Staying afloat is all I seem to be doing lately, that or drowning. Life hasn’t felt so rose-colored, but then again for me it never truly was in the first place. My childhood was rough, rocky and violent. I got through it by telling myself it would get better, maybe that was a foolish thing to repeat over and over to myself as the years pasted, but I had to keep some faith, some kind of hope, because if it wasn’t ever going to get better, what was the point of trying?
Today I cried in the bathroom as images of my father crying (I was crying back then too) as my mother’s friend drove my mother, brother and me away for a vacation-or at least that’s what my mom told me-that would result in me not seeing my dad for 8 years. I thought I was over it, but I realized I had never talked about it with anyone besides my mom, and that was always cold and brief, with her never taking responsibility and me finding the conversation useless. I haven’t told the whole story to my best friends, not even my brother has heard the full story, just fragments of a day that shattered my life, my emotional being and my spirit.
After the emotional outburst I felt unnerved, like my bandage had gotten old and dirty and fallen off. I thought of all the ways I could write it out, so people could know the pain I’ve experienced and maybe understand a little bit better why I’m so closed off, why it’s taken me months to warm up to people, why I get so possessive over the people in my life that I love (here’s a hint: it’s because I’m scared someone better will take them away and then I’ll truly be alone even when I’m surrounded by people). Anyways, I went to watch a show, the next episode of the funeral of one of the character’s fathers, last time they talked she was mad at him, it made me think of my own dad. Last time we talked I wasn’t mad, I was actually pleading with him not to tell my mother I finally told him about my sexual harasser, he said we’d talk later, but he hasn’t called back and I haven’t called him.
Why? Because I want to call him with good news, I want to tell him I got a job, into a musical, into SOMETHING. I already feel like he’s disappointed in me, but I’m probably just projecting my own disappointment. He always tells me I’m going to do something big in the world and I just want to make him proud, I want us to recover from our 8 year gap. I want to move out, so he can come visit me whenever (okay not whenever but more than he can now), I want to be able to give him money (he’s an immigrant who still hasn’t figured out america yet), I want to buy him a big house and a nice car so he can quit his stupid job, I want us to go on holidays together, like a real family.
Let’s say I make it big doing my passions, I wrote a best-seller, I have a hit album, I’m in a major movie, etc etc etc, the dad I know wouldn’t be happy about the way of my earning unless it was Christian based in some way and honestly it probably won’t be, I can’t see myself starring in Heaven Is For Real 2, but one of my many talents is talking, I know I could talk my dad into tolerating my hollywood lifestyle, maybe not loving it but definitely tolerating it. God, I say this about the same man who wouldn’t let my mother film Barney or Sesame Street (Yes, yes. I was almost a child star, long story), but I’m pretty sure he’s mellowed out a bit.
It hurts to have to lie to him, all because of my mother. I understand not telling him everything, I don’t even tell her EVERYTHING (if I did she’d know I went to my old crush’s house before I liked him and talked with his mom for like 30 minutes and honestly didn’t want to leave), but all this tip toeing around him, all these lies about stupid trivial stuff, one day I’ll tell him everything and he’ll probably be super pissed at her, but he deserves to know the truth.
God I wish I was a little kid again, I wish I was at the car wash with him begging him to let me put in the quarters, or waiting up for him to say goodnight or being in the car with him singing to Heaven by Los Lonely Boys, or hopping in bed with him after a bad storm started up. He made me feel so safe and free, something I haven’t felt since my mom took me away from him.
I feel like I was kidnapped and forced to love my kidnapper. I mean, I loved my mother before, but after the divorce she was a whole other person and got tired very quickly of me asking when we were going back to my dad. Soon I was the reminder of a failed marriage, she hated me, for some reason she didn’t hate my brother, I guess she couldn’t bring herself to hate a baby basically fresh out of the womb, but she hated me and I was only 6 or 7, but that didn’t matter.
I don’t know why all of this trauma is coming up now. Sometimes I think of Emerald Eyes (not in a “I still love you” way but more of a self reflecting way) and think what if I had a good example of love growing up? Or what if I would’ve dealt with this trauma that’s obviously still affecting me? Would I be with him now? Would I have befriended him, ignored all the “will they, won’t they” stuff with his best friend and asked him out? That would’ve been much easier than occasionally staring back when he stared at me, right? Much less messy than going off on him for not responding to my text asking him out for a beverage I barely drink. Much less embarassing than him dodging the question and than me playing ring around the rosie with him until he tells me he’s not ready for dating, right?
He reminded me a lot of my dad, which makes me check another stereotype/statistic box, the divorced parents’ girl that looks for her dad in men because he wasn’t there (couldn’t be because he literally didn’t know where we were). When I was young I promised myself I wouldn’t become a statistic or stereotype. I wouldn’t be the high school dropout, or the black teen mom (like my mom was), or the one people labeled “the slut” (fyi I don’t believe in that anymore, be free, have sex!), I’m pretty sure people labeled me the slut behind my back anyways, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why, high school kids are mean.
Yeah, so this long rambling cry-for-help of a post just solidifies my urgent need for a good therapist. I know as long as there’s still hope and fight in me, I’ll end up happy eventually. I bid you well readers, hug your dads tigher (if he’s there and he isn’t a piece of shit).
Just Some Girl On the Move 