a little more fun post after the serious stuff.
I've always been a mess.
And smiling normally has always been difficult.
Actually, I may have been part cat.
Parents took some awesome blurry photos, but look at all that hair. I miss it.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Sunday, November 24, 2013
Open letter.
The 25th of November marks the fourth anniversary of my father's passing. It's easy to write about the pleasant aspect of his life, and the nice memories. However...his life wasn't always pleasant, and all the memories I have of him aren't nice. He wasn't a good father, he wasn't really a kind man.
Dad,
At first, I started writing about the great memories I have of you, but lets be honest...there aren't that many. The memories I have of you contain a great deal of fear. The fear you created in my life carried over to every aspect of my life, I still find myself fearful sometimes. You were abusive. You were angry at anyone that stepped into your path, and you never hesitated to express that rage. Even all these years later thinking about some of the things you did shakes me to my very core and I just want to find somewhere safe to hide.
For years and years, I hated you. I wanted you gone; I wanted you to stop hurting me and my family. You never faced any consequences for anything that you did, or anything you put your family through. It never seemed like you suffered, you just inflicted pain on everyone else. I tried for so many years to figure out why you were so angry, what I had done that was so incredibly wrong...but I never could figured it out.
I realized not too long ago that whatever I may have done didn't deserve the abuse you dealt out. It was one of those startling realizations....it didn't matter why you were angry, you didn't deserve to hurt me, your daughter, your other daughters, and your wife. It didn't matter if you had a terrible childhood, it didn't entitle you hurt others as badly as you did. You tried justifying the abuse to me for so long, but none of it is justifiable. You never had any reason whatsoever to hurt me.
I was angry for so long, and clung to that rage and pain. I had a white knuckle grip on every wrong, and wrapped myself up in my anger. It didn't do me any good, just like it never did you any good. I had to let that anger go. I saw what it did to you, and I have no desire to live my life hurting people.
Is it easier to never change? Absolutely. Deciding I want to be a better person and then make those changes is exhausting. But I also don't want to wake up in my forties and not be on speaking terms with any of my kids. You have five kids, and not one of them spoke to you months before your death.
I'm not angry at you anymore Dad. I'm still hurting and I'm still healing from all the trauma, but I refuse to let myself rage against you anymore. It's not worth it to me. I'm sad you're gone, but I think you would have continued to hurt people....I don't think you ever saw a reason to change. I do wish that your life had gone differently, so we could have had a better relationship. I think I'll always miss you, and I'll always wish things had gone differently. But, that doesn't change what kind of man you were when you were here. I'm going to remember you for the father you were, not the father I desperately wish you could have been.
I do have some pleasant memories of you, and always remember those times you put your anger away to enjoy your family.
Dad,
At first, I started writing about the great memories I have of you, but lets be honest...there aren't that many. The memories I have of you contain a great deal of fear. The fear you created in my life carried over to every aspect of my life, I still find myself fearful sometimes. You were abusive. You were angry at anyone that stepped into your path, and you never hesitated to express that rage. Even all these years later thinking about some of the things you did shakes me to my very core and I just want to find somewhere safe to hide.
For years and years, I hated you. I wanted you gone; I wanted you to stop hurting me and my family. You never faced any consequences for anything that you did, or anything you put your family through. It never seemed like you suffered, you just inflicted pain on everyone else. I tried for so many years to figure out why you were so angry, what I had done that was so incredibly wrong...but I never could figured it out.
I realized not too long ago that whatever I may have done didn't deserve the abuse you dealt out. It was one of those startling realizations....it didn't matter why you were angry, you didn't deserve to hurt me, your daughter, your other daughters, and your wife. It didn't matter if you had a terrible childhood, it didn't entitle you hurt others as badly as you did. You tried justifying the abuse to me for so long, but none of it is justifiable. You never had any reason whatsoever to hurt me.
I was angry for so long, and clung to that rage and pain. I had a white knuckle grip on every wrong, and wrapped myself up in my anger. It didn't do me any good, just like it never did you any good. I had to let that anger go. I saw what it did to you, and I have no desire to live my life hurting people.
Is it easier to never change? Absolutely. Deciding I want to be a better person and then make those changes is exhausting. But I also don't want to wake up in my forties and not be on speaking terms with any of my kids. You have five kids, and not one of them spoke to you months before your death.
I'm not angry at you anymore Dad. I'm still hurting and I'm still healing from all the trauma, but I refuse to let myself rage against you anymore. It's not worth it to me. I'm sad you're gone, but I think you would have continued to hurt people....I don't think you ever saw a reason to change. I do wish that your life had gone differently, so we could have had a better relationship. I think I'll always miss you, and I'll always wish things had gone differently. But, that doesn't change what kind of man you were when you were here. I'm going to remember you for the father you were, not the father I desperately wish you could have been.
Sunday, November 10, 2013
twenty-five
I recently turned 25 and it was tougher than I thought it would be. Not that I have an issue with my age, I'll own my age. It was the thought of turning 25 and that I was actually alive.
I never expected to live past 18. It was a combination of an absolute terrible home life and the suicidal tendencies that followed that sort of home life. To say my father was a violent man would be an understatement. He was unhappy with everything in his life, and I was unlucky enough to be vulnerable enough to be one of his targets.
The week leading up to my birthday I felt shocked every time I thought about my birthday. 25. Twenty-five. It felt strange saying it. I was going to be 25. I had lived to 25. I was in complete control of my life. I have my own apartment, my own car, I'm following my dreams to become an educator. I am in charge of every aspect of my life finally. This seems like a normal thing for some people, but when I think about all the freedom and control I have I feel giddy.
My shock has worn off about my age. It's being slowly replaced by joy and excitement. Everyday might not be the best day ever, but I get to experience that day. I might not always meet the best people ever, but I get to go out and meet and interact with people everyday. And surprise surprise, not everyone is out to hurt me. Actually, no one really wants to hurt me. I'm still learning to not look at everyone with suspicion and distrust. I've made huge strides in opening up and making friends, but I still have some difficulties.
Every day might not be wonderful, but I get to live it, without fear of being hurt physically, verbally, or mentally. Living without fear is something heady and wonderful.
Twenty-five is going to be wonderful, along with every year after it.
I never expected to live past 18. It was a combination of an absolute terrible home life and the suicidal tendencies that followed that sort of home life. To say my father was a violent man would be an understatement. He was unhappy with everything in his life, and I was unlucky enough to be vulnerable enough to be one of his targets.
The week leading up to my birthday I felt shocked every time I thought about my birthday. 25. Twenty-five. It felt strange saying it. I was going to be 25. I had lived to 25. I was in complete control of my life. I have my own apartment, my own car, I'm following my dreams to become an educator. I am in charge of every aspect of my life finally. This seems like a normal thing for some people, but when I think about all the freedom and control I have I feel giddy.
My shock has worn off about my age. It's being slowly replaced by joy and excitement. Everyday might not be the best day ever, but I get to experience that day. I might not always meet the best people ever, but I get to go out and meet and interact with people everyday. And surprise surprise, not everyone is out to hurt me. Actually, no one really wants to hurt me. I'm still learning to not look at everyone with suspicion and distrust. I've made huge strides in opening up and making friends, but I still have some difficulties.
Every day might not be wonderful, but I get to live it, without fear of being hurt physically, verbally, or mentally. Living without fear is something heady and wonderful.
Twenty-five is going to be wonderful, along with every year after it.
writing revamp
It seems like I have the weekly idea of "heeeyyy, should work on my blog.." And every week, it doesn't happen. This little cycle has gone on for weeks and weeks. I've had this blog for a few years, and it's been sadly neglected.
I came to the realization that I've been writing for all the wrong reasons. I was writing for others, putting a happy little sunshiney spin on the things that swirl around in my head. I need to learn to write for myself, and only myself, to learn how to unpack some of the really terrible things I've been packing around for years.
So, for from now on, I'm writing for me. Hi, me. It's time I start unpacking all the boxes I pack around and get rid of some demons. I'm sick of them.
I came to the realization that I've been writing for all the wrong reasons. I was writing for others, putting a happy little sunshiney spin on the things that swirl around in my head. I need to learn to write for myself, and only myself, to learn how to unpack some of the really terrible things I've been packing around for years.
So, for from now on, I'm writing for me. Hi, me. It's time I start unpacking all the boxes I pack around and get rid of some demons. I'm sick of them.
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