Vent Session

I’ve already blogged about my batshit-insane sister here.  But my friends, that is just the TIP of the iceberg.

To put it mildly, my oldest sibling (and therefore, matriarch of the family since our mom died) drives me to destruction.  At her everyday state, she makes me want to take tequila shots, stab my eyeballs out with a dull No. 2 pencil, and slowly tug all bodily hairs from the root at a snail’s pace.  At her best, she’s tolerable, even lovable, provided she’s taken her daily dose of anti-psychotic meds.

Lately, ever since her “affair” really, she’s just been the biggest pain in my ass.  Hell, not only my ass, but also towards her daughter, her husband, our other sister, and other general people who are unfortunate enough to cross her path.  She’s more egotistical, self-centered, and crass than ever.  Her mention of the affair to me drove a wedge between what was at best an already shaky sisterly relationship.  I just couldn’t get behind her decision to be manipulative, deceiving, and selfish.  I made no mistake with my stance on it either — I firmly told her that I loved her, but that I did not support her decision.  I felt that the least she could do was be honest with her husband and daughter, thereby limiting the amount of nuclear fallout once the truth was evident.  But she disagreed with my advice.

The affair carried on for months.  Exactly how long, who knows.  I got sporadic emails for a while until they tapered off.  Then, suddenly, one arrived with the news that she’d broken off the affair — and she didn’t want to talk about it.  She hoped I understood.  She said “Suffice it to say, he’s picked the wrong person to screw with.”  (Ed. Note:  My guess?   He finally realized just how totally crazy she is and he cut the cord before he could get in any deeper.  But that’s just my opinion…)  The phone calls between us became less and less frequent until all of a sudden, we hadn’t spoken a word in 2 months.  It was quite unusual, but I was busy with life and to-do lists, and then…B proposed.

She was my second phone call — after the first one to our other sister who is, by all accounts, much more sane and gracious — to share the news.  Her response?

“Wait, what?  He did?  Wait a second, do you actually have an engagement ring or did he just ask you without one?”

After I assured her that yes, I did indeed have an engagement ring, and yes, I could send her a picture text of it, she said to me:

“Well shit.  I have no news that could top that.”

My thought?  Why would you want to?  But I digress.

Her less than enthusiastic response, coupled with her less than stellar sisterly skills (she hurried off the phone and said she needed to get back to what she was doing) prompted me to just stop talking to her.  Why make the rounds of phone calls to people who will only drag you down?

Out of nowhere, this past weekend, I got a rather long-winded email from her.  For the first six paragraphs or so (but who’s counting?) of her relating her troubles, going on and on for kilobytes and kilobytes about her work conflict (there’s always a conflict with her), and finally saying “I’m so glad you’re FINALLY getting married” (her emphasis on Finally, not mine), she proceeded to start making wedding requests.  Such as “would it be okay if whoever escorts you down the aisle speaks up for [our other sister] and I?  Like, when the officiant says ‘who gives this woman away?’ could he answer ‘her sisters and I do?’” 

Ughhhhhhhhhhh

Afterwards, she proceeded to ask me if B and I would mind taking a trip to Maryland to help her re-tile her basement floors.

After picking my jaw up from the ground, it took me two days to just think of a decent response.  My choice?  I basically informed her that I would be escorting myself down the aisle — no need to have someone stand in our father’s rightful place — and that no, since they were not contributing to the wedding, they could not take credit for it.  As in, usually the response to the above referenced question indicates who is hosting the wedding.  Also, I totally ignored her request for help with the re-flooring.

A couple of years back, during one of the many times she gave me shit for not being engaged yet, she made a startling offer.  When I expressed worry over how B and I would ever be able to AFFORD a wedding, she said “I can’t speak for our other sister, but I’d love to help contribute to the cost of your wedding dress.”  I stored that little nugget away for later.

Now?  Just when I’ve dropped the SECOND mention on the cost of my wedding dress, she has decided to inform me “I’ve been on my own my whole life.  Get used to it.  Just do the best with what you’ve got.”  Yes, I can appreciate her advice, but I’m not crazy.  I didn’t IMAGINE the above conversation all those years ago.

I’m sorry, but it only makes sense that those who do not CONTRIBUTE don’t get to make RIDICULOUS REQUESTS.  My friends and bridesmaids say “She’s just not happy with her own life” or “She has a tendency to make everything about HER” or “I think she’s jealous of you and your happiness.”

And I say to them “She’s 44.  It’s time to GROW UP.”

I swear…eyeballs.  No. 2 pencil.  I’m just sayin’.

On Mothers and Manhattan

Sunday was Mother’s Day.  Every year for me, it’s just another day.  Just another day to remember my mom, and try to remember what it felt like to have one.  Not surprisingly, I tend to be quiet and reflective, preferring to be alone.  When I woke up this year on Mother’s Day, it was no different.  B was headed out the door to play soccer with friends, kissing me as he left.  I laid in bed, playing with my pup, then started thinking about things.  It didn’t take long before my eyes filled with tears, and I had to get up and get moving.  It tends to be the only day I cry about her now.  Sometimes on Christmas too, but mostly just Mother’s Day.  It hurts not having her here to buy flowers for, to spend time with.  I found myself watching tv spacing out to the television for a few hours.  Eventually, I just got up and got to work cleaning and being domestic.  It’s really the only way to let it all go.

I leave for NYC on Thursday morning.  I’m taking off from Richmond at 6 and will be arriving at JFK at 7:15 a.m.  I’m super excited.  I’m going to miss B like crazy, but I love to travel and time away will do my soul some good. 

I promise to post pics when I’m back!  How about that?  Perhaps you’ll even get a few of me, with my face cut out of them.  No promises on that one.  It will be hard to explain that to a friend who doesn’t know about my blog.  But we’ll see what I can pull off.

Update

Thank you to everyone who responded to my last post.  Whether you sent along some advice, your opinions, or just said you were sorry to hear about the situation, it meant a lot to me.  It’s a tough predicament to be placed in, and I’m not enjoying it.  That is for sure.  But having people read and sympathize and offer up advice certainly helps.

Recently, the post was featured on the website The Issue under the Musings section.  Imagine my surprise at having it featured there.  It led to a couple of comments from people I’d never “seen” before.  It kind of made my day to see that this morning.

 It’s Friday, yesssssssss Thank God!  It’s raining and dreary outside, but my outlook is bright.  My weekend is going to be amazing, thanks to the fact that B decided he’s not up for a three hour drive to see his family tomorrow.  I urged him to go, of course, because it’s the right thing to do, even though I really don’t want to go.  When I asked him why he’d decided to stay home, he explained “It’s a three hour drive there.  Then a three hour drive back.  And we’d only be able to stay for a couple of hours.  That, and the fact that I don’t even want to see [his sister-in-law], myself.”

No sentence has ever sounded so wonderful!

As for the situation with my own sister, well…  Ugh.  That’s all I can muster.  One commenter, who, while I appreciate her advice and feelings on the subject, suggested that I don’t understand the situation and I shouldn’t shut her out.  I know she’s right.  But it’s tough.  Yesterday was her husband’s birthday.  I sent him a birthday card, but I didn’t call.  I can’t even bring myself to get in a situation where I know he’s being lied to and manipulated, and have to talk to him and basically lie through my teeth.  My sister is being a selfish, spoiled brat about it and I don’t like it.

In response to comments on the last post:

No, of course I don’t understand what it’s like to be my sister in this situation.  No, this is not about my own fears that any relationship could fail.  It goes farther than that — it’s a moral issue, in my eyes.  And it’s one that I won’t budge on.

While I whole-heartedly disagree with how my sister is handling things, I cannot be the one to tell my brother-in-law or my niece.  It’s her job to do it.  She got herself into this mess.  Now she needs to be the one to get herself out of it.  However, I won’t lie to them to their faces.  If they ask me about it, I will direct them to her.  I’m staying out of this one.

Yes, I have tried to talk to her about it.  It wasn’t hard for her to see that I disagree with her choices.  When she asked me if I was angry with her about it, I said “No, I’m not angry.  I’m disappointed.  I don’t approve of how you’re handling it, and I won’t condone it.”

I realize I’m not being the best sister I can be.  Obviously, the right thing to do would be to be there for her, listen to her, keep her grounded, etc.  However, it’s all she talks about.  Since the whole thing came to light, in January, we haven’t talked about anything else.  It’s draining me of all my self-control.  So for now, before I explode and tell EVERYONE about it and completely lose my sense of control with her, I need to take a mental break from her, from the situation.

No one has to agree with my decision but me.  Hey, how’s that for irony?  No one needs to agree with her decision but HER.  I realize this, obviously.  But it still doesn’t make it right. And you know what?  I don’t need to approve.  I get that.  But I also won’t hold her hand as she turns her back on her marriage vows and begins not just an emotional affair, but a physical one, while telling her it’s okay and I’m there for her.

I just can’t do it.  Weak, arrogant, self-righteous?  Maybe.  But I have morals and beliefs.  And I won’t compromise that for anyone.

Dysfunction at its finest

My sister is having an affair.

She’s been married to my brother-in-law for nearly 17 years.  But they’ve been together for 20.  She first told me about The Other Man in January.  I had suspected something for a while.  Just the way she talked about him was enough to raise eyebrows and suspicions.  Something seemed not right about it.  Like they were more than friends.

She confirmed my thoughts on the day she called me in hysterics, needing information.  She wanted me to check the list of confirmed dead in the War on Terror to see if he’d been killed.  See, he’s in the National Guard and has been stationed in Iraq for the last two years.  Judging by the tone in her voice, coupled with her anxiety and unfounded fear, I was able to determine that there was much more to their “friendship” than she was letting on.  I was able to let her know that no, he was not dead, at least not according to the list that day.  Once he had touched base with her (he’d only been moved to a different part of Iraq and was unable to communicate with anyone for a few days) she calmed down and went back to her normal self.  I let a few days pass before I asked her why she had freaked out so horribly, noting “no one freaks out that badly over someone unless it’s family or someone they love.”  She said nothing.  When I prompted her to spill it, her response was “I can’t answer that question.  It’s too hard.”  That was all I needed to hear.

My brother-in-law has been in my life for as long as I can remember.  He first came around when I was just 3 years old.  He’s more of a brother to me than my own brother is (another story for another day).  He’s been with our family through a lot, and he has never run off.  But now, their marriage is falling apart and my sister is running for the hills.  She’s written it off as a desperate attempt to reclaim her life, stating that she has been unhappy for a long time.  But it’s more than that.  She will be 44 years old next month (Editor’s Note: My parents had me later in life and she is their first born).  I see it as more like a mid-life crisis of sorts.  My sister’s only child, my niece, is a freshman in college and had been gone from home since last summer.  Now that they’ve found themselves alone and without a common goal (ie: their child) they’ve discovered they don’t know what to do with all of their time.

I don’t pretend to understand all the dynamics of their marriage.  It would be a shoddy understanding at best.  But what I do know is that I believe in the marriage vows they took all those years ago, and that I don’t believe in adultery.

I’m firm on that one.

I’ve struggled over the last two months with the knowledge that I possess about the affair.  I feel guilty about it.  I feel guilty because my niece, who I am closest to family-wise does not know about it.  I am scared that it will come out that I knew all along and she will resent me.  But it is not my place to spread the dirt.  I didn’t tell B for the longest time until one day, I blew my top over it and lost control.  I’m angry with my sister for what she’s doing!  I’m angry at how selfish and self-serving she has turned out to be.  Mostly I’m angry because I feel she’s playing both ends to get twice the benefits.

She has been carrying on an emotional affair with The Other Man for God knows how long.  I don’t want to know.  It’s mostly through the phone and emails that this has carried on.  But he comes home from Iraq for good next month, and will retire.  My sister claims that they are going to “go away together” to “discuss plans” and “see where it takes them.”  I urged her to be honest with her husband, to tell him that she intends to leave him.  When she finally did, she was only half-truthful, which only angered me even more.

During one of their many conversations on the state of things in their marriage, my sister finally blurted out “I’ve had enough.  I’m leaving.  I can’t take it anymore.”

“What?  When?  Where will you go?” he asked her.

“I don’t know.  I haven’t figured it out yet,” she explained.

“For how long?  A week?  A month?  A year?”

“I don’t know, but I’m leaving at the end of the summer.”

Upon telling me about this exchange, I erupted, “You have to tell him the TRUTH!  He thinks you’re going on a mental vacation!  You’re leaving him for good.  You owe him the truth.”

He asked her if there was another man.  She lied. 

He asked her if she was coming back.  She said she wasn’t sure, another lie.

And then, the clincher.  He noted that she would need health insurance, and that he would keep her on it while she is off “taking a break.”  She agreed to accept that!

 Pardon me for my own opinions and balls to discuss them, but are you serious?  You’re leaving your husband of 17 years for another man and you will allow him to pay for your health insurance when you know you’re never coming back?!

While discussing this with B last night, totally disgusted, I said “Why the end of summer?  Why doesn’t she just leave him now?”

“Because, she’s not sure where this is going, or even if it’s going anywhere.  She wants to make sure she’s got a way to come back if things don’t work out.”

Yesterday she sent me an email:

“I have a message for you. [The Other Man] wanted me to let you know that if you ever want to talk to him, about his intentions with me, or about anything in general, feel free to ask him.  He’s cute, it’s almost like he’s asking permission.”

I was so angry.  Why would I want to give him permission?  Not only am I not interested, but I think she enjoys all the attention.  I will not give her any more attention on the matter, especially not by emailing The Other Man and making nice.

If I had the balls, I would email him and say:

“I’ve heard a lot about you.  I’ve seen how my sister freaks out when she doesn’t get a call from you.  She freaked out more over that than she did about her husband’s birthday, which is tomorrow, by the way.  If you’re looking for my approval, you’re never going to get it.  What does it say about your character that you’re okay with having an emotional affair with a married woman?  To me it says that you’re no better than any other person guilty of adultery.”

My sister used to work with The Other Man.  They were friends before this all began.  They haven’t seen each other the whole time the emotional affair has been taking place.  But they will see each other next month.  She’s acting like an immature, hormone-crazed teenager.  She keeps moving and deleting MySpace accounts with false information on them.  She leaves little love-sick notes on his MySpace (that’s right, I found it).  She’s not even being careful about it.  People aren’t stupid.  They’ll find out about it.  Hell, I barely had to try at all, before I knew it, I knew all the salacious details.  I don’t think she’s prepared for the fall-out:  how angry her daughter will be at her, what people will say, how friends will turn their backs on her, etc.

Without even trying, she has changed my entire opinion of her.  We used to be close, but I find myself avoiding her phone calls and ignoring her emails.  I’ve already expressed to her that I disapprove — that I will not condone or support her affair.  When she came to visit me last month, all she talked about was him.  Having remembered something my BFF said to me (”Maybe she just likes all the attention.”) I ignored everything that came out of her mouth and refused to pay it any attention or respond to it.  When she finally left that Sunday, I was emotionally drained and totally exhausted from the whole experience.

I just feel bad for my brother-in-law and my niece.  And for myself, for ever having asked her for the truth.

Love is about compromise…right?

Every girl who has ever fallen in love has experienced, at least once, a situation where someone in your beloved’s family despises you.  Loathes you.  Detests you.  Most girls in this predicament have the unfortunate luck of having that someone be His Mother.  For some reason, boys and their moms have a weird relationship that prevents the mom from liking us, no matter how nice, perky, or successful we are.  It’s a crap situation, and I’ve totally Been There, Done That, Bought the T-Shirt. 

But I’m not most girls. 

I’ve been relatively lucky with B’s family.  His mom and I got along great while she was alive.  His father and I have a decent, although sporadic, friendly relationship with each other (I don’t go around much…).  His siblings and I are on great terms.  His nieces and nephews adore me.  But then there’s his sister-in-law.

For the past 9 years, it’s been nothing but catty remarks, attitude, and major hostility between the two of us.  I’ve tried every route to peace imaginable:  I’ve ignored her.  I’ve sucked up to her.  I’ve confronted her.  I’ve been mean back.  No matter what I do, she hates me.  As I explained to B last night, I feel as though whether I say “Hello!” or “Fuck you!” to her, I’m going to get the same reaction - rolling of the eyes, a shitty remark, and possibly even an insult.  It’s been going on for so long, that at this point I don’t even notice anymore.  I don’t care what she thinks or says about me at this point because honestly, where would that get me?  She’s made me cry so many times that I refuse to allow it to happen ever again.  I made the unfortunate mistake of giving her that power.  Power that she loves and knows how to use to her advantage.

Don’t bother asking why she hates me.  I haven’t got a clue.  The first time I ever saw her, I was with my step-sister at a local place in town and The Witch was standing with B’s ex-girlfriend.  As I passed, she mumbled “ugly slut” under her breath.  Keep in mind, I was 16.  She was in her late 20s.  Immaturity knows no boundaries.  She had forged some type of friendship with B’s ex, even though the girl had broken up with B on his birthday.  In front of all of his friends.  The funny thing is, her and I ended up being friends the next year…  I guess she just made a bad decision on how to end things.  But she was a nice girl.  But you would think that The Witch’s loyalties would lie with B.  After all, her brother-in-law, cute and 16 years old, had been dumped by this girl and here she was joining forces with her and calling me an ugly slut? (Tangent: I was a virgin.  Slut?  Pleassssssssse.  But I digress.)

So anyway, now that you’ve got a quick history on my relationship with The Witch, let’s get to the present problem.  On Sunday night, I got a phone call from a girlfriend who wanted to inform me that she is hosting a get-together at her place on March 8, and she wanted to invite B and I to come to it.  After telling B the details, he looked at me, tense, with something on his mind.

“Well, the thing is, I was going to ask you to go with me that day for my nephew’s birthday party.”

Instantly, I had a headache.  Don’t get me wrong — I love his nephew.  He is adorable and sweet and he gives me lots of hugs every time I see him.  Naturally, I’d want to be present for his birthday and shower him with affection (and money).  But the thought of having to subject myself to hours upon hours of The Witch’s presence, coupled with thoughts of what has happened in the past, made me feel anxious and near vomiting.  I decided to take the “adult approach” and talk it over with him.

“The thing is, honey, I’m really glad you want me to go.  It means a lot to me.  But, you know how I feel about your sister-in-law, and no good can come from her and I being stuck in the same place for an extended period of time.”  I continued on, reminding him of previous disagreements between her and I, while he nodded slowly and agreed with me that yes, she is in fact a crazy, hostile bitch who no one wants to be around.  Eventually we just passed out, and didn’t mention it again.

Until last night.  As we were coming home from a wonderful mexican dinner, it was quiet, so I spoke up.

“So I guess I’ll go to the party on the 8th, and you’ll go to your nephew’s thing without me?” 

“Wait, what?  You never said you weren’t going, you just said you would feel really uncomfortable,” he ventured.

Ugh.  It’s a Pandora’s Box, my friends.  I should have never opened up my big fat mouth.  But I thought that our little trip down Memory Lane two nights before had made it clear that his sister-in-law not only leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but she downright makes me want to throw up said bad taste.  Apparently he was under the impression that I would just suck it up and we would make the best of it.  Years of being subject to her particular penchant for verbal poison have taught me that I will never win.  If I ignore her, she wins.  If I walk away from her, she wins.  If I fight back, she wins because she was able to succeed at getting me worked up. 

B explained that his feelings were hurt.  He really wanted me to go with him, and I should just be able to get over things if it’s really important to him. 

Defensive, I blurted out, “If you think this is the way to get me to want to go — by making me feel guilty — you’re dead wrong.  In fact, it’s making me want to not go even more.”

I could see the hurt written all over his face, and I knew that my Word Vomit could not be taken back.  We sat in silence the rest of the way home. 

When we pulled into our driveway, after we’d both had about 10 minutes to cool off and think to ourselves, I said to him, “It’s not that I don’t want to go with YOU.  It’s not that I don’t like your family.  It’s just HER.  It’s never a good situation.”

Then he said something that surprised me.

“Obviously I want you to go.  I want you to be with me in front of my family because you’re important to me and I want them to know that.  I don’t know when, and I don’t know where, but one day I just woke up and realized that I wanted to be with you for the rest of my life.  I want you to be my wife.  You are a part of me, and I love you.  I will never let her, or anyone for that matter, hurt you again.  Not if I can help it.”

Stunned, I responded with, “If you can promise me that if anything happens, you’ll address it directly with her and we’ll leave immediately, then I will go with you.”

He looked positively shocked.  He grabbed my hand and said, “I promise.  I love you.”

So next Saturday will find B and I making the two hour drive to see his nephew (and The Witch) for a birthday celebration.  I haven’t seen her in about a year.  There will be catty remarks.  She’ll make a comment about how I never come around, how I don’t care about the family, etc.  I will stay quiet and smile.  I may pull her aside and give her my two cents, but not in front of the children.  And when she does what I know she will do, I will wait for B to handle it. 

I really don’t want to go.  But love is about compromise…right?  Plus, how could I say no after what B said to me?

Breathe in, breathe out

I think I should clarify for some of my readers a vital detail related to yesterday’s post about the bad dream. 

 My father passed away 3 years ago.  So to dream about that scenario wasn’t upsetting in the sense that he’s already gone, so what more can happen?  The combination of what the dream decoder said, along with the fact that I tend to dream about him from time to time, was enough to stir me up.  Most of the time, I dream that my father is alive again — that we’re doing typical things together like having dinner or visiting with family.  That night was the first time I’ve had a bad dream about my father. 

Once, when I was about 10 years old, two years after my mom passed away, I had a dream about her.  We were standing on opposite ends of a long tunnel.  She was surrounded by bright white light, and no matter how long or fast I walked towards her, she never got any closer.  Her mouth was moving, silent words I’ll never hear.  I used to think it was her trying to communicate with me, through my dreams.  The older I got, the less and less I would dream about her.

Now I just dream about my father.

Once, about a year ago, I woke up after a particularly pleasant dream about him.  And for a split second, I had forgotten that he was gone.  But then, the realization came rushing forward, and grief overwhelmed me. 

I don’t particularly think that my nightmare was trying to tell of future events.  But maybe it was just a stark reminder that I am without parents in this world, and that I am missing out on so much because of that.  In my day to day life, I don’t feel any different from anyone else I know.  It’s when holidays like Mother’s Day or Father’s Day roll around that I get to remembering and feeling down. 

I’ve always wanted my parents to try to communicate with me, in some way.  I might totally sound crazy right now (and hey, I don’t blame you for judging) but I just really would like to go visit a psychic.  Part of me wonders why my father hasn’t tried to reach out to me, but the other part of me would be terrified to even THINK about such a notion.  Yes, it’s just my father, but it’s a ghost all the same.  But I wish he would send me some kind of message, sometime.

B had an unusual experience a couple of weeks ago.  He got off from work early, and he was tired, so he took a nap on the couch.  He was sleeping soundly with our cat on his lap, when she jumped up and hissed, running off down the hall.  He explained that when he opened his eyes, there was the overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke around him.  Neither of us smokes and we don’t allow anyone to smoke in our house, so it freaked him out.  His mom was a chronic smoker and she died from lung cancer.  He truly believes it was her spirit that freaked the cat out, which also explains the smell of cigarette smoke.  In a strange way, the whole experience comforted him.  He said he felt as though she was watching over him.

I don’t know, maybe I sound crazy, but I believe that things like that are possible.

Foreboding

The night before last, I had a deeply troubling dream.  One that caused me to actually cry while I was sleeping.  It was terrifying, upsetting, and way too vivid.  On the suggestion of a fellow blogger I visited Dream Moods to see what it could tell me about the possible meaning.  Below is what I experienced in my dream.  The meaning of the dream tells of a deeply troubling prospect.

Driving alone in my car, I’m agitated, highly upset, and shaky.  My hands tremble as I pick up the directions, unsure of where it is I’m going.  When I arrive, I know what I am there for, but my legs are so heavy that I can barely walk up the steps to the aging building.  The sign out front simply states MORGUE. 

When I walk inside, it is quiet and I can smell the formaldehyde, and my stomach churns.  Suddenly I feel very lightheaded and close to throwing up.  But I carry on, continuing up the countless steps to the landing at the top of the second floor. 

There are three doors in front of me.  The center door is closed.  I approach the first door, all the way to the left, and what I see is frightening.  Body after body after body, lined up on cold metal tables, covered with white sheets.  But I can see the toe tags.  I quickly walk away from the room, calling out “Hello?  Is anyone here?”  I cross my fingers that no one will answer and I just can just leave and pretend that this has never happened.  Unfortunately, a woman comes out of the third door, all the way to the right, and she has a grave look on her face.

“You must be [CP].  Are you ready to identify the body?” she asks.

I fidget and play with my fingers, wringing my hands together.  “As ready as I’m ever going to be.”

She leads me into the third room, crossing the floor to a lone refridgerator-the kind you’d find in any standard kitchen.  She turns to me, sighs, and says “It might not be your father, after all.  But please, brace yourself as this is not going to be pleasant.  The…body…evidently experienced some massive sort of trauma.”

I hold my breath, closing my eyes for a split second, willing it to not be my father. 

When she opens the door, she reaches in and pulls out only a head.  At first glance, I can tell that it is indeed, unfortunately, my father.  I cry out.  A scream like nothing I’ve experienced before in my life escapes me.  I turn around and begin to yell.

“What is the meaning of this?  It is my father, but it doesn’t look like him!  What has happened?” I demand.

She just stares at me with a pathetic expression, holding his soft, silvery hair in her fingers.  His mouth is gaped open, a look of abject horror frozen on his face.  His eyes are closed, as if he is sleeping, dreaming, somewhere else far far away from this place.

The woman has no answers for me, only questions.  Questions that I am too sad to answer.

“I…  I have to leave,” I muster.

I run out the room, down the hallway, flying down the steps two or three at a time.  I start to cry uncontrollably, unable to keep it in any longer.  I have to get out of this place, this hell, right away.  Upon approaching the front door, two men and a woman sit at a round table, and they are laughing.  When they see me, they become quiet and start to cry.

I run to my car, turn it on, and throw it into gear.  Then I fly out of the driveway in reverse as fast as I can without looking back at the place that has ruined my life, forever. 

That’s when I woke up.  Chest heaving, sobs actually escaping from me, tears rolling down my cheek like miniature freight trains.  I realize it has only been a dream nightmare.  I wipe away the tears, too tired to get out of bed to grab tissues.  I feel exhausted, as though I had really been running away from something. 

I moved B’s arm and crawled into the space between his arm and his heart.  I layed there, praying for it to stop.  I prayed that I could fall asleep and not have anymore dreams that night.  And I didn’t.

When I searched for morgue on the website, this is what I had to see:

Morgue

To dream that you are in a morgue and looking for someone,

foretells shocking and dreadful news of the death of a relative or close friend.

To dream that there are many corpses in the morgue,

denotes much grief and trouble for you.

Pins and Needles

Edited to Add:  We just heard back!  It’s not cancer!  It’s not even precancerous!  Yes yes yes, thank you God. 

We’re still waiting for the results of my sister’s biopsy to come back.  First, the doctors told her it would be a week.  Then they said they would have it by Monday.  Do they have any idea how nervewracking it is to sit and wait and try to focus on anything else?

 It’s nearly impossible.

I had my own visit to the doctor this morning.  To my once-a-year annual exam.  The dreaded gynecologist.

I explained everything to her about my dad, my mom, and now the latest news with my sister.  I had hoped to have the results back from my sister so that I could tell the doctor whether or not it’s cancer.  She indicated that God forbid, if my sister does have breast cancer, the next step for me is genetic counseling and testing.  Reason being, that would be two immediate family members with breast cancer.  Truly a scary thing to think about.  At that point, it would be time for us to determine whether or not I carry the “breast cancer gene.”  From that point on, it’s all a maze of medical terms and confusing decisions.

Decisions I hope to not have to make, obviously.

So here I sit, on pins and needles, waiting to find out.  Praying that it’s not cancer.  Hoping it’s something else that can be explained away with medical jargon.

I don’t want to sound sad or down, because I’m not.  Worried, yes, but hopeful.

Zapped

Yesterday:

6:45 a.m.:  Turn off alarm, drag sick, sore self out of bed and to shower.

7:01 a.m.:  Exit shower.  Stare at self in mirror.  Note the bags under my eyes.  Note the general “sick” appearance.

7:02 a.m.:  Begin applying makeup.

7:05 a.m.:  Note that no amount of makeup could possibly make me look healthy on this morning.

7:06 a.m.:  Get dizzy.  Sit down on the edge of tub.

7:10 a.m.:  Debate calling in sick.  Call B for advice.

7:11 a.m.:  No answer.  Hang up.

7:12 a.m.:  Attempt to dry hair.

7:15 a.m.:  Get dizzy again.  Repeat sitting on edge of tub.

7:20 a.m.:  Sit down to call boss.  Get nervous.  Will she be mad?

7:21 a.m.:  Boss sounds exasperated.  Boss mentions that she knows I’ve been sick since the weekend, but that she is hitting panic mode over a meeting coming up.

7:22 a.m.:  Think to myself, “That meeting is 12 days away.“  Ugh.

7:23 a.m.:  Hang up.  Grab pillows and blankets and puppy and head for the couch.  Turn on t.v.  Fall asleep.

Yesterday was filled with nothing but medicine, sleep, lots of fluids, and wonderful, glorious TV.  I forgot how great it is to be at home sick, even when you are, ya know…SICK. 

Today I am filled with dread.  Today is the day we will find out if our family needs to be genuinely scared and worried for the fate of my sister.  Today is the day that will show us whether or not she has breast cancer.  My sister is only 35 years old.  Seems too young for cancer, most would agree, but for us, this is not totally out of the blue.  Our mother died from breast cancer at the age of 54.  One of our aunts died from it.  It is something we have to be worried about.  The last week has been filled with a new type of anxiety that I’ve never experienced before.  I say that it is new because it’s the kind of anxiety where you are scared but know that there is absolutely nothing you can do besides hope and pray.

How do you pray when you are so angry with God?

All I can pray is “God please leave my sister alone.  Haven’t we all been through enough?”

Everyone called him “Buddy”

I knew that my father was an alcoholic as early as when I was 6 years old.  I knew he had a problem when I noticed that his trips to the store resulting in something in a brown paper bag were becoming more frequent.  Every other Friday, he would pick me up from my mom’s apartment in Maryland and drive me back to his house in Virginia.  And always, on the way, he would stop at the ABC store.  I never went inside with him, instead waiting in the warmth of the car for him to come back with something in a tall brown paper bag.  He never drank it while driving, but I knew that it was something he was ashamed of from the way he tried to hide it from me.  I asked him what daddies buy in ABC stores, and he just shrugged and said “nothing you should be worried about.”

The older I got, the more aware I became of alcohol.  I knew what it smelled like, and how it caused a person to behave.  I could tell when it was time to leave him alone and stay out of the way.  He would sit in his chair, an angry look on his face, and scowl at the television.  His manner was short tempered, and he had nothing positive to say.  When I could tell that he was having “one of his days” I would stay out of the way, choosing to play quietly in the basement with my sister, or watch movies in my bedroom with the door shut. 

My father never laid a hand on me.  He never spanked me or slapped me.  But we did get into some pretty good screaming matches.

When he would set off in a tirade, the best thing to do was keep your mouth shut and walk away.  Only, when you’re a teenager, it’s nearly impossible to keep your mouth shut.  There are so many things waiting to burst forth from your lips that sometimes it’s hard to control yourself.  On the off chance that I slipped and said something, his face would contort into a rage and it was time to get out of the room immediately.  Most of the time, when I tried to walk away, he would follow me, screaming obscenities in my direction.  The only thing that could stop it was to put something in between myself and him.  Most of the time, my bedroom door was sufficient.

There was one particular fight that changed everything between us.  I can’t recall what set him off, but I remember standing in the family room, yelling back and forth about whatever it was.  Suddenly, he crossed the room and we were nose to nose.  He screamed something about my mother.  I don’t know if I just don’t remember it, or if I blocked it from my memory on purpose.  I just know that I stood up as high as I could, on my tip-toes and said through gritted teeth, “If you EVER say anything about my mother again, I swear to God, I will make you regret it.”  My stepmother and stepsister were watching from the other side of the room, looks of fright on their faces, as though they were scared that my father was going to kill me.  I backed up and walked out of the room.

We never went nose to nose like that again. I was 16 years old when that happened.

My father had “one of his days” about once a month or so.  Us three women in the house could communicate with only our eyes, enough to say “better leave him alone today.”  When he wasn’t having one of those days, he was a sociable, likeable person.  His nickname was “Buddy.”  He had a great sense of humor, was very loving, and worked harder than anyone I knew.  When we were little, we had a saying: “Daddy can fix anything.”  Whether it was a pogo stick with a broken spring, a bicycle, or a paper umbrella from the chinese restaurant, my father could fix it.  Growing up, I idolized him.  Having lost my mother at the age of 8, my father was my whole world.  He made me laugh.  He listened to me cry.  He showed me how to check things on my car, explaining “Because you’re a woman, you need to know these things.  Mechanics will rip you off in an instant, if you’re not careful.” 

To this day, I still tell mechanics “Look, my father was a mechanic.  I know more than you think I know.”  I’ve caught them correcting their check-slips before they handed them to me.  I still smile when this happens.

The older I got, I became more of a friend to my dad.  He called me every day when I was in college, if only for a few minutes to say hello, see how I was doing, and if I needed anything.  He would tell me about his day, about his frustrations, and problems in his marriage to my stepmom.  I just listened.  I figured, that’s what he really needed. 

I never liked to ask him for money.  He would question whether or not I had enough, and I would always say yes.  I guess he could tell when I was lying, because I would check my mail, and I would have a card from him with money inside. 

Just a few weeks ago, as B was changing my oil and I was cleaning out my car, I stumbled upon a note he had written me a few years ago.  It was a slip of paper that had come with a money order he’d sent me.  It read, “Just for you.  Do something nice for yourself.  I love you and miss you so much.  Daddy.”  I started to cry.  Sometimes just seeing something as simple as his handwriting is enough to make me miss him all over again.

That’s the thing about having a parent die.  It gets easier, but it never goes away.  Some days it’s there just enough to remind you of it.  It’s one of the first things I think about when I wake up in the morning, and one of the last things I think about before I go to bed at night.  Some days it’s a fleeting thought.  Others it’s practically an obsession. 

Having an alcoholic for a parent affects you in ways you can’t even begin to understand.  When I was a senior in college, and my world was falling apart, I started to see a therapist at school.  I went to her because my life was becoming this problem that I couldn’t manage and I needed to find a clear way out of the mess.  My father was still alive at the time, but his alcoholism was at its peak, and his marriage to my stepmother was crumbling fast.  My family was broken for the second time in my life.  Upon my first visit, the therapist sat down and said “Why are you here?  What do you hope to gain from your visits?”

“Wow.  Umm.  Well, my father is an alcoholic.  My life is a mess.”  And I burst into tears.

She sat there, quietly listening, observing my behavior.  The only weird thing was that I didn’t feel uncomfortable.  I let it all out.  I told her about my mom, about how I had to move out of state after she died, and how I had to do it quickly.  I told her about being bullied in elementary school by children who didn’t understand my situation.  I told her about the alcoholism, the fights, the screaming matches.  I told her about so much stuff that I talked the entire session.  She had handed me a box of tissues and I had used nearly 1/3 of them.  She indicated that it was time for me to go, but that I could make another appointment on the way out.  After doing so, I walked the few blocks back to my apartment with red, splotchy skin.  I felt relieved. 

I continued going to her for another 9 sessions.  She helped me to see that I was my father’s enabler.  She showed me that attempting to make everyone else around me happy was wearing me down.  She told me that I would sink into depression if I didn’t take control of my life.  On our last session, she pulled out a checklist and started asking me questions about the need to be perfect, to be in control, etc.  I answered yes to every question.

She flipped the book around to show me the cover.

It was a book on children of alcoholics.

Shortly after our sessions ended, my father passed away.  I’ve already written about this here and here. 

For so many years, I was ashamed to admit it.  I’m not ashamed anymore.  My therapist helped me overcome that fear.

Confession:  My father was an alcoholic. 

This has affected me in the following ways:  I am a perfectionist.  I have a mild case of obsessive-compulsive disorder.  (I’m a checker, in case you’re wondering.  I check things over and over again to the point of ridiculousness.)  I have an anger problem.  I am quick to anger at things that don’t make any sense, but I’m getting better.  Years and years of hiding my emotions has caused me to do a 180 and wear my heart on my sleeve.  I think that’s much healthier than keeping everything bottled up.  I have no problems consuming alcohol, but I’m wary of how much I consume and how much others around me consume.  I don’t like to feel as though I am out of control of my situation. 

B tells me that I’m getting better with dealing with my past.  He says that he is proud of me.  He understands because his father was an alcoholic too.  Sometimes we compare stories so we know that we’re not the only ones who have dealth with these situations.  Sometimes he cries.  Sometimes I cry.  Sometimes we laugh.  We are still dealing with issues from our childhoods.  But at least we’re dealing with them together.

I thought about my dad on Christmas.  I watched the lights on the tree twinkling and I thought about him in his chair, watching us unwrap presents.  I thought about him opening up his gifts, and how he described every gift as “this is perfect!”  I missed him a lot.

My father might have been an alcoholic.  But he was my father.

And I miss him every day.