I think it's funny how when it's sunny out I'm all MENTALLY ILL but when
it's all gross and rainy I'm in a great mood!
I think some days sunny weather puts too much pressure on me to "make a day
of it." When I start thinking too far ahead I think of all the things I should
do rather than things I want to do.
Should Do:
*Call my Dad
*Confront my past
*Redecorate my bedroom
*Send a care package to Rochelle
*Disinfect entire house
*Go buy cardigans in attempt to dress less like a slob
*Apply for different job
Want to do:
*Throw away my phone
*Dance nude in the mirror
*Go to sleep
*Eat things
*play with my cat
*dress like a slob and cuddle with Greg
*imagine smacking annoying coworker with brick
Some of these should I deep down want to do but am afraid to do.
Personally, I associate families who don't see each other as families who
are estranged, who aren't close, who are angry with each other and possibly
don't love each other.
We love each other. I know we do. However, sometimes bad memories try to
scream otherwise and when you go years without speaking the bad memories begin
to define things.
My relationship with my dad hasn't always been great. I spent most of my
childhood screaming at him because I was a difficult child. I was just super
difficult, the kind of kid who was really good at questioning authority.
Most people don't realize this about me, but I wasn't always a very
wishy-washy people pleaser. I got into fights with kids at day and summer camp.
As a kindergartner I punched a first-grade boy in the nose. Hard. His nose
bled everywhere. And I wasn't even a little bit sorry or guilty because that
fucker started it by pushing me out of my seat on daily basis.
I used to yell at both my parents and challenge them all the time.
Eventually we were able to relate like normal human beings, but that didn't
happen until my teens, honestly. I cussed my parents out when I was two.
(Thanks, little Ricky Listman, for wrongly teaching me at age two that the word
"fucker" meant "crackers" and that saying "fuck a truck" meant milk and
cookies. You little shit.)
When I felt my parents were wrong, I told them so. I was just really smart
and a spoiled know-it-all and it was hard for me when my parents took me down a
peg, by being, you know, parents.
Then my parents separated.
When my Dad left us (or my mom kicked him out, depending on how I'm feeling
about that on certain days) I tried to be real understanding at first. Within a
few weeks I really felt it was bullshit. His new family had the son he always
wanted and I was mad jealous. I wrote him hateful letters in pink and blue pen
with swirly teen handwriting, letting him know I thought he was a big, big
asshole for leaving me and replacing me with some dumb Full-House watching idiot
boy. It took several months for me to forgive him and I was mad for a long time,
like a full month and everything.
But I forgave him. Hard. I met his new girlfriend and her son and daughter
and we all got along amazingly well. And soon I just wanted to spend all my time
with my dad and his new family, which made me feel guilty but it was how I felt.
I loved the five of us and it was everything I ever wanted.
So when his fiance suddenly died a year later, nobody was more traumatized
than I was. And nothing was worse than watching my Dad go through the grieving
along with me.
However, then I had to move in with my Dad (it was either this or be
homeless) in 2001 and we didn't really get along that well. He didn't seem to
like me anymore, and neither did his next girlfriend. I didn't want to be there
taking up space in his bachelor pad and my dad lost his patience with me on
almost a daily basis. He'd become enraged at me over stupid things and when I'd
try to get him to open up and get to know him sometimes he'd be biting,
critical, and rude.
I don't want to get into specifics, but our fights were legendary and
terrible.
And sometimes he'd scream at me. Or worse.
At first I screamed back like I did when I was little, but eventually I
just took it and became alienated. My whole life isolated itself inside the
bedroom he let me sleep in and I made sure to stay in there all the time while
he was home to avoid him. The entire time I was panic-stricken and terrified. I
told myself when I moved out that I wouldn't spend any time with my dad, either.
I was pissed with him and his stupid girlfriend, who'd also scream at me and
worse, for several years.
But I'm not pissed anymore. At all. At either of them.
See, eventually I moved out and each time I got to see him and his
girlfriend they were both completely thrilled to see me. They took me out to
eat, bought me presents, completely opened up. Our conversations were long,
calm, and interesting. There was plenty of laughter and joy. My dad let me hang
out with him and his girlfriend and they were enjoyable to be around. They loved
my husband, and they let me in on all the great vacations they took together and
their wonderful life together. We shared great stories.
So the last time I saw him was Christmas 2010. The three of us went to
breakfast and I blathered on about my Major Of The Week at UMUC. We talked about
music and work. It was wonderful, as usual.
And I called him six months later, but it was right after my mom's mother
had her stroke and I spent my whole summer in and out of the hospital and
nursing home to see her. So I never got to see my dad that year.
And then my mental illness crap happened and for some reason all I could
think about when I thought about my dad was the times we fought and all the
terrible feelings and memories came rushing back. Suddenly I didn't want to see
him. Hell, I didn't want to see anyone. I just wanted everyone to go away so I
could die in peace, most days.
However, before long, I got better and now all I want is to see him
again.
But I just don't know how to go about doing that. I want it so much, too
much, that any time I let myself think about it I instantly begin sobbing my
eyes out. So I don't let myself think about it, you know, so I can do things
other than cry.
So as I'm crying at my desk right now, here is what I want, deep
down.
Tell him I love him and that I think about him all the time. Have us go to
Down's Park and let me tell me stuff about nature. Try my best to crack his ass
up, because he is super hard to get comic approval from but once you get him
going there is no better sound. Ask him if he's OK with me being child free.
Tell him I'm planning my wedding, my real one, and I'm struggling because I am
overthinking it. Tell him I struggle to stay alive every day, but that I'm happy
at the same time. Tell him how I want things to be, that I need to figure out a
way for us to hang out more often but that I don't know how to do that. Tell him
he never did anything wrong, ever. (I don't even care whether that's true or
not. It's just something I want to say. I think he thinks he does everything
wrong, and I know for a fact there's at least a billion things he's done right.)
Maybe that won't happen. Maybe something else will happen, who
knows?
I won't unless I call.
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