In an ode to that blogger whom described the actors in her life.... (I just like using whom sometimes)...
FATHER: born in late october in maybe 1937.
I have decided to start with him instead of whom you might assume I would start (my mother). In the bardo/book of the dead, I hear that IF you make it through the first six gates/levels/tests without raising your hand and calling bullshit...
the last 'chance' (so nebulous and likely inaccurate. I don't really know how to describe it - all apologies.) is to pass these gorgeous, sexy creatures who are tempting you soooo much. You absolutely want to fuck them. If you are a female, you fuck your father and are reborn. If you are a male, you fuck your mother and you are reborn. New life, back in the game.
People have written novels about their fathers. I will try and write a novella for you here tonight. Mark is asleep on the sofa and some radio station with classical-like music is playing. I just turned off 'garden state' because it didn't end after n. portman tapped in front of the fire.
I am stalling.
First, I feel I must tell you - get it out of the way - (as if I haven't told you a million times, however) my father molested me. I wonder if when I have told people that if they think that my father had intercourse with me.
He did not. He touched me in the bed. First time I pretended I was asleep. Second time, I moved over. (I was in the king size bed with he and my stepmother. I was nine-ish). Third time, I tactfully said that I'd like to try sleeping in the upstairs bedroom.
To this day, a silhouette of a man in a doorway will make me scream if I am startled awake. My father told me that swedish fathers trained their daughters for sex in this manner. I told him that I didn't want to do it. He said OK, and it was never repeated.
This event has made everything I have ever done in my life a scream. As you can imagine. Or could you imagine. My mother (who learned when I was 28 and it couldn't hurt me - said she understood).
Honestly. You can't.
My childhood ended there, and I knew what true betrayal was and that nothing was absolute.
But I don't want to present him like that. He is much more than a molester (even though I haven't spoken to him since age twentytwo - and that was under family pressure.)
He was the firstborn of three sons. His mother, gladys, had wanted a girl... so the third child, my uncle bobby was dressed in girl's clothing until he was three or four. The middle child, jean, was gladys' favorite. He died of leukemia at some young age. He had a child named benjy. I have never met him. He is my only cousin.
My mother married my father because she made him laugh. She could have had anyone, but life gives us what we need to grow.
My father was a baptist minister. They lived in dudley north carolina - near pickles.
Mark is awake. He is peeved at me for some reason.
I have ruined every relationship with men. Mark says it is because I want to allure men and then hurt them to show my father how much he hurt me.
I could buy that.
My father was a big cheater. My father and I are both scorpios. My mother was in teacher school and she tested our iq's (meri, billy, daddy, and I). I was highest, daddy was next, then meri and billy the same.
My high iq has been like a limp tampon dragging through my life. I'm OK with it now as I see it means only that you can see a bit more of the darkness.
My father is an un-medicated (from what my brother and sister tell me) manic depressive. He is a smug white chip recovering alcoholic (probably a bigger chip now).
I loved him more than anyone. Even after the incident, I loved him to my core.
When he left my mother, I was four. He gave her the book 'johnathon livingston seagull' by bach. It is a family legend and oddly, she still has it.
My father was a truck driver, a shrimper... an insurance salesman. He was good at all of these. People liked him, but very very few ever got close to him.
He met two of his wives in AA. He met my first step mother, ann at a club i think. She was ballsy, an aries, and wealthy. She tried to control him. She bought a beach house at folly beach. I used to sing to the ocean from the balcony. When it was destroyed by hurricane hugo, my friends from college partied in its shell - bonfire, marshmallow chasers, bonding, one fifty one.
That was an aside.
My father is currently a contractor. He is a craftsman. He makes beautiful things. He has excellent taste. He paints. He is an art collector.
His fifth and most likely last wife is hiv positive and sweet and dumb. Her name is jean. Daddy lives in west palm beach. Uncle bobby is sweet and large and lives there too.
I hope I haven't bored you.
I honestly don't mind if you never read any of my words.
I wish Mark weren't so deceived by me. I really don't mean to be a monster.