Daddy Issues and the Bride

Watching a scene from an otherwise hilarious movie, I broke down in tears.  It was the wedding scene...specifically the one when the proud and sometimes tearful father walks the beautiful and beaming bride down the aisle. They look at each, and it is undeniably their moment.

You would think that by now I would have gotten over my dad not walking me down the aisle at my wedding. You would think that by now I wouldn't give a shit about what did or did not happen on that fateful day. I am, after all, running back up the aisle and exiting the church.

But I give a shit. I can't watch another virtuous bride take her father's steady arm to be guided down that uncertain path to the rest of her life without remembering how much it hurt that he simply didn't come. That I offered to pay for his tuxedo and his airfare as long as he just agreed to come. He never said no, but he never said yes. He just strung me along saying that maybe he would, until it inevitably turned into I can't. There was no real reason...he just never made up his mind to say yes.

How could a man not want to walk his daughter down the aisle? It is the fundamental question that I still can't answer. If you have done hardly anything right by your daughter and she allows you one more opportunity to show up, how could you possibly turn it down?

No way I was going to let him ruin my wedding day. I decided that I would walk alone. I had, after all, come this far without him. I could certainly walk a few more steps alone. I believe this is one of the best decisions I have made, and I think I was beautiful.

And so why now? Why still? Why do I still miss his arm supporting mine?

Exhausted and Ashamed

There is no beginning or end to what I need to write about. In fact, there is no "about"...I just need to write. It's been so long that I feel bottled up. The longer that I don't touch base with what's going on in my head, the further away I get...the more I isolate, the less I want to talk...or write...or see anyone.

This is me going down, exhausted and ashamed...looking for punishment, wanting to cut. I think about it, read about it. I breathe it in and out. I want to be left alone to my sick thoughts and my blades.

This is me asking for help because I should...not because I want to.

The Girl Who Says Yes

In EMDR today I saw the girl who says yes. I looked at her, and I hated her. I was disgusted with her, and she looked back at me ashamed. I wish I could have done something...she was so sad. But I was afraid...that I'll always be the girl who says yes.

Bold and Brave

Bold and brave is how I would describe myself in EMDR today. It's not that I welcomed the memories; I was actually very afraid of them...but I didn't turn away from them. I faced them. When I found myself in my stepfather's van, I looked for the curtains. Where were we? Where did he do it? I want to remember, because there is power in remembering...in knowing what he did.

Cathartic Poetry

Sometimes writing is like food...can't go on without it. For me, these days, it's been back to the poetry...that old secret code of mine. It's how I started writing as a teen. I thought that if I wrote in cryptic poems, no one would know what I was writing about...and it worked.

Now, I've returned to the poems. They are so cathartic...I can get so much shit out in one little poem. And I'm not afraid to write them because, what the hell, no one knows what the fuck I'm writing about.

I wrote another one this morning...and now I feel like I can breathe.

Fighting Depression

My depression sometimes arrives in the morning when I start to wake. I know it's there because it grabs me with its cold clammy fingers as I reach for the light, and it pulls me back into it's desperate shadows. As my mind awakens, I feel the dread of pain, instead of the hope of a fresh start. I know what's coming when the morning begins this way.

I will fight it. I will not sink. The summer has been too bright and comforting to succumb to this old pain the ass. I will rise. I will write. I will do.

The Girl Who Sickens Me

It's time to write about the girl who sickens me. She's the one who still doesn't seem to know how to say no...not always...not when it comes down to the nitty-gritty...and it's pretty gritty. Understand, she can say no sometimes. In fact, she says it a lot. Her asshole STBX has ridiculed her, asking if she ever knows how to say yes...but she does say yes...against her will...how could he not see it?

The girl who sickens me says no to an extent...to a point...until her asshole STBX insists and persists for a hug or a kiss, often more but she knows to say no to that. But shit, she can't find a way to get through the moment other than by giving in to the fucking kiss or hug. She can't find a way to move on, to get him out of the house, or to get him to let go of her.

Oh yes, she tells him no...two, three, maybe five times, but he persists. And she just wants to escape, to be done with the moment, to be done with him! So she dutifully goes for the peck kiss and the hug and sends him on his way while he turns and insists on another, and another..."Open your mouth this time", he says.

She doesn't open her mouth, but someone deep in her core is violently ill. Someone deep in her entrails wonders how the fuck she can do it...after everything she's been through. It's like she's back with her stepfather...can't say no...how am I going to get home if I don't agree?

The girl who sickens me is me...I make myself sick.

Hiding

I arrived at my therapist's office today in sunglasses. Well, I wasn't wearing them when I walked into his office, just when I arrived. Today was about hiding, and the sunglasses help. Without them, I feel as if anyone can look into my eyes and see...everything. Behind the sunglasses, I can hide the sadness, the pain, the hurt, the anger, the confusion...everything.

I took the sunglasses off before I went in his office...but I wanted to wear them all day long. I threw a blanket over me, partly to protect my exposed summer skin from the chill in the arctic air conditioned room...but mostly to hide.

"Are you hiding from me?", he asked. Yes. Yes, I was. Sometimes, I want to hide from him...from his eyes, his questions, from the way he knows just how to reach me. But who am I kidding? It's not him I want to hide from...it's me, of course.

I want to hide from what I see in the mirror he holds up...from the truth that remains at the bottom of the beaker after all the volatile emotions have evaporated.

That's Where His Power is!

"That's where his power is.", my therapist said some weeks ago when I talked about my fear. I had just told him of my small victory in letting my STBX know that I did not want to hug him and I did not want to be held by him. Then, I felt the little ghost rise like a vapor. I saw it, and I spoke it out loud. "Still, in the back of my mind, I am afraid of his reaction to my words", I said. "That's where his power is", he replied.

So here I am, apparently still afraid, my wedding ring blistering my skin like acid. And after everything I've been through, I can still feel guilt and self-blame. Is it what keeps me from moving forward with the next step?

Welcome Home!

Returning from vacation is, of course, always difficult. Am I the only one who wants to move to wherever it is I am vacationing? Probably not. Fortunately, I've grown enough to realize that living and working wherever I am vacationing will NEVER be like vacationing there - that's why it's VACATION!

Regardless, descending back to my mortal life is a bitch. This time, I found myself dragging it out as much s possible. Because we flew out of an airport an hour and a half away from home, I had a little extra time after landing to extend that vacation...so I did.

After we picked up our van, I took the kids out to lunch...at a sit-down restaurant...that is notorious for being slow to serve...and I let them play checkers...and finish their game before we left.

What can I say? As long as I was on vacation, I felt like I was in a bubble...of happiness. As long as I didn't have to speak or interact with my STBX, life was normal, and I felt at ease. It is only during these periods that I realize the shit I carry around. And yes, it is a million times better than when I actually lived with him, but still there is that fucking residual fear of what the hell he is going to say next or what fucking mind game am I going to have to field or dodge next. Exhausting.

So I put myself on the road during exactly the five o'clock rush hour and drove home slowly...enjoying...and dreading.