Micah

She waited on me at the eye doctor yesterday. She looked familiar, & she laid the precursor by letting me know that she was still in training. 

She was kind, and honest. She said I was "hip",  👀 and fun, & said she was impressed because the square sunglasses with the rounded corners that I chose were "so trendy", "so 70's!" she said. 

    "Hey!! I was THERE!" I kidded! 

"I was 5 & started kindergarten in the 70's." I warned her.                I ended up getting two pair -- the "cool shades" & the ones that match my true-new hair color. She politely 

asked for my payment of $1,000.00 & thanked me for my patience in the process. I complemented how well I thought she did and thanked her for being so sweet in the process. And then I said, "Tell me again... what's your name?"

"It's Micah," she said sweetly. "I hope you have a great day," she smiled.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

In the 40 seconds that it took me to walk to my car & get in, it was as if time had whooshed backwards 40 years... I sat for a minute on the scorching summer seat, & I couldn't believe the feelings that washed over my memory like a wild uncontrollable wave that had unexpectedly come crashing onto the shore. 

It felt like time stood still for what seemed like a long, long time... Micah. A trigger of sadness from my growing up without a dad years came flooding over me.

You see, Micah represented hope. Micah represented family. Micah represented being lost, left behind, unloved, & found again. Micah was the little sister I wished for, but I never had. And never really have...

Micah's grandpa Al was dating my mom. Al had talked about marriage with my mom. And mom was excited about the possibility of marrying again. We were planning to move into Al's house on the corner of Avenue J. 

One day, out of the blue, Al was faced with task of having to raise his granddaughter, Micah, because her mom walked away and left her. I was excited about the possibility of having a little sister as precious as Micah. Al seemed like a potential father figure that seemed to cherish the me & love me for who I was... not who he expected me to be.  And then one day, out of the blue, a Dear John letter shattered my mom's hopes & mine. Without even so much as a goodbye, Al was gone... & so was Micah.

I'll never know just what happened between Al & my mom... pr why he darted out of Dodge so quickly without warning. Maybe he freaked out when he found out how controlling my mom is? 💁 That's reasonable. Maybe she was just too needy... but so was I. 

I needed a dad who loved me, who was there for me, and who adored me.  But Al wasn't the man for the job.

And then there was Jim. Oh how I loved Jim! Even moreso than Al, honestly. Jim was a true gem, with a heart of gold! He treated mom like a queen, and his own daughters, Jenny & Karen, were very swayed by their mother's opinion of their dad. But I loved how Jim treated me. Jim was a gentleman. And Jim was always open and honest with his thoughts. Jim wanted mom to marry him, but she declined. I don't know why... but something kept her from sharing her heart again, after he heart was crushed by Al.

Mine, too.

And then there was Bob. Farmer Bob, in the baggy denim overalls, and that little red Toyota pickup truck filled with shovels & tubes, and all sortsa junk. 

Bob's heart was beautiful, but his face was scarred. Bob had tried to take his own life, sometime in the past before he met mom, and his mouth and nose had been repaired as well as possible, but his eyes always seemed to be sad & longing. It was Bob who let me ride his beautiful horse across the pasture as fast as she would gallop. I rode that beautiful girl like a seasoned rider, and nothing could compare to the joy I felt as I rode alone in the field as the sun glistened on the river nearby. Bob had children too, but they didn't keep in contact with him much. So I became his favorite, too! 

Funny, after all these years... 40 to be exact, the memory of loss that I had two opportunities to have a father figure in my life, but for some reason, my mom just wasn't ready to take that leap, for her own happiness.

She, too, was holding on to false hope that my dad would return, and say all the things that she'd prayed he would say to her, for her whole life. Like, 

I'm sorry I cheated.

I'm sorry I hurt you.

I'm sorry I left you and my 2 kids for Cheryl, my adultery accomplice. 

I'm sorry I put her first, even though it cost me my relationship with my own 2 kids. 

I'm sorry I left & came back, only to break your trust again & again.

But the apologies never came, and we were left with those open scars, left to heal them without the healing balm of facing his own worst enemy... the Truth.

I don't know why it surprises me, that with just one simple word... Micah, and all of these hurtful realizations came flooding into my memory all at once. 

What did Micah represent for me? Was it the hope that someone, finally someone would see me, and need me, and love me, and help me find joy in the midst of my deep sadness, & loneliness, and longing to belong to a family again?

I think it was the nurturing that I wasn't getting, hadn't gotten, that I felt that if I could give back to someone so small and unable to understand why life sucks so badly sometimes, it would somehow help heal my hurting heart. 

During the time after Micah, I remember dad calling and asking how we'd like to have a little baby brother or a baby sister. 

From the most honest place in my heart I said, "I'd rather have a puppy."

I don't remember what he said in response to that, nor could I even imagine what he expected me to say, but yesterday I think I finally realized why I hurt so much when dad was gone...

Not only did he leave without even so much as saying goodbye...

so did Micah & Al, & Jim, & Bob.

absquatulate (v) 

to leave without saying goodbye.

No Happy Fathers Day for me

 6.20.2021

It’s hard to pretend on a holiday like Fathers Day. It seems so wrong, like so many do, writing to a dad who isn’t here, and reminiscing, like so many did today, about all the wonderful things that their dad was to them & all the things they miss about their dad.

 But that’s difficult for me to do, when memories won’t come. It’s almost painful to try to remember anything worth remembering… because mostly, when I think about my dad, deep down inside-- the main emotion I feel is sadness.

It’s sad, really. Sad that I have so few memories of my dad from “before he left”. 

When I laid here a couple of nights ago, praying for Becky & for God to hold her close as she anticipated Bruno moving out the next day, all I could remember was the leaving. The tires squealing. Mom crying ugly cries & me wanting to just be alone.

Sorta.

I remember my mom crying all the time, and her coming to me to console her. I remember wanting to write a book called, “Mom, why are you crying?” because I didn’t get it.

Dad drank. 

Mom hated it. She complained about it… a lot.

Mom worked all. the. time. 

Dad hated it. He sat alone and drank. Until he was tired of being alone.

And then he cheated. 

And I hated it.

I remember once he left, things felt safe for the first time in a long, long time. I think… I guess it was the lack of having to hear mom & dad fight, and them never including us in any of their conversations. *But I heard them anyway.

I remember his pickup tires peeling out on the road in frontta our house as dad sped away after many-a-talks with her trying to get him to listen to her and quit drinking, and dad always playing the silent-treatment card & clamming up.

I hated Cheryl from the minute he told us that he was seeing her. Correction… er, didn’t “tell us”. As a matter of fact, my dad never did tell us that he’d had an affair with Cheryl before he made the decision to leave mom & ask her for a divorce.

Things I remember:

• That night when dad left, he moved in with grandma Jewel in her basement. Looking back, wasn’t he a little OLD to be moving back in with his MOMMM????

• Then he got his own basement apartment. I remember the walls were all white, and it smelled musty, & his apartment was boring as hell.

• I remember how strange it seemed, to see things that belonged at “home” now taking up residence in some dumpy basement apartment that my dad was renting.

•  He moved upstairs shortly thereafter. One day while we were visiting, I saw a silk nightgown, obviously not-my-mom’s, hanging in his closet. I think it was red. *the color of a floozie’s lipstick or fingernails.

• Come to think of it… who HANGS their silk nightgowns on a hanger???

•  He started dressing like some sort of beach boys movie wanna-be. The WORST were those leather sandals with the loop around the toe… and that striped tank top. It was as if Cheryl was parading dad around in some kind of clown attire, just so she could get attention for being the tramp that she was.

• I remember Cheryl seeming to me like some sort of parts counter wanna-be… with square pocket jeans, and a rough ugly face. I never once remember seeing her dressed up.

• I remember that she picked us up whenever we needed a ride to town. THAT shouldda been my first clue. How on the ride to town she’d make small-talk, acting as if she was interested in things concerning us, when what she really wanted was her foot in the door, once we found out that she was sleeping with our dad.

• I remember Cheryl taking me shopping for my 16th birthday. We went to places that my parents had never ever bought me clothes from. I realize now that it was her way of moving slowly in, hoping I’d take the bait by thinking that she was some sort of awesome for inviting me to go shopping with her. That was our first & last shopping trip taken.   Go figure...

• And then as soon as the divorce was final, dad married Cheryl the very next day. I remember how pissed I was, every time I drove through Dairy Queen, having to see right into her trashy little house, knowing that my dad lived there. 

• As a matter of fact… I don’t think I was ever invited into that house. Or maybe I was and I hated her so much I completely blocked that out of my mind.

• And then they bought the house that Cheryl still lives in today. We spent a lot of time there on his every-other-weekends with us. I don’t remember ever feeling like that place was “home” or “our dad’s house”.

• Once they were finally married, I don’t remember ever feeling welcome in their home.

Fathers Day was hard. It's always hard... even when my dad was still here, it was hard to find a "my thoughts exactly" Hallmark card that said what wasn't on my heart. I say that because it's the honest to goodness truth.

Here's another truth... I haven't been to the cemetery to visit my dad's grave in a long, long time. Somehow, talking to a giant upright piece of granite, with familiar names & dates engraved on the side facing the tree... just isn't meaningful to me. Even in life, when I wanted to really talk to my dad & let him hear my heart... he very seldom responded. So talking to a headstone would be mighty uneventful. Some may consider my lack of drive to "go-there" disrespectful and not-honoring to my dad. But he's gone.

And parts of me died with him. And that's not a bad or a sad thing. A part of me was allowed to finally be, once he was gone. What a legacy, huh?

The peacemaker part of me. The worried about what dad might say part of me. The we'll tell twisted versions of the truth so no one gets hurt part of me. The keeper of all the secret things that nobody else is strong enough to carry part of me. The always checking the score to see whether or not I measure up part of me. The great pretender part of me. The ashamed of, & disappointed in myself part of me. The ashamed of & disappointed in him part of me. The wishing things could have been different part of me. The dreamer part of me that somehow wished that he'd say the things I never heard him say part of me. The pull yourself up by your bootstraps & carry the family part of me that never measured up.

Every unmet expectation that he ever had of me, that I never managed to please him by doing part of me... Expired. Buried. Gone. A part of me died too... and I'm finally figuring out how to live with firm boundaries in place, that nobody is allowed to cross.

Sometimes I think I need a therapist, but sometimes I think I just need to get these thoughts out, like toxic barf. Relieving my insides of the residue of doubt & disappointment. So I went looking for a quote, a poem, something that put into words kind of what I wrestle with on a prn basis. And I found this poem by Veronica A. Shoffstall called After A While.

After A While

Author: Veronica A. Shoffstall

After a while you learn the subtle difference

Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning

And company doesn’t mean security,

And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts

And presents aren’t promises.

And you begin to accept your defeats

With your head up and your eyes open

With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child.

And you learn to build all your roads on today,

Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans,

And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn

That even sunshine burns if you get too much.

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,

Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure,

That you really are strong,

And you really do have worth.

And you learn and learn,

With every goodbye you learn.

Triggers

As I've grown towards understanding how to deal with past hurts, traumas, and toxic people, I've learned that triggers are something that still often attempt to get the best of me. 

And today was  another one of those testing through fire/refining days for me. 

Hearing those words, "All I know is that your dad would be so disappointed," were, I'm sure meant to hurt me, or at least stab real hard with a little twist of the wrist for emphasis while the knife was still in. But in the words of my massage therapist, "I've learned to own my own shit." Those words, which were meant to hurt me, just bounced right off. 

... or did they? I'm still not sure why, when people try to project their uncomfortableness with me, onto me... why do I even care?? Why do I even give a 2nd glance towards the hurt that they try to nail on me, when it's their problem. their perception of me. their desire to control the uncontrollable. and their inability to control their forked tongue.

like a snake... venomous, toxic, slithery. 

I hate snakes. I watch for them, are aware of my surroundings when there's a possibility that there might be one hiding in the grass somewhere... I avoid them at all costs. I don't go where snakes dwell. I don't ever desire to be near one. 

And so it is with this...

My dad's sister Connie. Broken, disabled, unable to mind her own business. Quite nimble with her story sharing, & her keen sense of awareness from her crows nest view into everyone else's business. Questioning me? About my business?! And then those words...

"All I know's that your dad would be so disappointed."

And my response was quick witted & spot-on... "You bet he would be!"

*crickets*

Complete silence, & then stammering, with her not knowing what to say next.

HA! 

But later, I can't seem to stop all of the old, toxic patterns of thought from swirling inside my head. Old lies, old memories. Thoughts from the past that I thought I'd already dealt with & were gone. 

Thoughts of "not good enough" or "never good enough"

You be the responsible one... take care of your sister... call her sometime... won't you try to talk to her... pull up your bootstraps and be the better person. 

Always being the protector... the keeper of the secrets... the only one who could handle the truth, yet I'm being questioned NOW as to the authenticity of the stories that she told? 

Never before told versions of the twisted story, like they've never been heard before, and, psh... people actually believe these stories?  

Why must my heart & mind even engage in an emotional battle with toxic people?

Why has our family legacy become to know, yet to hide the truth at all costs. 

This should make me absolutely furious, and it does. Yet, I'm not sure how to temper the emotional side of boundary setting when it comes to her. And although, I don't intend on being mean, or condescending, I feel it necessary for one or both of those things to take place in my heart & mind.

I don't want to waste a minute of my time on them. I don't want to feel as if the next bomb is gonna drop, or the next surprise story version might be released. So why does it always catch me off-guard like it does when stupid people do stupid things?

We're all our own sort of dysfunctional, and yet nobody ever wanted to talk about their own crap, their own hurts, or their own family dynamics... just everyone else's. Case in point:

• strange family dynamics that nobody ever talks about.
• estranged sisters who don't go to their own nephew's wedding.
• folks who pass away & things get ugly afterwards.
• parties take place that we're never invited to, and that's ok.
• but here's the deal... don't talk about me behind my back when you've only been fortunate enough to hear the sweetened condensed version of the story from a bitter sibling who has a twisted view of reality.

These triggers come unexpectedly & threaten to catch me off guard. It's unfortunate that people have so little conscience, that to muddle in their own matters without senseless drama. I hope to find someone who can help me navigate through the boundary breakers who are too uncomfortable in facing their own giants, so they attempt to slay mine. 

Talk about a bird walk.... at one mention of something uncomfortable happening, or transpiring, it seems that someone always tries to infer that it's somehow my responsibility to make everything all picture perfect again. Well, just like all of those old polaroid camera photos, somebody's focus is completely off. Because somebody mistakenly has identified me as the responsible one for everyone else's dysfunction.

not. happenin'. 

period.                                 

Harsh Reality

So here's the deal...  absolute truth is much easier for me to face than the distorted version of the truth that my half-sibling holds.

I am not responsible for her opinion of me, nor is my happiness or contentment based on how she see me.  Case in point... I have a half-sibling, yet I no longer consider her my sister. Truth is, I haven't felt connected to her in the slightest for a long, long time. Harsh Reality #1: a half-sibling is one half blood-related, and one half total stranger. I don't know her, trust her, or care what she thinks of me. Especially because, when it comes to being: 

a) transparent 

b) authentic 

c) honest or

d) real . . . time & time again she has proven to be none of the above. 

Some families that are close have endured hardships together, and have come out stronger. They face the facts together, tell the truth even when it hurts, and are strengthened by hard realities when they occur. And they weather through even the most difficult storms and choose to remain... despite their differences in opinions, or theories. Why? Because they had the same upbringing. The same parental guidance. The same values, expectations, and shared experiences.

This is really the first time that I've thought about it, but things like camping trips, ball games, time spent together in the wood shop, raising puppies, hearing dad's whistle echoing down Avenue D signifying time to run home for supper. Things we shared as a family... she didn't. She never had curfew. Had to deal with an alcoholic father & the hurt that caused on a young girl's heart. Speaking of hurt, how about Divorce. Betrayal. Hurt like no one could ever imagine... these shared experiences where nothing was ever shared or experienced by her. 

I faced those all alone, because I had no choice. All the while, everyone keeping everything "hidden" from the other two, so they didn't have to hurt in the same way that I had to & endure the same kind of emotional pain that I had to. Was it because I was the oldest... the big-girl... the capable one... the one who was always expected to have it all together? Which leaves me wondering, is that what qualified me to be the holder of all the hurt & the keeper of all the hidden secrets? If you only knew how much emotional pain I endured, simply because I was the only one strong enough to handle it.

So tell me... where were you, all through the night on December 12th, 2010 while I sat by his side holding his hand... watching the life that once filled dad's body slowly fade away? Where were you when he breathed his last breath here on earth? Preceded by chemo, shaving dad's head, hope... the Festival of Hope walk. Where were you then??  Where were you on October 11th~ Bone Marrow Transplant day? Trip after trip after trip that I made all by myself to Denver... so many trips taken all by myself., and not once did you ever offer, nor care to attempt to be there for him. The people who knew how desperately he needed them, and I needed them... they made it a priority to come. But you selfishly made it all about you.

Because it's always been all about you. It's always been "poor Sarah"... who, for one reason or the other "couldn't handle it", or in her poor-me mentality, made up a story that she got a frikken headache if she drove any further than Pine Bluffs. What a load'a CRAP! Or asked her dad to give her away at a court house wedding to her husband-to-be that he hardly knew... because she was playing the "poor Sarah card" yet once again.

And then divorcing your first husband but selfishly making a commitment to having "shared custody of the dogs"???? REALLY?? REALLY???? 

And then jumping right from the fire back into the frying pan by falling for the jobless guy over the backyard fence who lived in his parents house?? Oh, and who you knew had a rap-sheet & was a convicted felon in Pennsylvania? And had 2 kids who he hadn't ever seen, or paid a penny of child support for? And got in a fist-fight with his own uncle at your own wedding reception in the airport lobby?? Oh... and occasionally mowed lawns & and painted houses, and did snow removal all under different sur-names so people couldn't track him down when he did shoddy work or left them high & dry?? And who you told people he had his lawn mowing business equipment "stolen" in broad daylight in the hospital parking lot?? And verbally assaulted your own sister & her husband in your step-mom's driveway and threatened to kill her neighbor in his angry fury of rage & psycho-terroristic manner?  

So here we are, at a harsh reality crossroads of sorts for you. With you stepping up to make a Facebook-message delivered statement in regards to what you'd appreciate me not repeating to anyone about your harsh reality truth?? Are you kidding me?! Because truly, if we're gonna talk about what was... or what your perception of your harsh reality of what's transpired over the past 11 years is, I'm up for that. But you'd probably better sit down... because you're not gonna like what I have to say...

You are not my sister. Sisters are people who love & care about each other. Period. Deal with it.

My mom is not your mom. Stop acting like you're somehow entitled to the same benefits of being her child as Troy & I have. Simply stated... it ain't gonna happen. There's nothing in it for you. Period. Deal with it. 

Hold on tight to your little girl & your endearing husband. They're all you got. I won't feel sorry for your loneliness or lack of connection at birthdays, holidays or any other time. So get used to it now.

Realize now that you're not the center of anyone's world anymore, except for that precious little girl that calls you mommy. 

I hope the story that you're telling your counselor ends up with the happy ending you're trying to write for yourself. The harsh reality is... Fear is a Liar. Your distorted version of the truth will soon become a soggy story that you're rewriting as you go.

It must be awfully lonely walking in your shoes, after all these years of falsely believing that the world revolves around you. It must be hard being the only one in your in-law's supported household (that you don't even pay rent for) who can hold a job. It must feel very rewarding going from the "golden-child" with 7 American Girl dolls, to being supported by welfare. It must feel awful knowing that you sold those American Girl dolls because your husband couldn't get a job, and you wanted to buy more shoes.

Dad's gone. He's never coming back. So is your relationship with me. Neither is it ever going to be anything that you dreamed it might be, simply because you're in it. I wish it could have been more of what you wanted, but the hard truth is that it's always been about you... and now, I'm making this about me. I'm done pretending. I'm done with you.

Since you're in the bridge burning business, maybe you can understand this...

It's never been about having any sort of relationship with me. It's always been about you, and you somehow mistakenly tried to always be the center of attention. Lest you forget how you would begrudgingly come to Weinmaster family reunions, even though you openly said, "That's Sheron's family not mine," and then showing up & trying to claim cousinship with my cousins that you never even knew, nor tried to get to know.

How, even during our last Christmas together at mom's house, how you had the audacity to ASK where the money cubes were!! And then how you sulked when all you found inside was a $20 bill, & desperately wanting to know what all the rest of us got in ours?

So here's the harsh reality that you're finally, after almost 11 years after dad being gone, you're finally having to face...

Dad made mom promise, as he was entering his final days here on earth with us, (oh, yeah! you managed to not-be-there then, too! How ironic...)  that she would include you in the family. And all these years, that's the only reason why you've been included in the times that you have been. I would say, measuring by how many Christmases that she went over & above with making sure you & Chris had exactly the same amount of gifts that Troy, & I, & Steve, & the kids did, that she fulfilled 10 years towards his request. Only then, to see you to question what we got... and to see the dissatisfaction on your face as you opened the gifts from her that you didn't like.

He never once asked me to make that promise to him... he knew better to leave well-nuff alone when it came to that. But mom did. Because she has desperately tried to regain some sort of "devotion" to a man who cheated on her, not only with your mom, but with other women as well. Our Dad was Unfaithful to my mom for nearly 30 years. And, by no fault of your own, you are a result of one of those unfaithful choices. However, it was like a slap in the face to us when dad chose to make you more coddled & showered with expensive gifts, and gave you money when you were broke, and he never once was willing to put you in your place when you were selfish, or disrespectful, or hurtful, or self-centered. It was almost like you were some sort of "reward" for his unfaithfulness, because you never knew all the hurt that he had caused all of us, & in turn, he never allowed you to be disciplined, or spanked hard, or hurt deeply like I was.

So my reality... even though it may seem harsh on the receiving end is....  I am much healthier without having contact with you in my life.  And your drama, & your stupid request that I not tell anyone what you told me is quite the bold step in trying to pretend that what happened... didn't between you and Chris. I pray to God that this move back into relationship & restoration with him doesn't bring harm to you or to your beautiful little girl. I'm prepared for the possibility of not-knowing her, but that doesn't have anything to do with her... & it has everything to do with you. 

It's your right to choose Chris over having any sort of relationship with me. It's really doing me a favor to be real honest.  I do not think that his anger will magically fade away after being away from you for nearly 6 months. In fact, you bother me less too, when I don't have to see you. So I get that. 

It's time that you grow up & choose to be comfortable with just associating your the people in your life who obviously love you... your mom, your husband, your little girl, and your in-laws. It would serve you well to stop trying to fit yourself into a family where you no longer fit. 

Your harsh reality that you now get to live with, is that it's not up to me to help you fix all that you've allowed to whither and die. On the contrary, in your attempt to desperately try to salvage what's left of your toxic marriage, you've made the wise decision to finally release us of the responsibility that we've always felt obligated to, to include you in our family.  

I hope you're happy with yourself for finally standing up to me in the cowardly way that you didn't. 

Welcome to your new harsh reality. You get to tell your own distorted version of the truth to onlookers who will listen. --Good luck with that.