This isn't obviously the end. It's the beginning. It's forever. It's real. It's amazing. It's beautiful.
How do I write about the night I met my dad? How can I possibly put into words what it felt. I can't, it's impossible. But I as I watch the soundtrack (because it was dark outside and no light for the camcorder) from those very first few minutes, so many emotions and adjectives rush over me.
When I opened the door and saw his face, it was over. I am his daughter. As he grabbed me and hugged me and cried, I felt it. I felt it deep into my soul. This was a moment I will never forget. It goes right along the 3 times I saw each of my children for the first time. It ties with marrying my husband and saying "I do." Seeing my dad, hugging my dad, hearing him cry as he held me...that moment....that moment I became loved. Everything came together. My questions were answered. My dreams came true.
He told me he has never won dad of the year, he is just a simple man with a lot of love. He's had many tragedies in life. He needed me just as much as I needed him. To me, he is dad of the year. All the years. Forever. He took me right in, he loves me, I'm his daughter. I was broken and he fixed me. I am worthy of love.
When God winks....
I have a dad. And he loves me. There couldn't have been a happier ending. This is a story that starts out with much sadness, little hope and a longing for love but ends with an unbelievably amazing dream come true.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
The beginning of the end, part 2.
Just two days later. TWO. Two days and I read a message from my mom: "I finally found someone I knew 32 years ago."
Just like I knew my father wasn't mine when I was a child, just like I knew the man I met years ago was not my dad, I knew what was going to follow that message and I knew she meant my dad. My real dad. My real dad that was alive and had no idea I existed until just now. The emotions that came out of me in those few minutes knocked the breath out of me. And just like before, I was busily searching for him online. I found a name. I found his wife. I found a photo and I fell to the floor. The instant I looked at his photo, I knew. I have his eyes. I have his nose. I can see myself looking back at me. I can see me. I needed to see more. With shaking fingers, blurry vision from my tears, I looked at as many photos I could. I saved them to my phone. I stared at them for minutes, engraving every detail in my memory so that when I closed my eyes I could still see them. It might get taken away, I still had no idea he wanted to meet me. Just seeing what he looks like, that he's real and that he never knew and never not wanted me was enough. That's all I needed right then. I had a face to the imaginary dad from my dreams. Even if nothing further happened, I had all these photos on my silly, little iphone that I could secretly stare at all day if I wanted to. And as creepy as that sounds, I did. I touched the photos. I cried. It wasn't until several hours later that I realized not only do I have a dad, but I have a brother and sisters, a step mom, an aunt, an uncle, grandparents, cousins, second-cousins and more. I was completely overwhelmed and scared. What if they hated me? What if I wasn't enough? I have only known these people for a few hours and I'm afraid I love them. I fell too deep. I was sucked in by only photos and it felt amazing, yet terrifying. And that's when my mom told me that he wanted me to meet me. I might have passed out, I don't remember anything else after that.
The next week and a half whirred by. I talked with my sister-in-law. I talked with my step-mom. And then...I talked with my dad. On the internet at first. I felt like a school girl with her first crush. I read and re-read his first message to me over and over again. I could probably recite it right now. Our first phone call was an ambush. My step-mom called me and then handed the phone over to him. There were tears. Heavy, sobbing tears. We were both so nervous, but both so happy. He couldn't believe he had another daughter, just as I couldn't believe I had a dad. All my life I was searching for him, and here he was, breathing, crying on the phone with me. One of the top moments of my life, for sure. The best moment was coming in just a few days.
Just like I knew my father wasn't mine when I was a child, just like I knew the man I met years ago was not my dad, I knew what was going to follow that message and I knew she meant my dad. My real dad. My real dad that was alive and had no idea I existed until just now. The emotions that came out of me in those few minutes knocked the breath out of me. And just like before, I was busily searching for him online. I found a name. I found his wife. I found a photo and I fell to the floor. The instant I looked at his photo, I knew. I have his eyes. I have his nose. I can see myself looking back at me. I can see me. I needed to see more. With shaking fingers, blurry vision from my tears, I looked at as many photos I could. I saved them to my phone. I stared at them for minutes, engraving every detail in my memory so that when I closed my eyes I could still see them. It might get taken away, I still had no idea he wanted to meet me. Just seeing what he looks like, that he's real and that he never knew and never not wanted me was enough. That's all I needed right then. I had a face to the imaginary dad from my dreams. Even if nothing further happened, I had all these photos on my silly, little iphone that I could secretly stare at all day if I wanted to. And as creepy as that sounds, I did. I touched the photos. I cried. It wasn't until several hours later that I realized not only do I have a dad, but I have a brother and sisters, a step mom, an aunt, an uncle, grandparents, cousins, second-cousins and more. I was completely overwhelmed and scared. What if they hated me? What if I wasn't enough? I have only known these people for a few hours and I'm afraid I love them. I fell too deep. I was sucked in by only photos and it felt amazing, yet terrifying. And that's when my mom told me that he wanted me to meet me. I might have passed out, I don't remember anything else after that.
The next week and a half whirred by. I talked with my sister-in-law. I talked with my step-mom. And then...I talked with my dad. On the internet at first. I felt like a school girl with her first crush. I read and re-read his first message to me over and over again. I could probably recite it right now. Our first phone call was an ambush. My step-mom called me and then handed the phone over to him. There were tears. Heavy, sobbing tears. We were both so nervous, but both so happy. He couldn't believe he had another daughter, just as I couldn't believe I had a dad. All my life I was searching for him, and here he was, breathing, crying on the phone with me. One of the top moments of my life, for sure. The best moment was coming in just a few days.
The secret
I know now about the lie my mom told me 10 years ago. She had to tell me what she did because she had to make sure I wouldn't ever want to look for him. Who want to look for a dad, dozens of years later who wanted nothing to do with you? She told me that because she never told him that she was pregnant.
She disappeared from his life. Left his town. Never contacted him again. She didn't want a baby to ruin his life. He was still a baby himself, in high school. She didn't want him to drop out, to have to get a job and support her and the unborn baby she was carrying. She wanted him to live his life, finish high school, go to college. She was young, she was completely scared and so she left to deal with it herself.
I am not mad at her. I can't be. And I'll tell you why. Because even though I have no doubt my life would be great with my dad in it from the start, I wouldn't be who I am today. I wouldn't have had to go through everything, feel the heartbreak, feel the raw emotions and vulnerability. I wouldn't have had to pick up my own broken heart, look at myself in the mirror and tell myself that I am worth it and I'm going to do everything I can to make this life perfect. I wouldn't have met my husband. I wouldn't have had my beautiful children. I wouldn't ever look at each one of them and wonder all over again how someone could not love their child, and that wonder would turn to strength and that strength to determination. I might have felt unloved but my children never will. They will never question their dad's love. They will never feel alone. I will make sure of that, for the rest of my life. I could have turned out much differently in the same situation, but I didn't. I care too much, I want to do things for others, I want to love the world. And I was just starting to love me. I had a husband, 3 kids, a house, I didn't have to work outside the home. Life could be good. It was flowing right along for years. Yet almost once a week, I thought about my dad. Who he was. If he ever thought about me. If, maybe, he changed after all these years and did want something to do with me. This was, of course before my mom told me she lied. In fact, just 2 days before I knew, I was having another daydream about who my dad was. I told myself I had to stop doing this because each and every time, it left me crying. I am 31 years old. My dreams of a dad are never going to happen. It's too late. This will be the last time.
She disappeared from his life. Left his town. Never contacted him again. She didn't want a baby to ruin his life. He was still a baby himself, in high school. She didn't want him to drop out, to have to get a job and support her and the unborn baby she was carrying. She wanted him to live his life, finish high school, go to college. She was young, she was completely scared and so she left to deal with it herself.
I am not mad at her. I can't be. And I'll tell you why. Because even though I have no doubt my life would be great with my dad in it from the start, I wouldn't be who I am today. I wouldn't have had to go through everything, feel the heartbreak, feel the raw emotions and vulnerability. I wouldn't have had to pick up my own broken heart, look at myself in the mirror and tell myself that I am worth it and I'm going to do everything I can to make this life perfect. I wouldn't have met my husband. I wouldn't have had my beautiful children. I wouldn't ever look at each one of them and wonder all over again how someone could not love their child, and that wonder would turn to strength and that strength to determination. I might have felt unloved but my children never will. They will never question their dad's love. They will never feel alone. I will make sure of that, for the rest of my life. I could have turned out much differently in the same situation, but I didn't. I care too much, I want to do things for others, I want to love the world. And I was just starting to love me. I had a husband, 3 kids, a house, I didn't have to work outside the home. Life could be good. It was flowing right along for years. Yet almost once a week, I thought about my dad. Who he was. If he ever thought about me. If, maybe, he changed after all these years and did want something to do with me. This was, of course before my mom told me she lied. In fact, just 2 days before I knew, I was having another daydream about who my dad was. I told myself I had to stop doing this because each and every time, it left me crying. I am 31 years old. My dreams of a dad are never going to happen. It's too late. This will be the last time.
The beginning of the end
If any night stands out to me most in my last 31 years, it's the night the pizza place I worked at had a Daddy & Daughter date night. All night long dozens of happy dads came in with their equally happy daughters. They ate pizza together, talked, laughed, looked as if they genuinely enjoyed each other's company. I didn't last more than a couple hours and asked to leave early. When I got home, I became completely undone. I cried on my aunt's shoulder, wondering why? What did I do wrong? What was so awful about me that my father hated me? Am I that horrible? I was unworthy of love. My mom had to do what she did to survive for my sister. I don't blame her anymore. If I had to choose between myself and my sister, of course I choose her. That still doesn't answer my question; How can a father not love his daughter? What did I do that made me so unlovable?
As my aunt looked into my eyes filled with hurt and longing, she couldn't hold back any longer. She wasn't supposed to tell me. I wasn't ever to know....that my father was not my biological dad.
Everything I felt and dreamed as a child was true. A weight was lifted off my shoulders. I was able to breathe. It all became clear. It all made sense, why I didn't look like him, why we never connected, why we never talked, why he didn't seem to like me. Oh my gosh! So this meant, I had a real dad out there, somewhere. I needed to find him. I needed to know everything. I had my aunts and grandmother piece out what happened to my mom after high school, where she was living, names of boys she brought home. Together they put together a timeline for me and I wasted no time.
The internet wasn't as big back then as it is now, where nearly half the world has a facebook account. Finding someone wasn't easy. I found a website that helped put people back in touch with their family members. I emailed the girl right away and told her my story. Not even an hour later, she called me and told me she found the parents of the man I was looking for. Gave me an address and that weekend, I took off.
I had no idea where to go, what I was going to say. I decided to go the movie route and based my trip off of My Girl 2. So I went to the fire station. Just so happens that the fire chief of that town's daughter knew my mom and remembered her and had even met me as a baby. Before I got the chance to talk to her, I told my story to the fire chief and he knew the parents of the man that might be my dad and tried calling them. They were not home, so he called this man, himself. At first the man tried to deny ever knowing my mom and I asked to talk to him. I cried immediately into the phone and he took back what he said. He agreed to meet with me, gave us directions and the fire chief urged me to come back afterwards to let him know how it went. This was a small town and I'm sure I was the news of it that day, and probably more action than they have had in awhile.
The moment we arrived at this man's house, the moment I saw him, my heart dropped. He wasn't my dad. He had the same features as my father, I didn't see any resemblance. I knew it immediately but I tried to hide my disappointment and I still wanted to meet him. He held a part of my mom's past and I wanted to know everything. Maybe there was a hidden clue, a small part of a story that could lead me somewhere else. He was very nice, scared, awkward but welcoming nonetheless. We all sat in his living room as he tried to tell me about my mom. He asked my birthdate and I could tell he was doing the math in his head. The timing was off. Way off. It didn't add up and he was sorry. We left and I felt just as lost and crushed as I had before. I was so close, yet so far. Back at the fire station, I met with my mom's old friend. She listed off some other names but she just wasn't sure, she thought my dad could be from another town as my mom wasn't in this one for that long. She wished me luck, hugged me, told me I was a special girl and hoped I find what I'm looking for.
A few days after this straight-from-a-movie adventure, that man called and said he'd like to do a paternity test. He couldn't get me out of his head and wanted to know for sure. I agreed right away and he set up a date. Two days before, he called to cancel. Someone was sick or he couldn't get off work. One of those excuses, but it doesn't matter which one because he used the other one when he tried to reschedule. He said he'd call again with another date and I never heard from him again. That was fine, because I knew he wasn't but at the same time I felt unloved and not worthy all over again.
The next year in college, my roommate and best friend convinced me to call my mom and confess that I knew my father wasn't my real dad. I told her I tried to find him, I wanted to find him. My mom had a secret, but she couldn't tell him then and instead told me a lie. She said the man that got her pregnant wanted nothing to do with me and she would never tell me his name.
And then for the next 10 years, I was more broken than ever. My father hated me because I wasn't his daughter and my real dad hated me because I was.
As my aunt looked into my eyes filled with hurt and longing, she couldn't hold back any longer. She wasn't supposed to tell me. I wasn't ever to know....that my father was not my biological dad.
Everything I felt and dreamed as a child was true. A weight was lifted off my shoulders. I was able to breathe. It all became clear. It all made sense, why I didn't look like him, why we never connected, why we never talked, why he didn't seem to like me. Oh my gosh! So this meant, I had a real dad out there, somewhere. I needed to find him. I needed to know everything. I had my aunts and grandmother piece out what happened to my mom after high school, where she was living, names of boys she brought home. Together they put together a timeline for me and I wasted no time.
The internet wasn't as big back then as it is now, where nearly half the world has a facebook account. Finding someone wasn't easy. I found a website that helped put people back in touch with their family members. I emailed the girl right away and told her my story. Not even an hour later, she called me and told me she found the parents of the man I was looking for. Gave me an address and that weekend, I took off.
I had no idea where to go, what I was going to say. I decided to go the movie route and based my trip off of My Girl 2. So I went to the fire station. Just so happens that the fire chief of that town's daughter knew my mom and remembered her and had even met me as a baby. Before I got the chance to talk to her, I told my story to the fire chief and he knew the parents of the man that might be my dad and tried calling them. They were not home, so he called this man, himself. At first the man tried to deny ever knowing my mom and I asked to talk to him. I cried immediately into the phone and he took back what he said. He agreed to meet with me, gave us directions and the fire chief urged me to come back afterwards to let him know how it went. This was a small town and I'm sure I was the news of it that day, and probably more action than they have had in awhile.
The moment we arrived at this man's house, the moment I saw him, my heart dropped. He wasn't my dad. He had the same features as my father, I didn't see any resemblance. I knew it immediately but I tried to hide my disappointment and I still wanted to meet him. He held a part of my mom's past and I wanted to know everything. Maybe there was a hidden clue, a small part of a story that could lead me somewhere else. He was very nice, scared, awkward but welcoming nonetheless. We all sat in his living room as he tried to tell me about my mom. He asked my birthdate and I could tell he was doing the math in his head. The timing was off. Way off. It didn't add up and he was sorry. We left and I felt just as lost and crushed as I had before. I was so close, yet so far. Back at the fire station, I met with my mom's old friend. She listed off some other names but she just wasn't sure, she thought my dad could be from another town as my mom wasn't in this one for that long. She wished me luck, hugged me, told me I was a special girl and hoped I find what I'm looking for.
A few days after this straight-from-a-movie adventure, that man called and said he'd like to do a paternity test. He couldn't get me out of his head and wanted to know for sure. I agreed right away and he set up a date. Two days before, he called to cancel. Someone was sick or he couldn't get off work. One of those excuses, but it doesn't matter which one because he used the other one when he tried to reschedule. He said he'd call again with another date and I never heard from him again. That was fine, because I knew he wasn't but at the same time I felt unloved and not worthy all over again.
The next year in college, my roommate and best friend convinced me to call my mom and confess that I knew my father wasn't my real dad. I told her I tried to find him, I wanted to find him. My mom had a secret, but she couldn't tell him then and instead told me a lie. She said the man that got her pregnant wanted nothing to do with me and she would never tell me his name.
And then for the next 10 years, I was more broken than ever. My father hated me because I wasn't his daughter and my real dad hated me because I was.
The middle.
The middle of my story is a whirlwind with very traumatic memories. My sister's many medical problems left our family broken. Financially and Emotionally. We had no choice but to move from my childhood home and start over. It wasn't a fresh start, though, and it ended after many broken promises that things would get better, after many terrifying nights, after many tears, with me moving out of my house.
My aunt took me in. Saved me. I had freedom for the first time. I felt loved. Yet I still couldn't understand why I was living there. Why I couldn't stay in my house. Why my mom let me go (which I didn't fully realize until just recently) and why my father didn't seem to care. I needed attention. I needed a boyfriend. Two boyfriends. Five. Whatever it took, I tried to mend this broken part of my heart. Other than my aunt, my husband was my saving grace. I knew the moment I kissed him while I sat on the hood of his car that he was mine and I was going to marry him. Sweet, sappy moment: we are still married today and about to celebrate our 9th wedding anniversary. He loved (loves) me, every broken part of me. As I do him, and while our love is strong, it's not always enough.
I questioned myself all the time. Did my childhood really happen? Is my brain really warped and I imagined it all? Was it really that bad? It was and it was made more clear as each passing day, week, month, year went by and being around my father was still just as awkward, he still never talked to me, I still wasn't enough, I still was unloved.
My aunt took me in. Saved me. I had freedom for the first time. I felt loved. Yet I still couldn't understand why I was living there. Why I couldn't stay in my house. Why my mom let me go (which I didn't fully realize until just recently) and why my father didn't seem to care. I needed attention. I needed a boyfriend. Two boyfriends. Five. Whatever it took, I tried to mend this broken part of my heart. Other than my aunt, my husband was my saving grace. I knew the moment I kissed him while I sat on the hood of his car that he was mine and I was going to marry him. Sweet, sappy moment: we are still married today and about to celebrate our 9th wedding anniversary. He loved (loves) me, every broken part of me. As I do him, and while our love is strong, it's not always enough.
I questioned myself all the time. Did my childhood really happen? Is my brain really warped and I imagined it all? Was it really that bad? It was and it was made more clear as each passing day, week, month, year went by and being around my father was still just as awkward, he still never talked to me, I still wasn't enough, I still was unloved.
The rest of the beginning.
I want this part to be over. It's tearing me up. Like I said, most parts will be left out. I thought writing about everything would feel like a release, instead it's like opening a still healing wound.
When I was 12 years old, I got a small keyboard for Christmas. I thought I could write a song. All I needed was this 16 inch keyboard, right? Easy peasy. So I wrote one. I can't remember how it went, probably to some nursery rhyme tune or I pressed keys over and over until they sounded good. I remember I would put stickers on the keys to know which one to press next. I never had piano lessons. The title of my song was Daddy's Little Girl. Sadly, I didn't keep it. I threw it away before anyone could read it, but I do remember the chorus and it went "All I ever want in this whole wide world......is to be daddy's little girl."
That's all I wanted. Desperately. Being in the same room with my father was excruciating. I never had a conversation with him and the ones he had with me consisted of yelling or worse. I hated myself. I hated my mom. I hated him. I never wanted to have friends over, I never wanted them to experience what my life was like. I would lie and tell the story of the dad in my head whenever someone was talking about their family. Father's Day was the worse, I had to force myself to make a card that was a complete lie. I had to force myself to wish him a happy day. I had to force myself to smile while listening to what my friends got their dads, what they did, where they went. I felt jealous of my friends that did not have a dad, which is a very sad sentence to type, especially the ones that never knew him. I wish I had never known mine. Living and growing up in a house without love was painful and caused many scars. I dreamed of running away. I dreamed if I died, would they care? Would he? I dreamed of just doing something so bad they would send me away. But my dreams always brought me back to the dad that existed in them. He kept me going. No matter how impossible it seemed, he just had to be true.
I remember in biology class in high school we were doing Punnett Squares. We would diagram recessive and dominate genes to see the chances of having offspring with different/same genes. Curiously I began to map out my father's and mom's traits. Black hair vs light brown hair, brown eyes vs blue eyes, dark skin vs pale skin. I had every recessive trait. I started looking at my father and grandparents and noticed I didn't really look anything like them. I couldn't find any resemblance. I looked at my cousins and uncle, nothing. People always commented about how I looked exactly like my mom. There were never any comments made about how I looked like my father. For the first time, I felt like somewhere I had another family. How, I wasn't sure, because I have baby photos of me with my father, just a couple. Did he know? Did anyone know? Was this just another wishful thinking I was desperately trying to make happen and grab onto any possibility it was true?
And then...my mom had another baby.
When I was 12 years old, I got a small keyboard for Christmas. I thought I could write a song. All I needed was this 16 inch keyboard, right? Easy peasy. So I wrote one. I can't remember how it went, probably to some nursery rhyme tune or I pressed keys over and over until they sounded good. I remember I would put stickers on the keys to know which one to press next. I never had piano lessons. The title of my song was Daddy's Little Girl. Sadly, I didn't keep it. I threw it away before anyone could read it, but I do remember the chorus and it went "All I ever want in this whole wide world......is to be daddy's little girl."
That's all I wanted. Desperately. Being in the same room with my father was excruciating. I never had a conversation with him and the ones he had with me consisted of yelling or worse. I hated myself. I hated my mom. I hated him. I never wanted to have friends over, I never wanted them to experience what my life was like. I would lie and tell the story of the dad in my head whenever someone was talking about their family. Father's Day was the worse, I had to force myself to make a card that was a complete lie. I had to force myself to wish him a happy day. I had to force myself to smile while listening to what my friends got their dads, what they did, where they went. I felt jealous of my friends that did not have a dad, which is a very sad sentence to type, especially the ones that never knew him. I wish I had never known mine. Living and growing up in a house without love was painful and caused many scars. I dreamed of running away. I dreamed if I died, would they care? Would he? I dreamed of just doing something so bad they would send me away. But my dreams always brought me back to the dad that existed in them. He kept me going. No matter how impossible it seemed, he just had to be true.
I remember in biology class in high school we were doing Punnett Squares. We would diagram recessive and dominate genes to see the chances of having offspring with different/same genes. Curiously I began to map out my father's and mom's traits. Black hair vs light brown hair, brown eyes vs blue eyes, dark skin vs pale skin. I had every recessive trait. I started looking at my father and grandparents and noticed I didn't really look anything like them. I couldn't find any resemblance. I looked at my cousins and uncle, nothing. People always commented about how I looked exactly like my mom. There were never any comments made about how I looked like my father. For the first time, I felt like somewhere I had another family. How, I wasn't sure, because I have baby photos of me with my father, just a couple. Did he know? Did anyone know? Was this just another wishful thinking I was desperately trying to make happen and grab onto any possibility it was true?
And then...my mom had another baby.
The beginning, continued...again.
I'll spare you the dirty details. Some are just too painful to type out. Some are just too heartbreaking. There are some significant times, and I'll share those. Or as much as I feel comfortable. I don't want anyone reading this to cry, or feel uncomfortable. There will be some uncomfortable moments, they are needed to fully appreciate this story.
Growing up was...rough. My mom worked full time, sometimes held 2 jobs. I barely saw her during the work week. I was left alone at an early age and left alone with my toddler brother well before I was capable. My father couldn't keep a job, unless you count drinking beer and smoking a job and then he was the employee of the month. There were drugs involved and for the longest time I thought cookie sheets were only used as a tray to divide, measure and roll them up. The drugs, obviously. My job was to stay out of his way, make sure the house was cleaned, and not do anything to upset him.
I don't remember much before my brother was born, but I do remember after. I felt like that was a turning point in my father's relationship with me. I didn't know why at the time, as I was only seven but something changed, something bad. As I'm typing this, I am trying to remember any real, good moments I had with my father as a child. I can't think of a single one. Sure, there were some happy moments, alcohol can make you happy until you hit that point where you either go angry or go emotional. I'll give you one guess which way happened most often. It's said that the sense of smell holds strong in your memory and smelling something again will remind you of that time. The smell of liquor and cigarettes reminds me of my childhood.
Growing up was...rough. My mom worked full time, sometimes held 2 jobs. I barely saw her during the work week. I was left alone at an early age and left alone with my toddler brother well before I was capable. My father couldn't keep a job, unless you count drinking beer and smoking a job and then he was the employee of the month. There were drugs involved and for the longest time I thought cookie sheets were only used as a tray to divide, measure and roll them up. The drugs, obviously. My job was to stay out of his way, make sure the house was cleaned, and not do anything to upset him.
I don't remember much before my brother was born, but I do remember after. I felt like that was a turning point in my father's relationship with me. I didn't know why at the time, as I was only seven but something changed, something bad. As I'm typing this, I am trying to remember any real, good moments I had with my father as a child. I can't think of a single one. Sure, there were some happy moments, alcohol can make you happy until you hit that point where you either go angry or go emotional. I'll give you one guess which way happened most often. It's said that the sense of smell holds strong in your memory and smelling something again will remind you of that time. The smell of liquor and cigarettes reminds me of my childhood.
The beginning, continued.
Have you ever felt like something was missing, even though you had no idea what it was, if it really was, or how it could be missing? Not something small, like a sock...though I do often wonder where all my kid's socks go or why I only ever have one hairbow out of a set, but I'm talking about something bigger. Something missing from your life.
As a little girl, I often daydreamed of a different life than the one I had. A life filled with the parents all my friends had. A dad that would embarrass them while I was over at their house. A mom that cut their sandwiches into hearts and tucked a napkin with the words, "have a great day at school!" in their lunch. My friends came home from school and showed off the things they made and talked about who sat by who during the school assembly. I came home from school and hid from my father, took care of my little brother, cleaned the house and sometimes started dinner. My friends would go off to their after school activities, ballet, gymnastics, basketball, soccer. I had to make sure my little brother did his homework and that my father had clean socks. My friends would sit around at the dinner table, talking about their day, which was probably boring and uncool to them but it fascinated me. They would call their friends on their pink, sparkly phone and lay on their bellies on the bed. I could only have phone calls between a certain time and only while sitting on the floor in the living room, with my father sitting in his chair asking for another beer. Yeah, that something missing was definitely another life. I had to have one somewhere, but I settled for the made up one in my dreams.
As a little girl, I often daydreamed of a different life than the one I had. A life filled with the parents all my friends had. A dad that would embarrass them while I was over at their house. A mom that cut their sandwiches into hearts and tucked a napkin with the words, "have a great day at school!" in their lunch. My friends came home from school and showed off the things they made and talked about who sat by who during the school assembly. I came home from school and hid from my father, took care of my little brother, cleaned the house and sometimes started dinner. My friends would go off to their after school activities, ballet, gymnastics, basketball, soccer. I had to make sure my little brother did his homework and that my father had clean socks. My friends would sit around at the dinner table, talking about their day, which was probably boring and uncool to them but it fascinated me. They would call their friends on their pink, sparkly phone and lay on their bellies on the bed. I could only have phone calls between a certain time and only while sitting on the floor in the living room, with my father sitting in his chair asking for another beer. Yeah, that something missing was definitely another life. I had to have one somewhere, but I settled for the made up one in my dreams.
Monday, October 15, 2012
The beginning.
This is a story that starts out with much sadness, little hope and a longing for love. However, I'll go ahead and spoil the ending for you. It ends with an unbelievably amazing dream come true.
I write this story mainly for me, but also my kids...and a whole boatload of friends and family that want to know the entire story. Mainly for me though. This is my therapy. This is my outlet. This is my life.
I write this story mainly for me, but also my kids...and a whole boatload of friends and family that want to know the entire story. Mainly for me though. This is my therapy. This is my outlet. This is my life.
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