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.