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

Katherine

She is red siren lipstick. The color that I can never pull off with my red hair. The kind that she always wore when she was feeling especially feminine. The kind that was next to impossible to get off my neck, breasts and thighs later that night.

She is sports bras and wife-beater tank tops. Even if she later dressed it up with a button down shirt or blouse, it always ended with that. I only saw her wear a dress twice in our whole relationship.

She is ice blue eyes. Always getting asked if she’s wearing contacts. She was always amused by that. The eyes were the color that could see deep into your soul and past the masks. The kind that haunt dreams even years after.

She is the taste of Skyy vodka and Smirnoff ice coolers. The cool burn creeping down my throat all the way to my stomach. The sour taste of green apple- the first alcohol I tried with her in Kentucky. The bitter taste of it coming back up the next day. To this day I avoid the green apple flavors.

She is the smell of asiago bagels and soft cream cheese. The smell of forgiveness when her 3rd shift ran over. The rustle of the brown bag from Panera. The covert way we carefully ate them in bed, even living all alone.

She is the hiss of the word “Mine”. Uttered way too often and most often accompanied by a sharp squeeze or nibble.

She is binge watching “Gargoyles” while scarfing bad junk food. The teasing about Fox being so much like me. The way she automatically got me another diet coke when in the kitchen for herself.

She is talking until the small hours of the morning (or afternoon, if she’d just gotten off work). Sleep is for the lonely and we never seem to run out of topics.

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She is the wistful desire for deep intimacy beyond sex. I know better than to actually pursue it, but there are so many times I remember how fulfilling it was.

She is my inability to comfortably listen to Journey. I still listen anyway.

She is my hatred at seeing Daddy settle into perfect domesticity. Despite every thing he’s done, it is him that is rewarded after a lifetime of denying any want for stable romance. And here I am living in loneliness and taking the scraps I can while denying outloud a want of anything further.

She is the wet hiccups of learning to cry silently and quickly. No one else ever wanted to deal with it. I’ve always been a quick study.

She is the tension in my muscles every time I drive near anything that reminds me of Kentucky. The rolling hills. The blooming meadows. All terrain vehicles. The burning liquor. I can’t force them to loosen until I’m well past memory lane.

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She is my utter struggle here in Chicago this weekend. I just want to cope like a normal girl. A good girl for Daddy. But the memories swirl and I can feel her breath and it isn’t entirely unpleasant. The only good part about dealing with my grandparents’ wicked dementia is they don’t ask about her. Or is that good?

While Daddy goes through his sections of their house and personal effects with the stark detachment he’s always possessed, here I am trying not to weep at every moment. At every item. In every room.
And I feel like only she would understand.

And all I can feel through the curtain of misery and DID-fog is burning hatred for myself.

It’s been almost five years now and she’s still the security blanket I automatically want to reach for.

Brainitis

The term my doctor used today to describe everything going on with me is “brainitis”.  He was quick to say this is not a medical term, just a way to say that my issues are related to my brain.

Obviously, this isn’t entirely surprising.  But I was surprised to have a doctor insist on going over all my mental-health (a term he didn’t like; he preferred “brain” or “mind”) related maladies.

He then stated we didn’t discuss any mental-health possibilities at my last visit.  And he was peeved that I’d “withheld”.
This gave me pause and confusion.  I was so sure that I talked my history of depression and mentioned my psych ward stay.  I even wrote about it in my last entry, didn’t I? But he showed me the sheet I had to fill out describing all my ailments and sure enough, no mental-health stuff was checked.

I’m worried.  And it triggered me a bit to see that.  Am I having false memories?  Am I losing time again?  All doctor’s visits have always been hazy and riddled with 5-10 minute holes here and there.  I just assumed it was me spacing in general due to my fear/discomfort with doctors.

But here’s evidence that something different may be happening.  The paperwork didn’t match what I was so sure I’d done.  I’m trying not to freak out.

Anyway.  Not the point of this entry.

So we discussed my mental-health at length.  And we addressed the fact that this hypertension issue started after my miscarriage in October of 2011.

Dr. J’s idea is my brain is all messed on a chemistry and processing level.  And the hormones got all imbalanced after the miscarriage and my mental-health suffered as well (obviously with the acute depression and suicidal thoughts).

He thinks I also have trouble with being addicted to opiates.  That was hard to hear.  I don’t consider myself an addict.  I think of the clients at my jobs who were true addicts to meth, crack, pills, alcohol.  And I don’t want to be that.  I don’t consider myself that.

I think Dr. J more meant my brain is addictive towards the opiate painkillers I’ve been prescribed in the past and it’s messed some things up.

So it all comes back to my brain.  It already hasn’t been running correctly with my childhood and history of abuse (Which I actually mentioned to him.  On a SECOND visit.  He’s good.).  Then it gets hit with a bad pregnancy/miscarriage and that just further pushes things outta whack.

It’s not an unsound theory.  After reading “Brain on Fire”; I’m very open to the idea of the brain/mind being related to physical maladies.

At one point during the appointment, I was briefly upset by Dr. J and unsure about my good thoughts regarding him the other day.  He had a point where he started speaking harshly about the expenses of my hospital stays and how he just wished I was more honest about my mental-health and why was I so ashamed about it???

Wow.  How can I possibly explain a lifetime of masking/boxing/sucking-it-up like a good daughter for my father?  How can I explain that it is shameful?
I’ve never thought of it like I do my migraines.  I would never ever discuss my mental-health at work; but I talk about migraines all the time.  I talk about my hypertension.

And lectures about money just make me think of Daddy and his constant disappointment in me not being some amazing financial success.  And that my pile of debt is unacceptable to be a proper daughter.  A lady shouldn’t have that.  A lady to should be entirely sufficient.

My father will never accept this “brainitis” theory.

And that, more than anything, is my concern for today.

I still find Dr. J to be an amazing doctor.  I find his meticulousness, his respect, his desire for absolute honestly understandable and refreshing.

But I do so wish it could just be my heart.  Or my kidneys.  Or some organ malfunctioning. Something my father would accept as not being within my control.  He will never accept that my brain is simply “broken”.

He never has.

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.

Cursed

Apparently I am cursed when it comes to cars.

First, my beloved Pete dies.

Then I try to look at multiple cars yesterday to see if any could work for purchasing.  They are all complete shit.  Not even a little crummy, like full-on junk.  Worse than Pete, if he didn’t have the tire snapped off.

My father goes out on a surprising limb and decides to let me borrow Cherry for a week or two.  Cherry is his pride and joy, his mid-life crisis car, his summer baby (it’s a convertible).

This is damn close to what Cherry looks like

Cherry is a Honda Del Sol, for those of you who are car people and care.

This morning Cherry wouldn’t start.

I’ve had her for literally, less than 12 hours at this point.

It’s the starter (Dad just bought her a new battery).  I had to get it towed to a service place this morning.  And find a ride to work for the day.

Hopefully it’ll be fixed by this evening.

Apparently my fingers just kill cars.

It’s probably good that you guys don’t know me in real life.  I don’t want to ruin any more cars.

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.
_________________________________________________________________

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.

Pneumonia

My lack of involvement in the blog world is due to the fact that my cold turned into bronchitis, which turned into pneumonia over this past week.  So I’ve been basically trying not to curl into a ball and die.

It meant another trip to the ER, dragged by my mother.
(Ya’ll remember how much I love hospitals, right? I’ll just skip on down there all on my own)
It was awful.  My pulse was crazy high, my BP crazy high, my x-ray showed a compromised section of lung that has me at reduced breathing capacity (i.e. the pneumonia).  The woman who did the IV prick sucked at it.

Today is first day back and at work. Technically I’m not fully recovered yet (still not at full lung capacity).  It’s sucking a lot.  This level of exhaustion is puzzling to me.  I tend to be someone who can pull energy outta my butt if necessary and that ability has completely deserted me.  It’s frustrating and disheartening and I hate it.

I hate having auto-immune condition.  Basically every little tiny illness I get turns into something ginormous.

I’ve never had pneumonia before and my only memory of it is when I was young and my dad got double pneumonia (it’s a real thing) and almost died in the hospital.  And I was terrified and sad and begging the universe to just let him live and I’d be a good girl just like he wanted. 
It was that first moment where I knew that despite his distance and our issues, I love him no matter what and it will break my heart if he ever goes anywhere.

Good news is the man has been like an ox since then and has waaaaaay better health than me, so he’ll probably outlive me.

Anyway, I hope all of you are doing well.

I’ll have a much more interesting post once I’m able to breath without wheezing and bubbling.

Much love to all ❤

Goodbye

“White knuckles and sweaty palms from hanging on too tight
Clenched shut jaw, I’ve got another headache again tonight
Eyes on fire, eyes on fire, and they burn from all the tears
I’ve been crying, I’ve been crying, I’ve been dying over you
Tie a knot in the rope, tryin’ to hold, tryin’ to hold,
But there’s nothing to grasp so I let go

I think I’ve finally had enough, I think I maybe think too much
I think this might be it for us (blow me one last kiss)
You think I’m just too serious, I think you’re full of shit
My head is spinning so (blow me one last kiss)

Just when it can’t get worse, I’ve had a shit day
Have you had a shit day?
We’ve had a shit day
I think that life’s too short for this
I want back my ignorance and bliss
I think I’ve had enough of this
Blow me one last kiss.

I won’t miss all of the fighting that we always did,
Take it in, I mean what I say when I say there is nothing left
No more sick whiskey dick, no more battles for me
You’ll be calling a trick, ’cause you’ll no longer sleep
I’ll dress nice, I’ll look good, I’ll go dancing alone
I will laugh, I’ll get drunk, I’ll take somebody home

I think I’ve finally had enough, I think I maybe think too much
I think this might be it for us (blow me one last kiss)
You think I’m just too serious, I think you’re full of shit
My head is spinning, so blow me one last kiss

Just when it can’t get worse, I’ve had a shit day (No!)
Have you had a shit day? (No!), we’ve had a shit day (No!)
I think that life’s too short for this, I want back my ignorance and bliss
I think I’ve had enough of this, blow me one last kiss.

I will do what I please, anything that I want
I will breathe, I will breathe, I won’t worry at all
You will pay for your sins, you’ll be sorry my dear
All the lies, all the why’s, will all be crystal clear

I think I’ve finally had enough, I think I maybe think too much
I think this might be it for us (blow me one last kiss)
You think I’m just too serious, I think you’re full of shit
My head is spinning, so blow me one last kiss

Just when it can’t get worse, I’ve had a shit day
Have you had a shit day? We’ve had a shit day
I think that life’s too short for this, I want back my ignorance and bliss
I think I’ve had enough of this, blow me one last kiss.”

-Pink, “Blow Me (One Last Kiss)”

___________________________________

I’m done.  For serious this time.

I’m done being ignored.  I’m done being only a booty call. I’m done being a secret.  Normally I hate when Father insists I live my life as a perfect lady, but this time I’m going with his words.

I’m a lady.

I don’t deserve this shit.

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