Okay, this is a long story and I apologize in advance for that. I'm pretty sure that what I'm about to type is going to be mostly non-sensical despite not knowing what I'm going to say. Like I said - sorry. Here we go:
I am currently sitting in bed in my teenage bedroom. I flew into my hometown of Houston, Texas yesterday. I flew in because on Monday my Dad is having an MRI to determine whether the cancer doctor's just discovered in his prostate has spread or not.
Here's where it gets complicated - my Dad is not really my father. He's my father - hell, he was in the room when I was born, held me before anyone else did, and got kicked out of the hospital the next day after trying to take me from the nursery because he didn't think there where enough nurses on duty to give me the attention he thought I deserved. My Mom tells me all the time that I'm the only person that he's ever really loved in his whole life. He taught me how to ride a bike (he's told me that he considers this to be his greatest accomplishment), how to roller skate, helped me with my math homework, and quizzed me on my spelling words every week.
Another tricky thing for you to know to understand what I'm . . . down about, I suppose: my Mom isn't really my mother. She's my maternal grandmother. My biological mother was her first child, her only daughter of three kids. (My Dad is my Mom's ex-husband - their marriage was on it's last legs when I was born and they split when I was three-months-old.)
My mother (the biological one - told you this was tricky) was not any kind of mother. She only had me because my Mom offered to support her and the baby for the first couple of years. Once those two years were up my mother went on the prowl. She bounced back and forth between a few guys for a year or so before she found my Daddy.
They were married after only nine weeks, a month after my fourth birthday. I loved him with all my heart. I was the epitome of a Daddies Girl. He was amazing - funny, smart, silly - but most of all he was comforting. If he was around I knew I was okay.
My mother became increasingly unstable as I grew older. She'd been emotionally, mentally, and verbally abusive for long as I can remember. I have no memories of feeling comforted by her. Nothing. And trust me, in all the years I've spent in therapy I've searched for them. All my efforts were fruitless. By the time I was eight she escalated to physical abuse. All the usual scare tactics came along with that: no one would believe me, I'd go into foster care and be abused worse, I'd be sent to juvenile detention, and so on. She had me so convinced at this point that I was a horrible child that no one could ever be proud of that it was easy for me to keep quiet about this newest development.
Then the Big One came. When I was nine she beat me so severely after I finally tried to go for help that was left unconscious. She freaked and dumped my body in a hospital parking lot. I was in a coma for eight days. I had multiple surgeries, including one in which my heart stopped ever so briefly and another because of an embolism.
My Daddy didn't leave my side for four days except for one time - to go to the police station and give a formal statement. On Friday, he told my then-uncle, now-brother that he was going out for some air and that he'd "be right back." He was wrong.
He was found shortly after in the very same parking lot that my mother had left me in days before, right next to his car - keys in the door. A stroke, they later found out. Not surprising when you think about it - the shock of his only child being in a coma near death because his wife put her there only to go home immediately after and kill herself to avoid getting in trouble would be enough to fell any man, not even taking into account his heart problems.
So, when I woke up finally my life as I knew it was over - my mother was dead, my father was dead, and I was still in terrible trouble.
My (grand)parents had a plan in action before I even woke up. When I was released from the hospital after over a month I moved into a new house - a house with both of them. They put everything they had into me, pushed all of the lingering bitterness over their divorce behind them and focused completely on me. They're my heroes.
Cut to now.
I'm currently expecting my first child - I'm fourteen weeks tomorrow. I found out I was pregnant just days before the twentieth anniversary of all of this. I have a tradition for those eight days - I take leave from work/school, barricade myself inside my house, and pull out all my Dad's things. I wear his old sweatshirts, watch home movies, sob, etc..
I'm SO happy about this baby. I can't explain in words how thrilled I am. But lately I feel so down. I just got married last Monday - we eloped on my Dad's orders. My husband is the most amazing man in the world. I'd been in love before, but the way I feel about him is completely different. He's my rock, my best friend - everything. Not a day goes by that I'm not amazed that I found him, that this is my life.
But right now, sitting in my old bedroom - the vintage Rear Window poster one of my brothers gave me for my sixteenth birthday on the wall (mine and my Daddy's favorite Hitchcock movie), the black-and-white shilouette drawing a friend did of my first dog on my desk (she was head-over-heels for my Daddy - didn't eat for weeks after he died), the quilt my Mom's boss made of all my Daddy's tacky old ties that I pulled down from my hidey-hole in the ceiling of my closet?
I was already circling the drain but it's so much worse now. I'm gone. I can't sleep, think, breathe, or stop crying.
I can't lose my Dad. I just can't. I miss my Daddy. So much. I don't know what to do. I miss my husband, but I HAVE to be here with my Dad.
I just want to be able to be happy over the baby I've wanted for so long. I feel weak for not being able to enjoy this time - like I should be stronger for my baby, for my husband, and now for my Dad.
I guess I just I needed to put these words out into the universe so that they're not only in my head - I need to convince myself that I'm not crazy for going crazy right now.
I'll stop rambling now.
I am currently sitting in bed in my teenage bedroom. I flew into my hometown of Houston, Texas yesterday. I flew in because on Monday my Dad is having an MRI to determine whether the cancer doctor's just discovered in his prostate has spread or not.
Here's where it gets complicated - my Dad is not really my father. He's my father - hell, he was in the room when I was born, held me before anyone else did, and got kicked out of the hospital the next day after trying to take me from the nursery because he didn't think there where enough nurses on duty to give me the attention he thought I deserved. My Mom tells me all the time that I'm the only person that he's ever really loved in his whole life. He taught me how to ride a bike (he's told me that he considers this to be his greatest accomplishment), how to roller skate, helped me with my math homework, and quizzed me on my spelling words every week.
Another tricky thing for you to know to understand what I'm . . . down about, I suppose: my Mom isn't really my mother. She's my maternal grandmother. My biological mother was her first child, her only daughter of three kids. (My Dad is my Mom's ex-husband - their marriage was on it's last legs when I was born and they split when I was three-months-old.)
My mother (the biological one - told you this was tricky) was not any kind of mother. She only had me because my Mom offered to support her and the baby for the first couple of years. Once those two years were up my mother went on the prowl. She bounced back and forth between a few guys for a year or so before she found my Daddy.
They were married after only nine weeks, a month after my fourth birthday. I loved him with all my heart. I was the epitome of a Daddies Girl. He was amazing - funny, smart, silly - but most of all he was comforting. If he was around I knew I was okay.
My mother became increasingly unstable as I grew older. She'd been emotionally, mentally, and verbally abusive for long as I can remember. I have no memories of feeling comforted by her. Nothing. And trust me, in all the years I've spent in therapy I've searched for them. All my efforts were fruitless. By the time I was eight she escalated to physical abuse. All the usual scare tactics came along with that: no one would believe me, I'd go into foster care and be abused worse, I'd be sent to juvenile detention, and so on. She had me so convinced at this point that I was a horrible child that no one could ever be proud of that it was easy for me to keep quiet about this newest development.
Then the Big One came. When I was nine she beat me so severely after I finally tried to go for help that was left unconscious. She freaked and dumped my body in a hospital parking lot. I was in a coma for eight days. I had multiple surgeries, including one in which my heart stopped ever so briefly and another because of an embolism.
My Daddy didn't leave my side for four days except for one time - to go to the police station and give a formal statement. On Friday, he told my then-uncle, now-brother that he was going out for some air and that he'd "be right back." He was wrong.
He was found shortly after in the very same parking lot that my mother had left me in days before, right next to his car - keys in the door. A stroke, they later found out. Not surprising when you think about it - the shock of his only child being in a coma near death because his wife put her there only to go home immediately after and kill herself to avoid getting in trouble would be enough to fell any man, not even taking into account his heart problems.
So, when I woke up finally my life as I knew it was over - my mother was dead, my father was dead, and I was still in terrible trouble.
My (grand)parents had a plan in action before I even woke up. When I was released from the hospital after over a month I moved into a new house - a house with both of them. They put everything they had into me, pushed all of the lingering bitterness over their divorce behind them and focused completely on me. They're my heroes.
Cut to now.
I'm currently expecting my first child - I'm fourteen weeks tomorrow. I found out I was pregnant just days before the twentieth anniversary of all of this. I have a tradition for those eight days - I take leave from work/school, barricade myself inside my house, and pull out all my Dad's things. I wear his old sweatshirts, watch home movies, sob, etc..
I'm SO happy about this baby. I can't explain in words how thrilled I am. But lately I feel so down. I just got married last Monday - we eloped on my Dad's orders. My husband is the most amazing man in the world. I'd been in love before, but the way I feel about him is completely different. He's my rock, my best friend - everything. Not a day goes by that I'm not amazed that I found him, that this is my life.
But right now, sitting in my old bedroom - the vintage Rear Window poster one of my brothers gave me for my sixteenth birthday on the wall (mine and my Daddy's favorite Hitchcock movie), the black-and-white shilouette drawing a friend did of my first dog on my desk (she was head-over-heels for my Daddy - didn't eat for weeks after he died), the quilt my Mom's boss made of all my Daddy's tacky old ties that I pulled down from my hidey-hole in the ceiling of my closet?
I was already circling the drain but it's so much worse now. I'm gone. I can't sleep, think, breathe, or stop crying.
I can't lose my Dad. I just can't. I miss my Daddy. So much. I don't know what to do. I miss my husband, but I HAVE to be here with my Dad.
I just want to be able to be happy over the baby I've wanted for so long. I feel weak for not being able to enjoy this time - like I should be stronger for my baby, for my husband, and now for my Dad.
I guess I just I needed to put these words out into the universe so that they're not only in my head - I need to convince myself that I'm not crazy for going crazy right now.
I'll stop rambling now.
