Tag Archives: Father

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.


The day I made my mother cry

Bonding has completely backfired.

Not sure how soon I’ll venture out again to try and connect with a person.

My mom and I had been drifting lately and we both finally acknowledged this. Decided that we would take a trip to the local IKEA together. Technically I needed the space of her van anyhow, to fit a desk I wanted to purchase. I merely drive a sedan.

We are reconnecting well. Chatting about life (both of ours) and possible job opportunities (for me).

She tells me about her recent Reiki+ treatment from a family friend. I call it “Reiki plus” because our friend Margaret does a mix of what is needed for trusted patients. For example, with me she tends towards some cranial sacral and light massage work for my migraines/muscle pain in addition to classic Reiki work. She is licensed for all of the techniques she uses and would never do anything a patient disliked. Plus, she’s an old family friend.

Mom says it went well, but Margaret couldn’t help her much with the spiritual side of things. My mom thinks she’s going deaf to her spirit guides. Margaret has helped her in the past. I’m at a loss at what to say.
Though I have my own version of “guides/spirits” that I do sometimes seek out, mostly I shut them out because it’s hard to open myself to them without cocking-up my DID structure and causing spiraling/time loss and such. It’s hard to explain.

But this isn’t where I completely screw up.

It’s later, when I offer to play a song for my mom that has lately helped me stop from completely giving myself over to dark thoughts and suicidal thoughts.

It’s called “Fight Song” by Rachel Platten

I plug the aux cord in and hit play…

As the last notes drift away, I realize I’ve been a bit zoned out and glance over at my mom.

She’s crying.

I blink and frantically try to remember the last couple minutes. Did I do something wrong? Then I think about the song. Maybe it’s just because it’s emotional.

“I’m sorry. It’s an emotional song I guess.” I offer lamely.

“No. It’s just…” She pauses, trying to compose herself. Even though it’s my father who doesn’t allow crying at all; with my mom and her side of the family, it’s still not truly a comfortable act to show other people. “It’s just…I don’t have any fight left.” Another sobs escapes. “And I don’t know how to get away. I don’t want to be where I am right now. This is a nice song, but I don’t have fight left.”

I’m quiet.

I want to say magical words to comfort her. My own mother.

But I am my father’s daughter and someone crying and exposing their deep feelings makes me starkly uncomfortable. My mind feels crackly- like an old candy wrapper.

“I don’t really have fight left either. The song just lets me pretend.” I confess. Mom glances at me. “I think if I play it enough then all the stagnant things in my life making my whole self dark and blue and depressed will break lose. So far though…it’s just a song.”

Mom starts tearing up again. I watch dispassionately.

And distantly I wonder if I’m the semi-sociopath my father is.

I do feel bad for making her cry, I do.

But my vision feels like a tunnel and my mouth a cave and I can’t climb over the rockslide blocking the entrance.

I add this day to the box of reasons why I shouldn’t be a daughter at all.


This past Monday was my birthday.

No magical number or anything. Just a general “you’re getting older” sort of day. I felt very adult by the fact that I actually scheduled a doctor’s appointment for that day. It was a bit stressful for me and my system, but I don’t really want to discuss that right now.

The main gift from my mother was a simple DVD.

It turned out to be a compilation of all these family video clips from when I was a toddler. From before we moved to Ohio. For some reason I cannot entirely comprehend, I was terrified to watch this DVD. I let it sit.

With the freshly filled script of Ativan, I finally brought myself to watch it the other day.

It was a roller coaster of emotion. As expected, I suppose.

I’m going to list my main observations in a list to sort them out better.

1.) I have not always been shy. Through various clips I am very outspoken and interact joyfully with all relatives and friends of my family. This was surprising to see.

2.) There are multiple Christmas clips (from two or three years’ worth of holidays) and though I don’t recognize the event itself, there are gifts/toys that I recognize. There are gifts that Armes especially exclaims over from deep inside my brain. It gives me a smile and yet deeply wounds me at the same time.

3.) My paternal grandmother is featured prominently in many of these clips. She passed when I was 8. I do not remember her unless I really think about it. I remember how she used to collect the Beanie Baby toys McDonalds had for a time. She wasn’t a fan of fast food, but she collected as many as she could just for me because I loved stuffed animals (and Beanie Babies). I remember that she would use any excuse to send me a package in the mail. I used to even get “First Day of School” packages with little gifts.
It’s hard to remember the funeral. But I do remember that for months afterwards, I talked about how her “ghost” watched me and tried to protect me. Dad tried to logically explain how that wasn’t possible until he’d had enough and told me to “cut it out”. I stopped talking about her altogether. I remember that many years later, when we moved to our new house (his current house) and the basement seemed to be creepy and weird to my friends, I told them I wasn’t afraid because “Grandma watched out for me”. I don’t think I even entirely knew what I meant.
It was shocking to see her face on the screen. And yet…her face is not unfamiliar to me. I can’t explain it well.

4.) My father only briefly appears in two clips.

5.) There are clips at the beginning where my mother seems to be recording “for” my father (because he is deployed with the military at the time) and tries to get me to talk to him. My toddler-literal-mind doesn’t understand though. At one point she asks me to “say bye-bye to Daddy on the camera” and I say “Bye Camera!”.

6.) The first clip to feature my father, (more than halfway through the 80 minute DVD) he is putting together a child’s desk for me. I ask him who broke the desk (it’s laid out in many pieces on the floor). He patiently explains that it isn’t broken, just taken apart and he’s putting it back together. He shows me the instructions with pictures. I study it intently for a good 45 seconds. I cannot place this interaction emotionally in my brain. I don’t know how to feel. I feel like I should know how to feel.

7.) The second clip is my birthday. Dad is icing my cake. Not Mom, as I would have expected. It is another moment I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know how to connect this father on film with the one I know who seems so distant and anti-child.

8.) Though my father is not in the clip, there is a clip of me talking to him on the phone. I am very serious in my discussion (though I can barely understand what toddler-me is saying). I am upset when Mom tells me I have to say goodbye and hangup soon.
K on phone K on phone2
9.) I want to watch this again so I can catch more details and try to not be so switchy during the whole thing. But I can’t bring myself yet. Perhaps in another week or two.


Something amazing happened the other day.

It started badly.

I was speaking with my father about childhood memories.  He was appalled to discover I didn’t have any distinct memories from before we moved to Ohio.

Which is obviously because that’s when the splintering happened.  But my father is in high denial about that stuff.

Suddenly though, I remarked, “Well, I remember when I was playing by an old tree stump and got stung by a bee. And it scared me. I think I ran over to you.”

My dad broke into a smile.

“That was in Boston. You were probably 3 years old. It was one of the only times you ran to me before your mom.”

I stared.


That’s before the splinter.

I have absolutely no other memories of Boston. That’s even before we went back to Chicago for a time.

I remembered something from before! And not just a couple months before.  Years before!

I’m holding this memory close as a candle to keep away the creeping darkness.

Child Therapy and Parent Labels

A local domestic violence shelter/prevention group is doing some great things with education and child development right now.

Artemis Center of Dayton, Ohio was already a great place for victims of domestic violence and their children.  But their Spring newsletter has shown me how they take that extra step.

Artemis Logo Stacked

I have to applaud them first and foremost for their website.
Go ahead, Visit it briefly.  You see that option?  That safety net they so graciously offer you?  They understand.  They know the fear you have; the constantly looking over your shoulder.  They don’t even want to judge you.  They want to offer you an easy out.  It’s okay to escape.  This website is safe.

Today I’m more interested in their most recent newsletter however; as outlined on page 5 is what they are doing with children’s therapy.
(PDF version of the newsletter)

I find it interesting that they use the words “Mom” and “Father” to refer to “Keri’s” parents.
Word usage is a powerful thing and it was the first thing that struck me when I skimmed the article.  I then read it more thoroughly and determined it is Keri’s mother (mom) who is attempting to try the hardest with her daughter.  She wants to offer that structure that young children need almost as much as love.

It’s amazing how quickly the two parents are labeled in my mind as “good” and “bad” with that simple distinction of labels.
And I realize I do it myself.  I refer to my dad as “father” in this blog frequently.  It’s sort of interesting considering in real life, I usually refer to him as “Dad”.  To his face is only “Dad”.  He would assume I’d been replaced by aliens if I ever called him “Father” (he considers too “rich girl”) or “Daddy” (this too “daddy spoiled girl”; something he dislikes).

But on this safe space, far away from his prying eyes, I refer to him mostly at “father”.

And Mom is mom.  She has always been Mom and I expect she will always be Mom.  I don’t remember ever calling her anything else; both to her face and in passing reference to her.

I think it’s interesting what terms we use for parents and what connotations they represent.  Something safe or unsafe.

And Artemis Center here, whether unintentionally or not, has led me to understand who the villain is in Keri’s story.

But the important thing is the story.  And the happy ending it is heading towards.  Through therapy and understanding, Keri is able to get what she needs to grow up with a good home and good development.

It’s great to see in a world where many are doing it so wrong; someone has stepped up to make sure it is done right.


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.

Cluster Casserole

Yeah.  I meant clusterfuck, but I thought that might be an inappropriate blog post title.

I know a lot of my blog friends are from the U.K. and I’m not sure if they have the expression “clusterfuck” over there, but that is the only apt descriptor for my current situation.

(I’m gonna borrow lovely WeeGee’s footnotes style for one entry because I cannot express myself in this entry without a lot of quick abbreviations and expression because my mind is a great big swirly mess of horribleness*)

Clusterfuck.  It means that basically, some big universe-controlling person** took the ingredients of my life and swirled them around in a bowl.  Then they were supposed to add the ingredients to create a semi-passable cake or brownie; but instead, this idiot PTB*** added the WRONG ingredients that turned my bowl of a life into some awful casserole of fuck-uppery instead of a good sweet dessert of yumminess like I desired.

Clusterfuck Casserole

1 part Pen who is trying to get her butt into more a healing gear lately

1 part messy “vacation” with her father to her hometown that was a mix of good, bad, and utterly horrible****
1 part her grandfather (the local/maternal one, not Chicago/paternal) going into a risky surgery this past Friday*****
1 part things going all roller coaster-y in the relationship with Army******
1 part having to spend time with a lot of family and be near/in a hospital
1 part making the mistake of going out drinking with people she barely knows Friday night

Season with:
a sprinkle of taking care of puppies for extended periods of time (as well as another one getting adopted)
a pinch of no communication or spending time with close friends in almost a week
a dollop of next to no sleep for going on 4 days now

Stick in the oven at about 400 degrees for 5 days.


The blog world is a bit much right now.  I’m trying to ease back into reading and commenting on some.  Sorry it isn’t everyone.  I’m doing my best.  Bear with me.  I’ll eventually be back to normal.  Hopefully.  For the moment I’m going to attempt pretending at being a normal person at work when all I really want to do is curl into a ball of self-loathing and debate on sobbing.

*i.e. Clusterfuck
**I don’t mean a god, necessarily.  Maybe I mean FSM.*******
***Powers That Be.  I took this from Cordelia’s expression of them in the show “Angel” (Joss Whedon!)
****Yes, that was over a week ago, but I am still recovering due to the extreme backlash of drama that happened from it
*****For which I was just told the night before.  The night before.  About surgery that he could easily DIE from.
****** Of course, when is it not?
*******Flying Spaghetti Monster

The Home on the Corner Lot

When is a house truly a home?

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

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…

I’m okay

Just wanted to say thanks to everyone and let you guys know I’m okay now.  Migraine is pretty much gone.  I am doing a bit better mentally.  Still low, but since I’m around people it’s been much better. 

I can’t thank you guys enough for your support.  Sorry I’ve been lax on your guy’s blogs.  It’s partly trigger-related and partly I just haven’t been online.  It probably won’t get better until I get back from Chicago.

I’m driving up (with my father) tomorrow, and won’t be back until Monday evening.  I’m hoping the trip is as low-stress as possible.  Cross your fingers for me.

XOXOXO to all! (or most, at least 😉 )


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.