they are the difference between living a life and surviving one.  Because there are actually women out there that believe “women are drama”………….if so, it’s coming from you.   Truly.  If you “get along better with men” why not just admit that you only feel special when a man is paying attention to you.  And that you are intimidated by women.  That you haven’t found your own voice yet or the strength the use it if you feel like there won’t be agreement.  Or maybe you were born a man and just need to go ahead and get that changed.  Women who degrade other women with misogynistic comments like “women are drama” and “I get along better with men” have self-esteem issues.  I feel for you and hope that one day you find your Self and find sisterhood with your female counterparts.  

I want to shout this from the rooftops.  So, YOU……say what you need to say.  Be who you are.  Love freely and without reserve.  Let your girlfriends know you love them and are there for them and BE THERE.  Be strong.