Letter to Father

Dear Dad,

I don’t understand why the universe is the way it is. I know you’re a realist but I can’t make myself be that every moment like I’d like. I don’t understand why people like Rogers who do so little adulting, don’t try to look for a job or way of income; keep getting these windfalls that allow them to continue living in the avoidance way of life they’re used to.

Meanwhile I work so hard at trying to get the sort of position that could actually handle my bills and way of life and come up wanting every time. So many job applications. A handle of interviews. Nothing further. At all.

I won’t say “it isn’t fair” because you and I both know that’s a trite excuse for the cards the universe deals each and every person. I get that it isn’t supposed to be fair.

But it certainly isn’t easy to process or handle or deal with.

And I can’t deal. I would if I could but there’s only so many “no’s” and turn downs a person can take. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong and I don’t have the drive, desire, or energy to continue to try to discover how to solve this problem.

I don’t have the friends or relationships to give me any level of support to get through these black thoughts. I learned early to not share those inner thoughts and keep that mask on, but usually I had at least one person in my life I could let it slip with a bit.

No longer.

It’s exhausting having to keep this mask on all the time. I just can’t keep doing it like I have.

I just want to sleep.

Take care and enjoy all that perfect family portrait life that Teresa’s family offers. It’s better that way anyway.

I was always the black sheep in everything.

-K

The Home on the Corner Lot

When is a house truly a home?
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Once upon a time there was a house…

(No, not that house.)

This house was lovely, and beautiful to the young girl.  Many thought it was a bit run down.  Her father thought that it was too large for a mother and two small children.  He said it would be expensive to heat and keep cool.

It was on a corner lot and had the biggest yard on the block.  The play area/jungle gym in the backyard seemed tiny in such a big yard, but the girl loved it.  It was neat that a park was at the end of her block, but that didn’t compare to one in her own yard.  Plus, there was a park right next to her father’s house.  Old news.

She got to pick her room.  She picked the one that had two huge windows overlooking the front street.  She could keep an eye on the comings and goings of everyone.

There was an alley in the back, with a carport.  The alley was the part that gave her the most pause.  It reminded her of the bad parts of the previous house.  It reminded her that people could sneak in.  People could take her to a secret place behind the garage (but it was a garage- not a shed) and tell her not to make any noise or bad-bad-bad things would happen to her. To her mother. To her baby brother.

But no one ever came through the alley.  The girl shied away from it for weeks.  She met the neighbors.  There was a girl two doors down her own age.  That had never happened before.  The neighbor’s name was Brittany (“that’s Brittany with an a-n, not an n-e” she would say).
Brittany was fearless.  She roamed the streets of that neighborhood without a care.  And soon, the girl went with her.  They went to the park.  They went by the church that had a huge empty parking lot (good for skating in).  They went down the alley.

And the girl learned that the alley wasn’t a monster that bit; breath stinking, eyes sparking, teeth sharply glinting.  That monster had been left far behind.

This new house was wonderful.

She got to watch Grey grow from grinning baby into a timid, sensitive toddler.  She held her birthday there for two years in a row (father was miffed).  She told the walls her secrets, fed the carpet her tears.  But the roof also got the echo of her laughter and the stairs happily took her excited, pounding feet.

She grew up there.

Sure, there were other places.  There was Father’s two houses (the walls got whispers and the carpets were dry- no yelling or crying in his presence).  There were piles of schools.  There were friends and relatives houses.  But they hardly mattered.  They didn’t course through her veins like a sweet melody.  The trees there didn’t welcome her with bowing branches, waving leaves.

She watched her mother find someone new.  She watched her tentatively move into his house.  She noticed how her mother did not move many belongings.  Next to no furniture.  She noticed how her home on the corner lot was kept.  Guarded.  Hoarded.

As it should be.

Her home on the corner lot was there for her when the locks were changed at her father’s house.  Her father did not want her.  It was high school graduation day and the girl thought she would have no where to go.

The home sang it’s reprise and she remembered.  The walls expanded.  She no longer had a simple corner bedroom.  The rooms were her’s.  She reveled in it.

But not for long.

Then the shadow that was Katherine injected her poison into the very foundation.  The girl had to work.  Go to school.  She was not there a lot.  Katherine claimed to want to take care of the house.

It was a lie.

The house suffered.  And it broke the girl’s heart.  She frantically tried to keep her imprint on the big, old, beautiful structure.  She wasn’t strong enough.  And Katherine smelled it, repulsed.

The house still loved her unconditionally.  When she curled into it’s tattered recesses, broken-hearted, the house swept her in softly.  Carefully.  It tucked her into it’s soul.

She thought that might not be the worse way to go.  A home always there for her.  It was better than all the things and people that were not.

When she took the pills the first time, the walls seemed to sing and bend and whisper sweet nothings.

She merely slept after the concert put on for her though.  She was never good at understanding pills and dosage and 6 or 7 seemed like a lot.

The second time the walls and ceiling hummed mournfully.  They did not sing.  The windows gaped and shattered in her mind.  The doors spit fire.  She ran down to the deep, dark bottom of the house.  The dank basement.  It was silent there.  It was cool.  She painted lines of red onto her arms and chest with the sharp black paintbrush (knife) while her heart skittered, scattered, then debated on beating with slow, languid pulses.

It was the house that called to that sober part of her.  It was the house that sang softly that this was not the way to go.  The home on the corner lot was flattered by the love showed with this ultimate sacrifice, but it knew there would be other houses.  It knew there would be those that could heal her.  It knew there would be those that would miss her.  Those that could not shoulder the pain of her loss.

The home on the corner lot could.

She lived.

The house was lost to foreclosure (she did not blame her mother- she couldn’t have saved it either).

She still dreams of the corner bedroom.  The spacious kitchen.  The sparkling sunroom.  The enormous backyard.  Many of her dreams take place in that house, even though she hasn’t set foot in it in years.  She dreams of Zoe running up and down the stairs, though her canine lifeguard has never laid eyes upon the property.

Her first lifeguard.

Someday, perhaps, she might be able to give her heart and soul to another house.  Make another home.

For now she is content with her semi-gypsy life and constant moving.

Plus, she needs a place that sings.

A terrible Google map version of the house. Looks a wreck in this, of course. I wish I had something that would do it true justice…

List

Still feeling very low/suicidal, so all I can manage this morning is an emotionless list.

1. Sorry for blowing up the Reader yesterday.  My phone glitched and posted like, 12 copies of my “Feeling Low” post.  The original is all that remains now, so if you commented on/liked one of the copies, it got deleted.  Oops.

2.  Three puppies have been adopted now.  Including my two favorites (Red and Japan).  One puppy has been “reserved” to be adopted by this weekend coming up.

3.  Families who adopted the puppies have said they are doing good.

4. I’m going to Chicago this weekend to see my grandfather.

5.  With my father.

6.  In the same car.

7.  For six hours. (That’s 12 hours round trip)

8.  He booked us both hotel rooms (not the same one).  He won’t let me stay with my grandparents.

9. With the exception of one very lovely friend that I had a distracting late dinner with Saturday, I’ve been feeling very socially-distant.  I haven’t spent time with anyone else in over a week.

10.  Army hasn’t spoken to me since Wednesday night.

11.  I have no idea why.

12.  I can’t find it in myself to really care.

13.  I’m not exactly sure why I’m feeling so low/suicidal, except I just don’t want to be in this life anymore.  I don’t want to deal with these obstacles.  These difficulties.  These events.  These goals.

14.  I can’t find the strength to change my own life into something worth living.

15. I own too many suicide related movies.

Wishes about Dad

I lied.  I do sort of have something to say.

I wish my dad was more like this dad or this great-with-acronyms-dad.

The ED is rampant today.  With my birthday being this weekend and a huge bash at a local drive-in movie theater being planned by Texas, I’m feeling fat, ugly, and just….awful.  I just want to not touch food until after Saturday night.

But I know I can’t do that and still keep this struggle a secret.  I have so many social events over the next 4 days.  And birthday dinners with various relatives.

I’m trying not to go crazy.

But it’s hard.

I just wish I had someone to be my rock, my raft, my life vest.

Well.  I wish my father would.  That he could even consider it.
I don’t understand why I try so hard to be a Daddy’ Girl, even though I know it will never happen.  But I always try.

I try to be that daughter he can be proud of.

And that’s why this must remain a secret.

$1 Off Coupon

(Trigger warning- relapsed ED talk)

I never thought a dollar off coupon would trigger me and erase weeks of attempted recovery.

I get home after a long day at work.

I go through the mail.

There are the piles of coupons, as per usual.  I rarely use coupons, but I go through them anyway because my father taught me frugality.
There’s a brand of butter I use and I am almost out- set aside.  Dog food, but not the one Zoe likes- discard.

Then I see it.

One dollar off a brand of laxatives.

I stare at it.

I blink.

The walls crumble.  I think about how I ate lunch at work and I shouldn’t have.  I think about how I haven’t restricted that much at all lately.  I think about how I used the last of my laxatives weeks ago and why the hell didn’t I buy more?

But here’s a sign.  Here’s the universe telling me, in my father’s own “coupon language”, that I’m fat, I’m worthless, I’m disgusting.

How about some reduced price help with that?

Yes please.

Careless Daughter

I am not particularly a fan of Taylor Swift’s music.  It’s a little too fairy tale for my taste.  In her song “Mine”, she has a line about how she’s a “careless man’s careful daughter”. 

But what about the careless daughter?

God knows my father is nothing but careful.  And all I do is disappoint.
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Once Upon A Time…

…a careful man was not so careful.

All it took was one time.  One time and he had a child on the way.

But he was a careful man.  A proper man.

So he married the mother and continue his double master’s degrees and being a decorated Captain in the military.

It didn’t take long for the mother to grow weary of his distant careful way.  She desired, she wanted, she cried, she cared.  The emotion was unnecessary to the careful man.
She left.

The daughter was shuttled back and forth for many years.  And it seemed, at first, that she might be the right sort of careful the man wanted.

But then he looked into her and saw her weak and wicked ways.

She would be careless.

She would need to be taught to hide that.  Taught that she needed to hold herself in check.  Taught that she needed a caretaker.

And that lesson stuck.  And grew.

And she learned that she could not be the hero for herself.  She was broken in that way.

She went forth to seek heroes.

They all seemed so shinning, so brilliant at first.  She only ever picked the White Knights.

But their armor was only shinning because they knew nothing of battle, of getting dirty, of taking care of the weak, of living life.  They were empty.

And so the careless daughter became empty.

But deep, deep down, she held onto a flicker of hope that perhaps, if she continued seeking, she could find that hero.

The careful man was disturbed by what he had created.  He did not like her constant seeking.  He saw it as a dark and twisted thing.  He told her she could not be around him.  She was deeply flaw and possible contagious.

She tried to be good enough for the careless man.  She tried to be her own hero.

But being her own hero merely ended in blood and tears.  And loss.

And so she decided to become what she had been accused of for so long.

She would be the Careless Daughter.

Those who were careless didn’t need heroes anyway.

Who I Am

I think as a whole, my blog paints me as this little sagging girl who is constantly struggling and rarely is able to do anything in life.

This is absolutely not the fact.

I care about my identity as someone having DID, an eating disorder, depression, etc.  But this does not define me.  This past week has been a hard one and I’m worried I’m losing my true identity.

If this post bores you, feel free to move on.  This is more for me to remind myself Who I Am.

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If you knew me in real life, I would bet $100 that you would have no idea of my inner/deeper issues at all.  You would think I was absolutely a normal Midwesterner, post-college, just getting her toes wet in the corporate world.

I have a decent amount of friends.  Granted, most of them are just surface friends, but I can easily find someone to hang out with if I feel so inclined.

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I’m the woman who loves going out to dinner with friends and family.

I’m the woman who will plan an elaborate shopping trip with some girlfriends, complete with a montage of goofy outfits in the dressing room.

I’m the woman who will devour at least 3 books a week with gusto.

I’m the woman who will challenge anyone in the room to do a shot of gin without making a face.  I always win.  (I can’t manage with whiskey though- Army creams me on that challenge)

I’m the woman a friend will call at 2am because they’re in some sort of pickle and need a ride/a shoulder/help bailing.

I’m the woman who impresses her bosses with her ability to increase productivity and multitask without losing accuracy.

I am a daughter and a sister wholeheartedly devoted to my mother and brothers (my father not so much) at any moment.
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I love long car rides, especially by myself.  I will take the long way if possible for every destination.

The greatest compliment to me is on my baking.  I’ll take that over my looks, personality, or intellect any day (which is probably a bad thing…haha)

My favorite place to go on a date (or hangout with friends) is to a stand-up comedy show.  I cannot get enough of humor- as many brands as possible.

I love watching TV shows in long stretches, at least 5 episodes at a time.  This means I really only watch shows through Netflix or the actual DVD.  Not on standard television.

I am clumsy as hell.  Seriously.  I am even clumsier when tipsy or tired.

I love animals.  I adore cats.  But my heart belongs to dogs.

I can’t stand coffee, but I cannot get enough of hot apple cider.  I’ll settle for hot chocolate when I go to coffee shops with friends.

I hate the color yellow.

I’ve only recently discovered hot bubble baths and I’ve fallen in love with them.

I can drink hot sauce like a soda.

I research law and Revised Codes in my spare times.  For the hell of it.

I am not an affectionate person.  Unless I’m alone with my partner.  Then I’m pretty much glued to them.  I am not affectionate with friends or family at all.  I was raised not to be.

I make jewelry to calm myself.  I don’t usually wear much of it- I tend to give it away.

I have big celeb-crushes on Eliza Dushku, Charisma Carpenter, and Jennifer Lawrence.  Yes, there was a theme there before Jennifer Lawrence.  My crushes on male celebs aren’t as crazy, but I do adore Thomas Jane and Joseph Gordon-Levitt.

I tend to favor books that are sad and make me feel lost after completing.  I don’t know why.  I think it’s the masochistic side of me.  The most recent one I finished is “Looking For Alaska” (which I highly recommend).

My hands are always cold.  My feet are also always cold.  However, this does not mean I will wear a jacket.

I hate socks with the fiery passion of a thousand hells.

Though I fear heights, one of the best experiences that I’ve ever had is when Germany and I went on a hot air balloon ride (my dad used to do balloon chasing as a side gig).

A picture I took of another balloon that was below us.

I am more than the sum of my parts.

My Mother

So I realized that I’ve talked about Daddy, I’ve talked about Grey, and I think I’ve even mentioned my youngest brother once or twice (still can’t think of a good nickname….).

But besides a comment here or there, I’ve never really talked about my mother.

That’s not remotely fair.  She is an incredible woman.

It’s funny, the evolution of my relationship with my mom.

I remember a closeness right after my parents divorced, when we lived in that horrible house off Needmore. Two females against the world.  I remember part of why I never mentioned the abuse (besides the fear He instilled in me to never ever ever talk about it) was because I knew it would break my mother’s heart.  She worked two jobs at that time, in addition to having baby Grey.  I did everything I could to help.

Then unfortunately mostly apathy during my pre-teens years.  I think this is due a lot to the whole disassociation and constant splitting we dealt with.

During the teenage years, I know I was unfair. Especially with my fear of my dad’s anger; it was so much safer to be mad and rage at Mom. I knew- I know she would love me, even after all the things I’d say and do. Rika didn’t fear upsetting her like she did Daddy.  Mom still did special things for me. Drove me and my friends around. Helped me when the goings got tough with Daddy- and boys.

Then after Daddy kicked me out on graduation day, she selflessly let me stay in her second house- her home. For almost 5 years. I paid rent on and off- a terrible tenant I’m sure. I did pay the scary-high utilities and that sucked a lot of my meager budget.

When disaster struck the year Katherine left and I landed in the hospital- it was with no hesitation that she was the first person I called. She fought for me tooth and nail- my Mama Bear, to get out of that hellhole.

And I finally confided in her about my abuse and childhood.  I was right- it broke her heart.  But she expressed how much it meant that I told her.  That I trusted her.  And I do- to a degree.  I don’t know if I could ever tell her about the DID/MPD stuff.  I just think that would hurt her further.  And I don’t want to do that.

I love the relationship I have with her now. Getting through all the hard times has given me the best reward:
A mother who is my friend, my champion, my shoulder to cry on.

There is no sweeter victory.

I can only hope I can someday repay her. Or be even half the mother she is- if we could ever have the strength to try that again.

Learning to Ride a Bike (Claire scribble)

My parents didn’t teach me to ride a bike without training wheels.

Daddy tried to.

We lived next to a park at the time, and one day after school when we were about 7 or 8, he had this momentarily flash of parenting.  He insisted I get my bike out, he’d take the training wheels off, and then we’d go to the park and he’d teach me how to ride it.

His parenting urge and patience only lasted so long.

The second time I fell down, he heaved a big sigh.

“Maybe you’re just not able to ride a bike right now.  I guess we can try again some other time.”  He stared at me a moment, then turned to walk back to the house.  He didn’t look back.

To be fair, our house was a mere 100 yards or so from the open grassy area of the park where we’d attempted this.

But I still remained on the ground, my knees skinned and bruised, trying not to cry.  Daddy hates when I cry.  Crying makes you worthless.

I pull away from myself as someone steps forward to handle the skinned knees for me.  Mute does not have emotions, so it does not have to worry about the possibility of crying. Mute heaves to it’s feet, pulls the bike firmly upright, and trails after Daddy silently.

We make sure the bike is safely stowed in the garage before entering the house, carefully removing our shoes before stepping on the carpet.  Daddy is nowhere to be seen.  He must be in his room.  We go the opposite direction, to the kitchen and Mute calmly gets a glass of water to drink.

“You need to clean those cuts.” says a cool voice behind us.  Mute is gone and Rika swings around defensively.  Daddy is looking at our knees, a strangely regretful expression on his face. “Come on.” He leads us to the bathroom, where Middi pops out to handle the sting of the alcohol and carefully applies the band-aids herself (Daddy does not like to touch us).

The next afternoon, the training wheels are back on our bike.

He doesn’t offer to teach us again.

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We don’t have a bike at Mom’s house, so there’s nothing for her to teach us on.  Plus, over there she and Roms are too busy looking after Grey.  He is a feisty toddler.

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Daddy moves to a big house in a nice neighborhood.  It is down the street from the high school and only a little further from the local middle school I start attending.  I have to walk.  I’ve never walked to school before and at first, it’s a liberating experience.  However, it takes awhile to get there and I don’t like how early I have to get up.

I see other kids riding to school on their bikes and it occurs to me that this mode of transportation would be much faster than walking.  My old bike is in the garage and I pull it out one day after school.

Daddy isn’t home- the new job that caused the move has him working late.

With a bit of help from Rika (she’s surprisingly tool-savvy), I manage to get the training wheels off myself.  I wheel it into the driveway and start attempting to ride it.

It goes horribly.  I am frustrated and puzzled.  It seems so easy for all the other kids at school.  What on earth is wrong with me?

The next day, a contractor arrives to start working on Daddy’s upstairs room.  He has the whole second floor and is converting it into one huge bedroom with a walk-in closet.  We are never to go up there.  Ever.

I watch the contractor and his helpers when I get off school.  I am a bit wary, as they are men, but most are older than even Daddy, and that is a relief.
I’m only truly edgy around one of the helpers who is in his late teens, though I’m not sure why.  When I try to think about it, I hit a brick wall in my head.  Angry whispers tell me to leave well-enough alone.

The lead contractor, Terry, goes out of his way to talk to me, in a uncle/grandfatherly sort of way.  I finally get comfortable enough to stop just sitting silently on the porch or in the living room and go about my business.

Which includes struggling to ride that bike.  I haven’t given up.  I know it has to be accomplished at some point.

Terry comes out to get something out of his truck one afternoon a couple days later and sees me.  He stops and tilts his head at me, calculating something.  I freeze in embarrassment, both for my age (too old to not know how to ride a two-wheeler), and that I’m still not able to smoothly handle it.  He lets out a soft chuckle.

“Well now, no wonder you’re having trouble. Your tires are almost flat.”  He goes to his truck purposefully and pulls out a black box with a wand and hose attached.  He motions to me.  “Come here, I’ll pump ’em up for you.”

I glance down at the white tires of my femininely pink and purple bike.  I study it for a moment, but can’t determine how he’d come to that conclusion.  However, I slide off the seat and bring it over to him.

He fits the wand into a part of the tire and flips a switch on the box.  There is a roaring noise and I jump.  He glances at me.
“It’s okay, just the noise the air pump makes.  Loud, ain’t it?”  He laughs, then looks back at the tire and pulls out the wand, “They aren’t all the way flat, just enough to hinder you.”

“I-I-I know I’m sort of old to be…” I trail off nervously.  He gives me a soft smile.

“I learned late too. Just didn’t have a reason to ride a bike for a long time. Better late than never.”  He fits the wand into the back tire for a brief minute, and then pulls it out and pushes the handles of the bike towards me.  “There ya go.  Should be a lot easier now.  Go ahead.”  He stands and waits, watching.  I hesitate.  I don’t like being watched.  But he had nicely filled the tires and he wasn’t judging me for being in middle school without having learned to ride two-wheeler.

I clamber onto the seat, settle myself for a moment, then push the pedals firmly.

The bike flies smoothly forward, perfectly balanced and I don’t wobble a bit.  A grin slips onto my face as I make multiple loops around the driveway.  Terry cheers.

It’s amazing how a little air in the tires makes all the difference.

The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly

(I adore “Fistful of Dollars” much more than “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly”, but it made sense for this post)

This post was really hard to write, but it needed to be done.  We need to work through some of this and cleanse it from our mind and psyche.
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Uniballer

The Good:
His poetry was terrible.  Looking at it a second time, Kit started to crumple the paper before she hesitated.  No one ever wrote poetry about her.  And he did talk endlessly about her eyes in person too.  She smiled and stuck it in her locker.  She couldn’t take it home where her father could see it.

“Ready to go?” He asked.  She turned and shrugged.

“I don’t really want to go home.  Dad’s been even worse lately.”

“Well…” He winked at her, “I do have a car. It is capable of going places besides your house.”

“Really?” She answered with teasing skepticism.  He laughed and grabbed her hand.

“Come on.”

He took her to Lincoln Park to walk around the pond and through the trees.  It was beautiful and she forgot all about her father.

That night he convinced her to sneak out after Daddy came home and lay on the hood of his car, staring at the stars.

Sometimes he could be romantic.

The Bad:
Kit saw every time he stared at Texas extra long.  She knew he was driving Texas home while she volunteered at the library.

But she said nothing.

It came as no surprise we he said he was dumping her to be with Texas.

Though it didn’t hurt any less to be unwanted.

The Ugly:
There were the days he refused to give rides to any of their friends and just took Kit straight to her house.

Her dad didn’t come home until after 6:00, which gave him almost a full three hours.

It always started on the couch.

It always ended on the bed.

He always found ways to scar deep into her mind as well as her skin, despite her being adamant about not doing “it“.

There were so many things that weren’t it.

Maybe it would have been better to just do it.
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Katherine

The Good:
Their anniversary was Valentine’s Day.  It was always a big deal.

There was the year Kit planned an elaborate two day event where they shut themselves in their house with plenty of food, drink, and snacks and watch the entire first season of “Gargoyles”.

The last year Katherine planned a beautiful night in a hotel room for the two of them.
It was a surprise and Kit was blindfolded on the drive over.  The surprise floored her.  Romantic actions always did, even though Katherine was frequently romantic.  Kit was always unsure whether she deserved that. They cuddled and watched plenty of “Dexter”.
[Kit tried to force herself to have the sex that was expected, but the dreams and flashbacks had been dark and Charlotte was far away those days.]

The Bad:
Katherine’s employment was always an issue.  Sometimes she was employed for long hours and treated in such horrible ways that had her upset or depressed a lot of the time.

There was a long chunk of time where she was unemployed and Kit had to bite back anger and frustration at having to pay all the bills and still do most of the chores.

But the hardest was when Katherine had a job that had her working third shift and Kit had to sleep alone.  She hated that.  The dreams were dark and the bed cold.

Being woken with a kiss only just made up for it.

The Ugly:
Being dumped broke her heart.

But her heart broke even further when Katherine took their dog to a completely different state.

The dog that had gotten her through those first few horrible months of loneliness.  The first dog to save her from suicide.  She almost refused to let the policeman in her house when Kally’s bark sent his hand to his gun holster on the porch.  She begged him not to even think about shooting Kally, tears streaming down her face, before she unlocked the door.

She dreamed about her sweet dog constantly and in those moments between asleep and awake, it always felt like the lab-chow mix was curled up at her feet.

She never was.

Kally, the lab-chow mix. She’s smart, sweet, and protective.

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Army

The Good:
He is always good in a crisis.  Always.

From the first semi-medical situation he offered to help with (a horrible allergic reaction after going to see 4th of July fireworks and both of Kit’s legs broke out in huge rashes that had her sobbing when they brushed against anything) up until the migraine medicine shot he gave us a couple weeks ago (this entry).

When we miscarried, he was upset that we wouldn’t tell him which hospital we were at.  He didn’t force us to come home when we first took refuge at Daddy’s empty house (who was in Las Vegas) until we’d been there for two days and when he checked on us we were drunk as a skunk and playing with the notion of downing our bottle of prescription narcotics.  Then he dragged us to his car and drove us home.

He easily let us come back to the apartment after we were hospitalized and said he would happily shoot Stalker if he came looking for us there (despite Stalker being a military cop).

And he has always been so sweet to Zoe, from day one.

The Bad:
She really didn’t want to tell him.  But she knew she had to.  She started with a cowardly text.

“Want to get a late lunch today? Missed you last week.”

He agreed to meet at her place within the hour.  She rocked back and forth on the couch.  Then she quickly made sure the front door was open so he could just walk in.  She didn’t trust herself to open it when he knocked.

He walked in to see Kit white-faced, chewing her bottom lip nervously.  He tilted his head and let out a chuckle.

“Did I catch you playing with yourself?” He joked.  Kit barely heard, but both Rika and Charlotte rolled their eyes internally.  Kit mutely shook her head.  Army stopped and looked at her carefully.
“What is it?”

“I have to tell you something.” She whispered. He paused.

“Well, as long as you aren’t pregnant.” He joked.  She didn’t answer. It was his turn for his face to go white. “Are you?” He demanded.

“Yes.” She whispered.

He sat on the floor, hard.  “Fuck.”

She curled more tightly into herself and tried to go back into the head, but none of the other alters were having that.  She was shoved back out.  She hugged her knees.

Suddenly he got up and walked out the front door.

She gaped after him.

She guessed she probably should have expected that.  He made such a huge deal about not ever wanting children the one or two times that topic of conversation casually came up.

She was crying when he walked back in and closed the front door behind him.  She stared, then wiped at her face, trying to compose herself.

“I-I thought you were j-just leaving.” She stuttered out.  He frowned.

“Wow. You really think I’m an asshole. No, I left the car running for us to go to lunch. Because it’s so hot out. But I’m way too nauseous to eat now. Plus we should talk.”

She thought it was sort of weird that he said he was nauseous.  That’s what had tipped her off to the whole possibility in the first place a week ago.

They didn’t talk.  They sat there in her living room for over an hour.  Occasionally a sentence was said.

“So you’ve actually seen a doctor?” He would ask.

“Yes.” She would softly reply.

Or he would just repeat cuss words over and over.

She wondered if she truly was that repulsive.  After an hour passed, she figured she should make sure he understood where she stood.

“You don’t…have to like, stay with me. I can just…handle this. If you want to just go find some other casual kind of relationship.”

He stared at her like she was an alien.

“I mean…obviously I must be…completely unsexy now. It’s fine. I get that.” She continued. His frown came back and he scooted closer to the couch and her.  He awkwardly reached for her foot and stroked up her thigh.

“No. I’m not going to run. You aren’t automatically unsexy. I mean, I have to follow something like this through. Do the responsible thing. Even if it sucks.”

Fantastic. Now she’s a responsibility.

The Ugly:
Mere weeks after she miscarried, he got a vasectomy.  He didn’t even tell her about it in advance.  The only reason she knew the day of the surgery was because his sister-in-law texted about it, assuming Kit knew.

It wasn’t that she wanted (living) children with this man.  She knew she didn’t.  She had found out over the past 5 months how much he didn’t want them and it made her think of her own father too much.  She didn’t wish that on any possible child of her’s.

But she was still grieving.  And she certainly didn’t have the mental capability to take care of him after a surgical procedure.  She was still not back to work full-time due to her lack of full health.
And the fact that he didn’t even mention it to her felt like a slap in the face.  She thought they were at least attempting to be a couple.

When she tried to explain to him, he did get it at all.

And that’s when she fully realized what kind of man he was.

And the depression clawed at her further.  They hadn’t even had sex in weeks.  Was he trying to be “prepared” for someone else?  Why else schedule it so quickly? He scheduled not only within weeks of her miscarriage, but within weeks of them not having sex. For the first time ever. Maybe he just couldn’t go that long without sex and found someone else. Someone better.

The suicidal thoughts raced around her head.  She toyed with the Vicodin, Tylenol, and Codeine she had.
There were multiple nights Army came into her room because he “heard strange breathing” and then he would yell at her for what seemed like hours for taking a handful of pills.  He called her stupid and silly.

Of course she was.

That’s why she wanted to die.

It wasn’t until she was given a tiny fluff-ball of fur by a friend that she realized she had to pull it together. This tiny 6 week old puppy needed her.

And we named her Zoe.

Tiny Zoe gets a belly rub

The corner was her favorite place to sleep those first few weeks

She’s gotten so big since then!!
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