Daddy Issues

So, the man who calls himself my father.....I am finding out I never really knew him at all.  He is 70-something (I can never remember exactly because the mother-thing always lied about what year they were born), has Parkinson's Disease and stage 4 kidney failure.  Has a stent from a mild heart attack (which he insists was major).  Had diabetes.  Had cataract surgery.  Had a pretty miserable life...so he likes to say.

Let's go back to the beginning, though.  As far back as I can remember, the mother-thing was a fire-breathing demon.  Of course, the daddy-thing knew this; he was often the target of her attacks.  Until I became her favorite.  And I mean as far back as I can remember.  Before I was verbal.  The attacks were brutal emotionally, psychologically and sometimes physically.  And they almost always came without warning.  Even though three sisters came after me, I was almost always "it".

I always defended the daddy-thing in my heart/head because I thought he was just too gentle and passive to even try and stop her.

But he was NOT too passive to ride a motorcycle, especially up and down and all around a 4,000-ft mountain.  Over and over and over again.  For years.  (This was after he came to me in tears when I was 22 and FINALLY living on my own to tell me he was in love with someone who was threatening to leave him unless he left the mother-thing. Of course, I encouraged him to be happy, so he left and married my now-step-mom, who proceeded, he says, to make him miserable.)

I recently found out some other interesting things about the daddy-thing.  He traveled a lot for work...so we thought.  Perhaps some of the "business trips" were just that.  But he told me that at one point when he was married to the mother-thing that he had three girlfriends at once.  NICE.  So, he was NOT too passive to chase women.  Or lie to get out of the house.  Or leave his child(ren) in the dragon's lair.

Also, he wants some chick named Becky The Waitress who lives where he used to ride his motorcycle to scatter his ashes.  Not one of his own daughters, but some chick named Becky The Waitress.  AND, his STEPDAUGHTER is the executor of his will.

And then it occured to me that for years I had felt a little twinge of guilt over not calling the daddy-thing more and fostering a relationship with him, but HE NEVER EVER CALLED ME to see how the hell my life was going.  Really, I kind of just feel like I am the result of sperm that found an egg and was left to live or die on its own.

So now I am being asked to "keep" him at my house some weekends when my stepmom needs a break.  And I have.  But now I am so angry that I want to say, "Call Becky The Waitress or the stepdaughter."  None of my own sisters have stepped up to the plate, either.

Although I am pretty damned proud of the job I have done raising and nurturing myself to be halfway freaking human and not pass on the abuse/neglect/apathy to my children, all the wounds I thought I had healed have been slashed open again.  I would like to know why the hell any of this matters to me now.

~Be still, dark shadows in my soul.~

On the Verge of.....

This is the story of a grown woman, who was born into a world of conflict, emotional abuse, hatred and apathy.  This is the story of a grown woman who experienced the same for more than half of her life.  And overcame it all.

Blah-blah-blah.

    She is still frequently sad and empty.  Totally frustrated with her kids, her job, her life.  Gets zero respect at work or at home.  Gets yanked around by everyone everywhere.  Wants to write but nothing worth reading comes out.

    Wants to cry and scream but has become so apathetic to the customary-ness of it all that she doesnt' even bother to sigh anymore.

     What's it all about, Alfie?

     What.the.actual.fuck is it all about?

    The struggle is a daily soul-shredding.  And she can't fit the pieces back together so easily any more.  (Well, putting the pieces back together has never been EASY, but you learn how to do it better and better each time.)  Maybe the pieces get too worn to fit completely back together after so many times of being pulled apart, like jigsaw puzzle pieces that tear a tiny bit...just enough so that eventually the fit is no longer seamless and you can see through the cracks.

    She has all the tools for joy, serenity, inspiration, magic.  The pretty catch-phrases, the motivational pictures, the music, the incense, the candles.  But she can't seem to build anything that lasts more than a day or a few fleeting hours.

     She is a wizard in the kitchen and cooks like it will save her life, because it has in the past.  She has a creative soul and has made so many pretty things to brighten her existence.  She loves her garden, but neglects it sometimes to see the wild things grow.  She hurts when others in her life hurt and does her best to help them heal.

    She has mastered SO many things and is a million times more driven than most.

    So WHY,  oh why, can't she master the joy of LIVING?

    She wonders and worries and frets.  So many directives and rules from the world outside herself.  Things that must be done for survival, existence.  She only wants to dance through life to the music in her soul that she is incapable of translating to any form that others could share.

     Her vibration is amazing, but being muted, like holding down the damper pedal on a piano.  She doesn't know if SHE is the damper, or if it is an outside force.  Why can't she just BE?  and LIVE?  and LOVE?  and VIBRATE?

  The little girl who ran wild through the woods, with the sunlight dappling through the tree branches, and all the wonderful smells and feels, wants to know why she never gets to come out and play any more.  She still looks out through the grown woman's eyes, but like a drunk, or someone who's been poisoned and is puzzled and horrified by the reality she sees, disillusionment that feels like a physical blow.

     She feels like she is poised on the verge of....

nothing........