I’m trying to write about my father. I’m trying to write about a potential major mistake that I made. I just published a post that was supposed to cover those topics, but it didn’t. Instead, it was a flashback to 1994. Why?
I opened the blank post… saw the cursor blinking… started formulating the title in my mind and I just couldn’t do it. And if it doesn’t have an appropriate title, it can’t be written yet. I don’t know how y’all operate, but that’s how this blog works. When I got this flashback, it was just a visual… I can’t remember anything that was said. And in the flashback, there is no sound. It’s very bizarre to have a memory with no sound, thus the title “Why can’t I hear anything?”.
So I sat here in my lovely hotel room in Chicago [where I am staying for a work trip], and thought about my father. I was trying to figure out where to start. I last spoke about him in great detail in this post when he told me he wasn’t going to attend my wedding. In fact, he is the very reason that I created this blog. He found my last one which I made public and shared widely… and he fucking ruined it for me. Took shit out of context and just destroyed the love of sharing myself with my people.
So now I share it with other people, who did not start out as my people. I would like to take this opportunity to say that y’all have become my people in a big way. You know who you are, I’m not gonna name names. When I’m having a really bad day. When something is weighing on my mind. When I need to get a bunch of shit off my chest, you people are here for me. Every time. Thank you.
When I tried to figure out how to frame what I want to say about my father, my mind wandered back to my childhood. I was trying to decide if I should start with that. Then vividly, I was watching a flashback in my mind. One that scared me so fucking bad I still remember it all these years later. And I couldn’t do it.
The pain that I feel associated with my dad is heavy. It hurts. It’s fresh. All of the old wounds I have gathered along my lifetime never really healed. At least now, I have a reason why. Why it was so completely god fucking awful to be his daughter sometimes. Wanna know why????????
Wow, I bet you didn’t see that coming huh? I’m sure I’ve mentioned here in some way, shape or form that he is an addict… I just haven’t been able to connect all the pieces to tell you a story that can actually be considered a story. So instead I told you this story about how I felt one time as a result of this fucking addiction monster.
While I’m on the subject (and when aren’t I on the subject anymore?), my brother moved into the halfway house this past Monday. He has a cell phone again and he called me. He’s happy, for now. He sounds strong. He is sarcastic and has a pretty fucked up, twisted sense of humor about the situation though. I hope that it’s a coping mechanism and that he doesn’t actually feel like this is all a joke.
We will see.
For now… for my father…. I can’t do it yet. Maybe soon. Tonight has felt good. I find the clicking of my keyboard keys to be the most therapeutic noise I have ever encountered in my life.
Thank you for being my therapy, WordPress.