Emotional

resentment

: a feeling of indignant displeasure or persistent ill will at something regarded as a wrong, insult, or injury

Sometimes it’s just so hard to let go.  I know that forgiveness is my best option, but I sometimes wonder if I’m capable of true forgiveness.  In general, it’s much easier for me to forgive than it is to forget.  This results in me later on remembering what has happened, and then continuing to build up resentment until it eventually explodes.  I struggle with this.  Always have.  I am ashamed to admit this, but I tend to hold grudges, and hold them strong.  I’m just not the type of person who lets go and moves on easily.  There, I said it.

Sometimes I remember the events of last March and I grow angry and bitter.  I remember back to how heartbroken I was, how totally hopeless I felt, and I feel like I could just erupt with anger.  I know it’s all over and done with — after all, it was more than a year ago, but sometimes I just feel angry towards B for the way he made me feel.  What was the most recent trigger?  I was playing around on MySpace (oh MySpace, I should just stay away from your evil ass) and I saw a video on a friend’s page from last year, just 4 days after B broke up with me.  In it, he was laughing and smiling and having a great time — being his usual happy self.  There was no sign of worry or guilt in his demeanor.  That very same night, I was at a friend’s house, trying desperately to forget, to move on, to just be happy without trying too hard.  But at the time, it was impossible.  All I wanted to do was fall apart, and have him put the pieces back together carefully, making sure to apologize and try to win me back.  It eventually happened, but the memories of those 6 weeks are still raw.  It’s stupid, I know.  But it’s how I feel.

Last night I blew up.  I had been having a bad day at work, frustrated with a situation that I have no control over, and I was desperately trying to calm down and let loose.  B was in a bad mood too, and about 10 minutes after I walked in the door, we were full out yelling at each other over stupid things.  In these kinds of situations, there is only one thing to do:  walk away and take a breather.  We retreated to different areas of the house, taking some time away from the argument.  At about 10:00, I approached him in the living room and informed him I was going to bed.  Upon sensing that he was still mad, I became even more angry and started crying.  Frustrated over feeling as though I’m the only one who has to worry about cleaning, cooking, laundry, etc (even though that’s so not true), I just blew up at him.  Crying, raising my voice…it wasn’t pretty.  What it all boiled down to was a bad day coupled with a reminder of my anguish of last year.  All of this added up to equal a mess of an evening.

I felt like we resembled Carrie and Aidan from that scene in Sex & The City where they have a fight and neither one of them is willing to admit they were wrong.  Instead of one of them being mature and just taking the steps to correct the problem, they both stayed angry and stood their ground.  It’s not effective, and neither were B and I last night.

This morning brought a little bit of relief.  Sometimes you just have to sleep on it.  When he left for work, he kissed me goodbye, hugged me, and said he was sorry.  So I apologized too.

But I can’t help but think — when will I ever let go of the resentment?

Why?

I woke up this morning completely discombobulated.  As I rolled over to glance at the clock, I tried to shake the pictures from my brain.  I had another one of those dreams last night, and it’s becoming downright annoying at this point. 

Every once in a while I have a dream about this guy from my past.  It involves him and I alone, him and I with friends, him and I in all sorts of random situations.  Last night’s dream featured us out to dinner with friends, then flying in a fighter jet (seriously?  wtf?).  He was the pilot and I was the passenger, and he kept putting his hand on my knee.  We were spinning and looping the plane, and as I giggled, I felt very happy and elated to be with him.  Then, as I woke up this morning and saw B standing in front of the bed getting ready for work, I felt the all-too-familiar pangs of guilt. 

“You were smiling while you slept.”

I buried my face in the pillow and tried to push away the vivid details of the dream.  I couldn’t help but feel angry at myself for having yet another dream about this guy.  It just doesn’t make any sense.  I have this great boyfriend who loves me and wants to marry me, yet I’m dreaming about another guy.  What makes it worse is that there is no good reason for it — I haven’t seen him or heard from him in years now.  Things between us were never really all that romantic.  It was more platonic than anything.  Well, that’s not entirely true.

We were friends — I would have classified us as “great friends” at the time.  We had dated, yes, but it never really worked out.  But there was always this sort of connection between us.  We just got along so well, had some things in common, and I think we were just really physically attracted to each other.  He confused me in the most aggravating ways.  I think what it really boiled down to was that while we were different, we were really very similar on certain levels.  We are both intelligent, educated people who found interest in common things.  Neither one of us had a picture-perfect family life.  His parents were split up, his mom remarried.  From what I could understand at the time, his relationship with his dad was strained.  I was just this girl he met when we were 12, and I was emotionally scarred.  I’d lost my mom and I’d moved to another state to live with my own version of a blended family.  Perhaps he felt the need to identify with me on those traits we shared.  I know he cared for me.  I was attracted to his drive, his ambition.  I don’t know why he was attracted to me.  The really great thing was that even though a romantic relationship never came to fruition, we remained friends all through high school.  Then we went off to college.

I saw him twice in those years after graduation.  Both times I could feel something in my heart for him.  Perhaps it was just a little bit of leftover crush, never having been absorbed over time.  I thought he felt something for me, but I’ll never really know.  Nothing ever happened to cement my suspicions, and we moved on.

But now, in the years that have followed yet another graduation, more time passing since the last time we spoke, I’ll dream of him.  I’ve tried to pin down some common denominators:  Has someone mentioned him?  (No.)  Have I been thinking about him?  (No.)  Did something remind me of him?  (No.)  There doesn’t seem to be any factors that could lead to the dreams.  Sometimes it happens when I’m mad at B.  (I was last night.)  Other times it happens when things are going great with B.  (Those are the times I feel the guiltiest.)  But it just doesn’t make sense.

Deep down inside, I don’t feel any sort of romantic feelings toward him anymore.  They disappeared a long time ago.  Mostly it was my doing — pushing them away because I knew that nothing could ever come of it.  I’m more in love with my boyfriend now than I ever have been, which makes the dreams all the more troubling.  They make me feel like the worst girlfriend in the world.  I know it’s not my fault.  I know I can’t help what happens in my brain while I sleep…

…but I just wish they would stop.

365 days ago

…something was wrong but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

…I was living in denial with a fake smile plastered to my face.

…misery ate away at me, bad thoughts pushing their way into my brain.

…we laid in bed together, unsure of the silence between us.

…he broke my heart with five words: “This isn’t going to work.”

…I laid in bed crying uncontrollably, desperately clinging to dreams as they vanished into thin air.

…our relationship ended.

What a difference a year makes.  When I look back on exactly one year ago today, I almost can’t believe the changes that have taken place.  On March 13, 2007, my entire world was shattered when B made a decision I never wished for — he ended our relationship.  He was unhappy and stressed out, and things between the two of us were not good.  I carried on, trying desperately to make him happy, to make him see that our relationship was worth believing in.  I was fooling myself.  I was forgetting something.

I had forgotten that sometimes everything has to fall apart before it can be put back together. 

The months of March and April, 2007, were miserable for me.  I missed B, even though I still saw him every day.  Living together, yet apart, was difficult.  I slept in what was once our bed and he slept on the couch.  He spent weekends away with his family, and I spent weekends with my friends.  He said that he didn’t know if he had any faith left, that things had gotten too hard.  He didn’t know if he could go on.  I soldiered on, trying to take my mind off of it, unsuccessfully.  I went on a four week bender, drinking heavily to self-medicate my emotional pain.  I stopped calling him, stopped hugging him, stopped talking to him.  But when we were alone, which was rare, I found myself reaching out, selfishly, stubbornly, trying to hold on to something that didn’t want me anymore.  I was angry at myself.  I was pathetic.  And then, I snapped out of it.  I woke up one day and thought “fuck it.”  So I put on the best mask I could muster, one of complete indifference, and faced the world.  And just like that, my prayers were finally heard. 

It was late in April when it finally came back together.  It took several unforeseen, random circumstances to bring this relationship back together.  It was his asking, just as it was his undoing, that sealed the deal.  For all along, I’d known the truth — he just had to figure it out himself. 

And now, a year later, things are completely different.  Our “house” is now a “home.”  There is a safe haven for us both to escape to in each other’s arms.  Our relationship is now based on mutual respect and friendship, instead of just passion and emotion.  We learned that you have to have all those pieces to make it work.  We’d been together a long time, and we had stopped appreciating each other.  It’s hard to explain…it’s almost as if the undoing of it all is what made the bitterness fade away.  It was as if someone had literally wiped our slate clean and said “please, start fresh with each other.” 

One night, a few months after we began again, as we lay sleeping in our bed, he woke me up at 3 a.m.  He said to me, “You are my best friend, but I want you to be my wife.”  Finally, all those years of wishing and praying were coming true.  But what I felt was not relief or appreciation — I just felt calm.  Like I could finally rest, knowing that my world was now on solid ground.  All my life I’d lived in fear of being abandoned by those who I love.  My mom, my dad, my brother.  I didn’t want to add B to the list of those who had gone from my life.  That night I realized that he had never really left.  I was always in his heart, where he carried me.  We fell apart to come back together.

March 13, 2007 seems like a lifetime ago.  We’ve come so far since then.  As B says, “Our relationship is in a different place now, from a year ago.  We’re standing on solid ground.”

I couldn’t agree more.

20SB Debates - All adult and responsible-like

What made you feel more like an adult, your first job or you first car?

I’m excited to speak on this topic because, well…  Because my birthday is just around the corner and I’m going to be 25.  If being 25 doesn’t make you an adult, then what does?  As my sister so kindly informed me, from 25 it’s all downhill to 30.  Yikes.

My first job is definitely what made me feel like more of an adult.  Granted, getting my first car was pretty great, but I was only 16.  I still wore glitter nail polish and platform shoes, for God’s sake.  Definitely not adult and responsible-like.  But my first job, be it ever so humble, soul-sucking, and life-destroying, is what made me feel like I’d finally arrived, all accomplished and grown-up.

My first ever full-time, salaried, 9-5 job post-college was for an insurance company.  OMIGOD, how could I ever have been so unbelievabley stupid?  I started out with the grandest of intentions.  I was going to MAKE A LOT OF MONEY and PAY OFF ALL MY DEBT and BECOME THE BEST INSURANCE SALESWOMAN EVER OMIGOD.  Haha.  Then I discovered that underneath all my grand posturing and wild dreaming, I was really just an underachiever.  Not a go-getter at all.  I just wanted to do the bare minimum and get paid the most amount possible.

Hey, at least I’m being totally honest here.

Luckily for me, the more time that gets between me and that soul-sucking shithole I spent two years of my life in, the better I am, and the less my brain is jumbled with useless insurance jargon.  However, I still remember strutting into work that first morning.  Black slacks, ironed with a seam down the front, pointy-toe stiletto heels, professional-yet-sexy collared shirt, carrying a portfolio for all my studious note-taking.  In the first 4 months on the job, I managed to take AND pass my insurance licensing exam, begin a track to a professional certification (ie: three little letters behind my name that for all intents and purposes served no, well… purpose), and straighten up my personal money-troubles by structuring a budget and beginning to pay all my bills on time and in more than the minimum amounts.  Also in those first four months, I determined that it was not the job for me, that I would sit quietly and bide my time until something better came along.  What I did accomplish in the next two years was an understanding of environment is more important than money, and a greater appreciation of an “I-shall-take-no-shit” attitude.

What I didn’t accomplish was all that great money-making.  My bosses paid me no commission, whatsoever.  So really, my pay was not contingent upon my performance, and thus, I had no reason to strive for greatness.

How did this nightmare of an occupation, with all of its insulting by way of my clients, sexism in the workplace, and meager acknowledgments of presence, let alone of accomplishments, make me feel like an adult?

Well, it was after all, a 9-5.  With a salary.  And lots and lots of freedom in the form of two hour lunch breaks, online shopping while working, and coming and going as I pleased.

It’s amazing I didn’t get fired.

But hey, I kinda-sorta grew up in the process.

Happy New Year!

Wow.  Let’s just say that it’s a good thing I had four back-to-back days off to process the news of my friend’s pregnancy. 

It took a lot of time to let it sink in.  I still don’t think I’m fully there yet.  I talked to her a couple of times this weekend.  She seems overwhelmed.  A little scared.  I think she is starting to become happy about it.  Like I said, it’s hard not to be excited about a baby, no matter how unprepared you are for it.  She’s got a tough road to travel for the next year.  Sadly, her vision of 2008 will drastically differ from mine.

Before I can even begin to think about New Year’s Resolutions (seriously?  I NEVER stick to them), I still need to wrap my brain around 2007.

I changed.  My life changed.  Some things are still the same.  Some are very very different.

January started out with the best NYE I’ve ever had in my whole 24 years.  Tickets to a beautiful club in D.C.  Seriously, it was fabulous.  Open bar kind of fabulous!  Many, many, many Vodka tonics kind of fabulous!  A smooch with B at midnight started off what I thought would be the year to end all years.  I didn’t know I was in for quite the rollercoaster.

February was when I turned 24.  24, such a boring age.  B surprised me with a limo for me and my friends.  Dinner at my favorite mexican restaurant.  A party at our house.  DRAMA.  B’s friend (remember Dickhead?) started a feud between a friend of mine and myself.  They stormed out of my party.  Good thing I still had a lot of friends there to make me forget about it.

March was my lowest month.  B ended our relationship.  He said he was in a tough spot.  Couldn’t decide what he wanted for his life.  Had too many things to figure out.  My heart was broken.  Totally, utterly broken.  I stopped speaking to the friend of mine who was not there for me during the breakup.  No offers to hang out, to go out.  Just a shitty piece of advice that was unwanted.  I didn’t want to forget about B.  I wanted to figure it out and make it work.  In March, I spent a lot of time alone.  I was sad beyond belief.  Not even really bad tv could cheer me up.

In April I decided to stop being a baby.  I started ignoring B, which was hard because we were living together.  Sleeping apart.  The works.  He would call, I would ignore.  I stayed away from home a lot.  Stayed at friends.  Went out.  A very cute boy told me he liked me.  I blushed, but my heart ached for B.  The end of that month, B came looking for me at a party and cried, saying he’d made the biggest mistake of his life.  He wanted me back and he never wanted to be without me again.  I was skeptical, but happy.

May was a blur.  A lot of dinner dates with B, reassessing things.  We had sex in every room of our house (TMI?  whoops!).  I didn’t see much of my friends this month because I was just overjoyed to be back in B’s arms.  We discovered something that month — we are totally and completely in love.  B and I started hanging out with new friends…friends from our past who we became closer to.  We made a lot of new friends through them.  We hosted our very first cookout at our house.

June brought a wonderful surprise.  The friend that I’d been estranged from for nearly three months extended an olive branch, an invitation to forgive.  I welcomed it and we reconciled.  I saw my niece graduate from high school.  Many many weekends were spent floating my lake and relaxing.  Walks around the neighborhood became my own cheap version of therapy.  I truly enjoyed the feeling of sunlight on my face.  Everything was looking up. 

July was probably the most FUN month all year.  July was when B and I went to see Warped Tour in Virginia Beach.  The intense heat of the summer made our lake all the much more enjoyable.  I went tubing for the first time ever.  I held on for a really long time and was so proud of myself.  It might seem small, but it was a great moment for me.  I went on a three mile walk alone, with nothing but my iPOD to keep me company.  I remember stopping in the middle of a street in my neighborhood and realizing that I wanted to marry B.  For real this time, no nonsense. 

August is always my least favorite month.  It’s so hot and sticky outside and it becomes unbearable to be out of the air conditioning.  B and I celebrated our 8th anniversary.

September is my favorite month.  I smile all month long because the leaves start to change and it reminds me of my mom, because her birthday is in September.  We worked on our house, painting a few rooms and buying new things for our bedroom.  B and I had what I like to call our very first successful fight.  It was successful because we both realized that we weren’t going to get anywhere, so we took a time out.  He went to the office and watched football alone.  I went for a walk.  When I got back from the walk, he greeted me at the door and apologized.  I apologized.  No screaming.  No throwing things.  Just a disagreement, some anger, then apologies.  What can I say?  It was a milestone.

In October, we saw my friend K get married.  It was a beautiful wedding.  During their first dance, B squeezed my hand and whispered “I can’t wait until that’s us.”  He started to talk about colors and bridal parties and cakes.  One night, he woke me up in the middle of the night to say “You’re my best friend in the entire world.  I can’t wait until you’re my wife.”  I melted.

November was relatively quiet.  We had Thanksgiving at his dad’s house.  I started this blog.  My blog became my outlet.  I unleash things here and get it out of my head.  Instead of going to B with every complaint about work or friends or money, I just blog about it.  I honestly feel lighter.  I was so excited every time I got a comment.  My blog is my baby.

December was amazing.  We picked out my engagement ring.  We ordered the setting.  We kept it a secret from everyone except BFF.  I had to tell someone before I burst with happiness!  We found out it will be ready somewhere between the beginning to middle of February.  (Tangent: Why does it take so long to get the setting from the vendor?  Hmmm…  Seriously, it just needs to be sized!)  We celebrated B’s 24th birthday and Christmas.  I found out my friend M is pregnant.  We rang in 2008 at a bar downtown.

There is so much more to do.  We’ll get engaged and spread the news to our friends and family.  We’re talking about hosting an engagement party.  We don’t have family that will do it for us, so we’ll do it for ourselves.  I’m going to turn 25.  Work will bring pressure and stress, but I’ll take it out on my blog.  I hope to turn this thing, this project, into something I can be proud of.  Not just an outlet, but something that signifies who I am, right down to the fine details.

2007 was a bit of a rollercoaster…going from in a relationship to breaking up, to getting back together practically being engaged.  It’s been a lot, but not more than I can handle.  And honestly, when I look back at the rough patch in March and April, I can only be grateful.  For while I had my heart broken and my faith shattered, it was all rebuilt on a better, stronger foundation. 

Here’s to the hope that 2008 will bring more growth, less stress, more laughter, less tears.  Here’s to the hope that 2008 will be MY year.

Happy New Year, loveys.

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.

Cluster-fucked

To the person who found me by googling “stepmom cuts me out after Dad died”, yeah I’m sorry about that.  Stepmothers can be evil bitches.  I call mine “stepmonster.”  This is not to say that some stepmothers are wonderful creatures.  But mine, and apparently, the google searcher?  Yeah, ours sucked ass.

And to the sick fucker who found me by googling “guy bangs his stepmom”?  You’re fucking sick.  I don’t know what else to say.

Four acquaintances of mine from school got engaged over the holiday weekend.  I found this out by logging into Facebook this morning.  Seriously?  Four people?  Why does everyone get engaged around Christmas.  I guess I can’t complain — we did order my ring in the month of December!

(Tangent: It’s been 2 weeks.  We still have another 2-4 weeks to go until the setting is here!  Ugh, I am so impatient!)

I was IMed this morning by a guy that I had a “fling” with during college.  This was during a tenuous breakup with B.  I hadn’t talked to him in like three years or something crazy, but he popped up on my screen with a “hey stranger.”  We talked for a few minutes…just long enough for me to find out that he moved in with his girlfriend of 16 months and is shopping for an engagement ring for her, and for him to ask me if B and I are engaged yet.  I told him about the engagement ring and how we had it ordered from the store.  Why?  I don’t know.  I felt the need to prove that I was justified in breaking his heart and going back to B.  Who knows.  The conversation abruptly cut off after we had said all we could to each other…about our jobs, about where we live, and who we still hang out with.  Awkward.

It’s the day after Christmas and I am so disillusioned.  You know what I did yesterday?  I woke up at 8 am, watched multiple episodes of Dawson’s Creek (shut up!) and took naps.  There was no present opening.  There was no stocking un-stuffing.  There was no ham or turkey or mashed potatoes.  There was no pumpkin pie.  We had a very un-Christmas-like day. 

It made me vow to make next year more “normal.”

Confession:  I still think about him from time to time.  I still wonder what would have happened if I’d stuck to the breakup with B and given it a shot with him.  Who would I be today?  Would B and I have gotten back together?  Would we still be friends? 

I guess it’s normal.  But it’s still one hell of a clusterfuck to think about.

The Ghost of Christmas Past

Now that I’m nearly 25 years old, my version of Christmas is drastically different from what it used to be.  I remember not being able to sleep at all on Christmas Eve, so excited to see what Santa brought.  I would sneak out under the pretense of “but daddy, I’m sooooooooo thirsty!” just to get a sneak peak at what laid under the tree.  These days, Christmas Eve is just like any other day, and Christmas morning finds B and I snuggling in bed, totally able to sleep in.  It’s usually the dogs whimpering to go out that prompts us out of the warm haven of our bed.  I know that things never stay the same and growing up changes a lot of traditions, but it’s kind of heartbreaking at the same time.  I’m feeling nostalgic today, so I decided to recall a list of memorable Christmases (in no particular order):

1987:  I was just three years old and it was the last Christmas I remember my parents being together.  We lived in a house with a large finished basement, which is where we kept our Christmas tree and all of the presents.  Four children = a lot of presents!  Our entire basement was practically flooded with small, medium, and large presents wrapped in brightly colored boxes with bows.  It was a veritable heaven for any kid.  I was the baby in my family, coming 11 years after the third child, so my brother and sisters were all much older than me.  I remember my mom humming to Christmas music on the radio.  I remember my dad sipping his black coffee.  I can still see my brother picking me up out of nowhere and flipping me over his head onto his back, laughing.  It is my favorite Christmas memory from when I was little.

1989:  I was 6 years old.  This is the year where I sneakily climbed out of bed when it was still dark outside and very carefully unwrapped a present I’d had my eye on for weeks.  I’d shaken it.  I’d spun it around in my hands, feeling for bumps and lumps.  I was mystified by its odd shape.  When I opened it, as everyone else was still asleep, I was  thoroughly disappointed.  It was just a jacket that my mom had stuffed into a random box to tease me.  My goodness, my mom was so mad at me that Christmas morning!  She couldn’t believe I’d wake up and unwrap a present without everyone else.  Eventually she laughed about it.

1990:  I was 7 years old.  It was the last Christmas I’d have with my mom, but we didn’t know that yet.  We were all so happy because my sister had brought my baby niece with her to our house.  This was the year that my brother bought me a training bra.  He folded it into a little square and wrapped it in about 15 different types of wrapping paper.  I was mortified when I opened it!  I nearly cried.  I remember everyone else laughing hysterically.  Back then, it was a reason to pout.  Today, it’s a reason to smile.

1994:  I was eleven years old.  This was the year that my stepsister and I ruined our Christmas, albeit accidentally.  We had a crawl space in our house and we used it as a secret hiding place.  We never told our parents, which was unfortunate, because this particular year they used the crawl space to hide our big presents from “Santa” — barbie doll houses.  One for each of us.  This was the year that I realized that Santa wasn’t real.  This was the year where we had to pretend to be surprised on Christmas morning.  Years later, my dad and stepmom said they knew that we knew.  They just didn’t want to spoil the moment by bringing it up.

1999:  I was 16.  Our beloved family dog, Rascal, a sweet female black lab, was really sick.  She laid under the tree all Christmas day and wouldn’t eat.  This was very much unlike her.  She normally would nose around the presents and try to sit in your lap as you opened them.  We always got her a stocking of her own with bones and chew toys in it.  That year, she didn’t want to play with her goodies.  She just laid under the tree.  The next day, upon taking her to the vet, we had our hearts broken.  Her kidneys were failing.  Our beloved Rascal passed away on December 27, 1999.  My dad and I were inconsolable.  I still think of her often.

2003:  I was 20 years old, off on break from my junior year of college.  B had moved in with a friend of mine to an apartment.  We’d all known each other forever, so we spent that Christmas having our own official “first Christmas tree as independent adults” (haha) and buying gifts for each other.  Since we all had to go home and be with our families on Christmas day, we decided to wake up on Christmas Eve and have our Christmas with each other.  As we made breakfast and tried to wake up from peaceful sleep, my friend M opened up the blinds.  Our neighbors across the way stared at us through their sliding glass door, looking confused as to why we were opening up presents on Christmas Eve morning.  We laughed, figuring that they must be thinking “Those dumb kids.  They party so much that they probably think it’s Christmas day today!”  This was also the year that B bought me my first diamond — a diamond pendant.

2006:  Just last year, at 23, life was quickly settling down.  B and I celebrated our first Christmas in our house that we bought.  We had our tree, our dogs, our cats, and we started our own traditions.  Chinese food on Christmas Eve.  Cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning.  New Christmas pajamas.  We watched Christmas movies in the morning before we made the trek out to his brother’s house, where we watched his nephews open up their presents.

This year will be very different.  This year some things will stay the same.  There will still be chinese food on Christmas Eve.  There will still be cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning.  The dogs will still whimper to go out at 7 AM.  We’ll probably take them out, but then get back into bed for a while.  B will open up the few gifts I bought for him.  Money was tight this year, and I couldn’t afford much.  I will open up the few things that B got me, knowing that all of his money was spent going towards my engagement ring.  It will be quiet.  There will be no rush to shower, dress, and leave.  His dad is out of town and his brother moved to Maryland.  We will not see any children open up gifts this year.  When it’s all over, as we sit in the quiet, totally comfortable next to each other, I’ll think of my mom and dad and my eyes will get misty.  B will think of his mom.  We’ll hug.  We’ll kiss.  We’ll sit on the couch with the dogs at our feet and in our lap, and we’ll snuggle while we watch Christmas movies all day in our Christmas pajamas.

It will be our last Christmas as boyfriend and girlfriend.  Next year we’ll be engaged, planning a wedding. 

There are many more Christmases in our future to look forward to.  But the ones of the past will stay with us.

No child deserves it.

Part 1, in case you missed it

 It was just about a month before my 22nd birthday when we had the memorial service for my dad.  It was what you would expect it to be:  sad, overwhelming, and yet, it went by in a blur.  What I do remember is the insane behavior of the people in the front row.

Seated directly up front were the following people:  stepmother, her best friend (who my father despised), stepsister, stepsister’s boyfriend, my brother (who hadn’t seen my father in 4 years), my brother’s wife, and their infant son.  Keep in mind that my father had 4 children with my mother.  My two sisters and myself were seated elsewhere, as they hadn’t even made room for us.  You would think that my sister’s boyfriend and stepmother’s friend would have been nice enough to offer the rest of us seats.  This was just the beginning of a very long ceremony which ended up being ridiculous.

The pastor pronounced my father’s name wrong.  He pronounced several relatives names wrong.  He slurred his speech and seemed uncomfortable.  It was awkward.  I couldn’t wait to leave.  When it was finally over, I took the time to walk around and say hello to friends of mine and friends of my father’s that had made the trip to the funeral home.  As I was doing this, stepmother was walking around removing every single card from the flowers that filled the room, before any of us had a chance to see them.  My best friend overheard her remark to someone “get rid of these flowers.  I don’t want them.”  At that point, my best friend (from here on after referred to as BFF) walked over the vase of flowers sent from my sorority and said “These are to go with [Paradise].”  Stepmother and BFF exchanged dirty looks between each other.

After the service, we all piled into the car to drive to my childhood home.  This would be the last time I ever set foot into that house.  The people were divided into two distinct groups.  On one side of the house were stepmother’s friends, family, and acquaintances.  On the other side of the house were me, my friends, my two sisters, and people we had brought along with us.  It was uncomfortable, to say the least.  My brother, who I hadn’t seen or spoken to in four years (yet again, another story for another day) didn’t say a word to me and I didn’t say a word to him.  I couldn’t help but feel nothing but rage towards him, since he refused to come see my dad the father’s day before he died.  I only stayed for approximately 20 minutes before I decided that it was best if I just cut my losses and left.  There was nothing more for me to do.  We made our way out quietly, and once we had gotten into the car to leave, stepmother approached the passenger side of B’s car.  She shoved in a potted plant and said “Well, I guess this is goodbye.”  Then she made her way back to the door.  We drove off.

Over the next few weeks, I realized just how hard this was going to be.  Not only was my father gone, but so was my semblance of what “family” was.  Stepmother tried to call me off and on for weeks.  Mostly she would just cry and say “What am I going to do with the rest of my life?  I lost my husband!”  She never seemed to remember that I had lost my father.  It was all about her.  One day, after a particularly tense phone call wherein she told me that me and my siblings weren’t going to be receiving any of my father’s things, I hung up on her and started to sob uncontrollably.  I was so angry!  How was this happening?  My father was my entire world after my mother died, and here I was, being told that I couldn’t have anything to remember him by.  BFF was standing in our kitchen with me, and all she could do was hug me and tell me that it was all going to be okay eventually.  Then she said something to me that I hadn’t thought of before; something that made way too much sense for me to ignore.

“You know, just because she calls you doesn’t mean you have to answer.  She’s treating you so badly and she’s not even letting you have anything, so what do you owe her?  NOTHING.”

She was right.  And that’s when I made up my mind to just move on and start taking care of me and my life.

Stepmother had other plans.  Exactly one month after my father’s passing, my roommate and I were awoken to multiple phone calls at 6 AM.  When we answered, there was no sound other than breathing.  We didn’t think much of it at the time, since we didn’t have caller ID.  But then, after speaking with my sisters, I discovered that the exact same thing had happened to them.  The calls had been restricted, so they couldn’t tell who it was that was calling them shortly after 6 AM on February 7, 2005.  A couple of days later, my sister received a phone call from a number she didn’t recognize.  When she called it back, she got a chilling surprise.  The phone call went straight to voicemail, with my father’s voice as the speaker.  My stepmother had used my father’s cell phone to call my sister and harass her.  Can you imagine how sad that made my sister?

It’s hard to know how to say the rest of everything because there is so much, but here goes…  My father had a life insurance policy.  He had drafted up paperwork during their separation to make me the sole beneficiary and executor of his estate.  However, he had gone back to her and never finished the paperwork.  Stepmother lied to me about the amount and said it was ALL spent on the memorial service.  It was all a lie.  About a month after my father passed away, my sisters and I set out to discover what happened to the inheritance that my mother had left me.  It turns out that my father and stepmother had disobeyed court orders, and instead of setting it up in a trust for me, they had spent it.  On what, I will never know.  But it was all gone.  They had also used the inheritance from my grandmother’s passing as well.  So there I was, technically an orphan, trying to finish up college and I was flat broke.  Cleaned out.  Overwhelmed and unable to figure out a way to pay all of my bills and finish the last four months of school, I considered taking a leave of absence to go home and work and save up some money.  Luckily for me, B was adamant that I stay.  He was my knight in shining armor, paying all of my bills and sending me money every two weeks for food and gas and whatever else I needed.  I will never be able to repay him for the generosity he showed.  He was convinced that if I left to go home, that I’d never go back, and he said I owed it to my father to finish.  And finish, I did.

I graduated in May of 2005 with magna cum laude honors from my university.  It was the proudest day of my entire life. I had successfully cut out the stepmother and stepsister from my life, and I had made it through the worst 5 months I’d ever experienced.  It was all over and I could go home to B and to a new phase.

The summer after graduation saw a lot of changes.  I moved in with B and two friends into a house.  I was completing an internship, part of my requirement to graduate, and working a part-time job.  B and I were saving up money to get our own place.  Everything was going well and I was adjusting.

Until one day, when I received a call on my cell phone. 

Immediately, I recognized the number as my old “home” number.  I debated not answering.  Then, for some unknown reason, I picked it up.  It was stepmother.  She was very short and terse and asked me some questions about my life that I refused to answer.  In short, I asked her what she wanted from me.  She replied “I was wondering if you wanted any of the furniture from our house, because I’ll be selling the house and moving shortly.”  I responded only to tell her that I would have B call her because I didn’t wish to speak with her anymore.  When B arrived home later that day and I explained to him everything that had happened, he blew up!  He called her and very angrily said “We don’t want OR NEED anything from you, so just stop calling us!”  The next day we went to change my cell phone number.

I went a few months without hearing from her, and things calmed down.  B and I got our own place.  I started my first post-college full-time job.  I was happy and secure in everything.

Stepmother, once again, had to stir up the pot.

She started by getting a myspace.  I noticed that my site started getting a LOT of traffic to it.  A photo site with stored pictures started spiking in hits as well.  My sister referred me to her myspace, where what I saw disgusted me.

Her online profile was all about how she was a “merry widow” and enjoyed having no husband to tell her what to cook or what to watch on television.  To add insult to injury, she started to upload very hurtful photographs.  How can a photograph be hurtful, you might ask.  Let me explain.

Her main MySpace profile picture was of the day she married my father.  However, on the photograph, in place of where I stood, she used the Microsoft Paint application to “erase” me.  In the big blob of white space left over, she drew in a stick figure.

Sadly, this was not the end.  I stopped viewing her MySpace after the stick-figure incident, but my sister and some friends informed me of other shenanigans she was pulling.  She would post blogs and disrespect me and my family by calling out our personal business, using insulting terminology to refer to us, etc.  She even once posted something about how the only one getting any money from my father’s estate would be my brother!  My brother, who hadn’t even spoken to or seen my father for the last four years of his life!  She stated explicitly that me, my sisters, or my niece, would not be receiving anything.

We never did get anything.

But you know, it’s not the money that bothers me.  It’s the personal effects.  I managed to scrounge up some old photographs of my father and I together.  I do have those to remember him by.  But there is nothing else.

In the nearly 3 years since my father died, I’ve changed my number twice.  I removed all of my contact information from the phone book.  I made my MySpace and Facebook profiles private so she can’t spy on me.  I removed my online photo-hosting site.  I pulled my credit and discovered that she opened up credit card accounts in my social security number.  I reported her to the credit reporting bureaus, and thankfully it was removed from my report.  I moved to a gated community and put her on a list of people that they are never allowed to let in.  I considered getting a restraining order.  But I refuse to live my life like that. 

She may have won the battle, but she is losing the war.  She is losing the war to destroy my life, because I refuse to let her. 

Thankfully for me, I haven’t had to see her one single time since my father’s memorial service.  I haven’t seen her daughter either.  I stay away from my hometown as much as possible because it will only bring up bad memories.  Luckily, I have B to protect me from a lot of the nonsense.  He reminds me of the things that really matter in life:  to love and be loved.  Occasionally I run into old friends from home and they will tell me versions of the story that they’ve heard.  I usually set them straight, but recently I stopped caring.  I figure the ones who really need to know, already do.  I don’t have to explain anything to them.  I would say that most of the people who are aware of what has happened are on my side.  How could they not be?

I’ve developed a new outlook on life.  You have to keep moving forward.  You can feel sorry for yourself, or you can be angry with God for giving you these situations, or you can just continue to make progress.  I choose progress over anger.  I’ve formed a new kind of family — I have B.  I have his family. I have my friends.  My friend M, who I’ve been friends with since I was 8 years old, has an amazing family who send me birthday and Christmas cards and invite me to all of their family get-togethers.  I have spent many family reunions and other occasions with them.  They have brought me into their fold and M’s mom makes sure that I know that I have people who care for me.  So really, I don’t feel sorry for the life I’ve led.  I know that even though it has been a hard road to travel, I’ve been very blessed.

I’ve already shut the door on my past.  I will put the FINAL nail in that coffin on the day I marry B.  I vow to make my family with him the family that I always wanted.  I will not let anything stop me from shielding my future kids from the kind of pain I’ve seen.  No child deserves it.

The one I’ve been dreading

It’s time.

I need to get the story of my stepmother out there, and out of my head.  Out of my heart.

It might have to be a two-parter.  Seriously, it’s that long, and that bad.

My parents divorced when I was three years old.  They fought all the time, and it made everyone miserable.  Even at three, it was a relief for me.  I was shielded from a lot of the negative thoughts that my mom and siblings had about my father.  Thankfully.  They were angry at him for cheating on my mother with numerous women, while she waited at home for him.  She was always waiting…waiting on him to stop drinking, to stop cheating, to start being a man.  She waited until the day she died.  And they weren’t even married anymore.

My father was my hero.  My mom was strong enough to let me feel that way, even while she hated what he was doing with his life, and how he was affecting everyone else around him by the choices he was making.  The biggest choice that changed everything was his choice for a second wife.  She changed all of our lives, forever.

He met her through her husband.  Her husband was one of my father’s employees, and they had a seriously volatile relationship.  My dad got caught up in it.  He got caught up in feeling sorry for her situation, sorry for her and her infant daughter.  He ended up being sorry for the rest of his life…that he had ever met her.

After she left her husband and divorced him, she bounced right into my dad’s arms.  And all of a sudden, my dad was a dad to another infant, one that wasn’t his.  He was starting this new family, away from me and my siblings and my mom.  He married that woman when I was six years old.  I was too young to understand the chaos that he started.  He didn’t tell anyone he was marrying her.  Then, one day in July, they were married at the beach by a justice of the peace, with us two girls standing there, holding girl-sized bouqets of fresh flowers.  I wish I could say that the story ended up happily ever after, but it didn’t. 

I was still living with my mom at the time.  I don’t know how she reacted.  I don’t remember those day after the marriage.  I don’t remember much until my mom passed away from cancer.  My sister tells me that even when my mom died, she was still in love with my father, even though it had been 5 years since the divorce, and 2 years since he’d remarried.  She still loved him.  And she wanted me to live with him after she died.

Two days after the funeral, I moved to Virginia from Maryland and started a new chapter in my life.

From the time I was 8 until I headed off to college at 18, I lived with my father, stepmother, and step-sister.  We were what Oprah would call a “blended family.”  But it wasn’t so much like The Brady Bunch.  It was always me and my dad versus stepmother and step-sister.  My dad was a wonderful father to me, and he was my best friend.  He had a drinking problem and he was never the picture of health, and this made my childhood chaotic.  I was always trying to step into the middle of the argument and calm everyone down.  I was always trying to fix things.  I became a fixer.  I developed obsessive-compulsive behavior.  I was stressed out.  I was just a child.

Things would be okay, then they would be crazy.  We would go from happy family one day to in an uproar the next.  The alcoholism, the multiple surgeries, the screaming fights…they took a toll on each of us.  My father’s health declined severely after I went away to school.  He would call me and cry.  He missed me and he was up against a WAR at home, and his constant ally, his youngest daughter, wasn’t there to stand on the front lines with him.  He was wearing down.

Then, in the summer of 2004, everything changed.  One day, as I was in the car with B, just finishing up shopping, I got a phone call from my dad. 

“I’m leaving her.”

My whole world turned upside down in that instant.  I was angry at him, and worried about him.  Angry because he was making this decision, after having decided to leave my mom and be with HER and give up on OUR family.  I was worried because his health wasn’t the best and who would take care of my dad?  I couldn’t do it.  I was about to start my senior year of college.

He left my stepmother and step-sister after a heated argument.  They’d had a bad fight and he left.  He went to stay with my sister in Maryland for the meantime, until he decided on his next steps.  Everything moved quickly.  My stepmother called me one day to tell me that she was changing the locks on the house.  My question to her was “when can I come by to get some of my things and get a copy of the key?”

“Well, actually, I’m not going to give you a key.  I think you should come by and get your things, but you’ll have to do it when I’ll be here.  You might want to have B help you carry it all out.”

We’d never had a great relationship.  Even though she’d known me since I was very little, I was never her “daughter.”  I was her husband’s daughter.  She resented me for being close to my dad, for him trusting me with things that he never trusted her with.  She resented me for the fact that him and I could talk, while they could never effectively communicate with each other.  And now that their marriage was breaking up, it became clear.  I was totally out of her life now. 

That was July, 2004.  In the next 6 months, B’s mom would die.  I would watch my father deteriorate.  My dad would draft divorce papers.  He would go back to her.  He would have a stroke.  He would die.

Only then, when I thought that everything would calm down, would it get worse.  After burying B’s mom, I would have my first Thanksgiving without my “family.”  My dad and I had an argument because he had gone back to her.  He said to me “I don’t think I have much time left, and I don’t want to spend it fighting with everybody.”  He came to B’s family’s house to have Thanksgiving with me.  Then he went home to her.

Lest he forget about things, I decided I would remind him of the damage she had caused.  She did, in fact, change the locks on the house.  She hid things of mine when I went back to move my stuff out with my sister.  Things that were precious to me that I’ll never get back.  She stood in the doorway of my childhood bedroom as we packed up a few things of mine to take with me.  She was watching to see what I took.  I wanted to throw something at her, to let her know that she had destroyed everything, but I remained silent and we carried my things out one by one, until all that was left was the furniture itself.  All of my clothes and personal belongings, photo albums, childhood mementos were carried out to my car.  Then she shut the door behind me that day and locked it.  She took me off the health insurance plan without telling me.  When I got bronchitis, which developed into pneumonia my senior year, I discovered this.  But only once I’d gotten to the hospital and the billing staff informed me that I was not covered.  I reminded him of all of this.

But he still went back.

That was November, 2004.

When my Christmas break came, I was relieved to go home and see B and my friends.  I needed a break from it all.  I worked part-time at the advertising agency and tried to relax a little.  But one day in December, a phone call shattered all my hopes.  My father was sick, and they didn’t know what was wrong.  He couldn’t speak, but he could open his eyes.  The doctors were trying to find out what had happened.  After 3 days and 2 hospitals, they called me to let me know.  It was a massive stroke in his brain stem.  He would never recover.

That’s when I sat down on the edge of B’s bed and prayed.  I prayed that day for him to let go, for God to give ME the strength to let go.  I needed to let him go and let him rest in peace.  I needed to rest.  I needed to put this part of my life behind me.  He was free.  Free from his addiction, free from his hardship.  I, too, was free.  I was free of being the fixer, free of being his enabler and his crutch. 

My father passed away on a beautiful Friday.  The skies were clear that day, hardly a cloud in the sky. It was January 7, 2005.  I kissed him goodbye in the late morning and realized that my whole life was about to change.  I just didn’t know how much, or whether it would be for better or for worse.

I should have known I was not done jumping hurdles.  I should have known from the way she wouldn’t let me be alone in his hospital room to say goodbye.  I should have known from the way she lied about the life insurance policy, the very same one he’d told me about a few months before.  I should have known from the box of documents I saw her daugther shredding just 2 hours after he died.  I should have known.

But I had no idea how bad it really was…

to be continued