The Mask

I've spent much time in writing this blog, thinking about the person I was, the person I am, and the person I want to be. When I read sixtyfivewhatnow, I often wonder how I will choose to spend the latter years of my life. I have done so much, been through whirlwinds; how will I face my future? I think it is the wise thing to wonder and plan, I think it is the normal thing to do. I remember when I was younger, I thought I could live life as a chameleon, being what people wanted (see: Big Bad Wolf); but truly it was more than that, I wore a mask.

It seemed so harmless at first. It began with little things to help me fit in. I had grown up a tom-boy; it was a natural progression as I have no sisters and many brothers. I climbed trees, I wrestled, I belched. So, as I got older, I began to realize that I wasn't like other girls, and in my entrance into adulthood I decided to ease my way into femininity - to be normal. I started with weekly manicures. I sat for hours while a woman in a dust mask filed my nails, glued on tips, and polished them to perfection. I hated it; it was expensive, I couldn't move the entire time, and they were hard to type with. But I got compliments, and I liked those. Then I began working out twice a day for five days a week. The changes in my body were incredible. The men at work became drooling dogs, and I was happy about that.

Things escalated from there; there were hair pieces, spa treatments, and costly makeup. Then there were the clothes. The corsets, and flirty suits, and skin tight dresses. But it could not have been complete without the attitude, the body language, the belief that I was better and held some kind of power over men that I never actually used. I was constantly at odds with myself and the person I genuinely was inside was losing ground every day. I felt cold inside; the men I dated were pawns in my game to see how far I could get them to go for me. How could I get them to prove their devotion? How could I boost my own ego while lowering theirs?

I recognize now that in a way, my treatment of men at that time was really an attempt at getting revenge against my father. But in that moment, I only knew that I derived pleasure from it.

One particular person I met was unexpectedly sweet and real with me despite being an award winning director of commercials. He didn't treat me like property, but like a person; not like a goddess, but like a mortal. At first, this meant nothing to me; everything he knew about me was a lie - he never knew my real name or where I lived or who my family was. I never cared for him - he was just a way for me to spend my time; watching him spend money on me was a sport. It was all manufactured; from my feelings for him down to my false finger nails. It was all a trap for my own amusement.

One day, as I was sitting on his couch, he got down on his knees. He told me how much he loved me, and that he would always love me no matter what - no matter what secrets I was hiding from him, no matter who I really was inside, no matter what I wore or looked like. Something inside me cracked. He had gotten through. He was the only one to realize it was all a false front. He was the only one who actually wanted the real me.

After spending the rest of the day with him, I ran. I stopped taking his phone calls and I was relieved that he didn't really know where I lived. I wasn't ready to face the truth of who I was. I had become some beauty whore - some glamour monster - and although I knew it, I didn't want to give it up. I kept seeing him though, in my mind's eye, down on his knees, so sincerely professing his love for me, and a part of me grinned - this sadistic evil grin of satisfaction, thinking of how I must have broken him when I walked away.

But there was another side of me, the side that hated what I had done, the side that knew I couldn't keep up this act. The side who knew I had violated everything good and holy about my being - and that side was fighting hard to regain control.

A year later, after I returned to myself, I called him and invited him to dinner - my treat. We talked, we laughed, and I apologized. It was hard putting down that mask, but once it was off, I vowed to never wear it again.

Tomorrow, Prom Night. . .

Detour: A Friend Gone

Some days I feel as though I have more questions than answers. I suppose that there are times when everyone feels that way; how will I go on, what's next, who will stand with me when I'm weak, where can I go to escape this madness, why is this happening????? Sometimes we question ourselves. We question who we are. This leaves us vulnerable to the abrasive forces outside of us; wearing us down little by little until we either become secure in our own skin or break. My best friend came to such a decision in her life and I was causing the abrasions.

I remember my first day of High School. I met so many people; short, tall, black, white, etc. Each one I met with an open heart and mind; they were each my friend unless proven otherwise. I tried to figure out where I would be the most comfortable, which clique would suit me best. Because most of my classes were of the nerd variety, advanced english and science, I was immediately drawn to groups of studious kids. Kids who instead of going to the lunch, would prep the biology lab, kids who hung out in the counselors lounge, kids who used their spare time to do homework just assigned.

But there was another side to me besides the over-achiever, there was the artist - the poet. I chose to write for the school paper and magazine, and I wandered the halls writing poems in my notebook. I was still stifled by my emotions surrounding my father's abandonment, traumatized by the early separation from my mother, and highly protective of myself due to my mother's domestic violence experience. And so, there was a facade of a social butterfly that I wore like a mask, because it protected my softer insides from hurt. I wasn't sure if I could survive any more damage. Pouring out my feelings about my past, my present, and my future seemed to put me at ease, and although I was fearful of letting someone close enough to the real me to be able to hurt me, I was eager to find a kindred spirit.

Most of my friends at the time fit into a clique; nerds, jocks, metal heads, artsy kids. I liked to float from group to group, experiencing new things, expanding my limited horizon, creating an image of myself that encouraged people to believe I was cool. Then, one day I met her. She was a transfer student and shared a few classes with me. We began our friendship by sharing answers we had for homework and debating whose answer was more right. Slowly, I began sharing my poetry with her, and she began sharing her writing with me. I had finally found the person who I could be myself with. We visited each other’s homes; I remember lying across her bed and reading poetry to her. I remember sharing lunch near a pond in a park. I remember visiting the museum and discussing the modern art pieces. Once, on our way from the museum with a group of friends, we crossed through a park. I was wearing a blue lace dress and cute flats. We were laughing, and running, and talking; and suddenly, I decided to climb a tree. My best friend screamed at me to get down, and then broke into a laughing fit. I ripped my dress getting down :)

We continued that way all throughout High School. Sharing our most intimate secrets, the issues troubling our minds, and our hopes for the future; this was every day conversation - as if our words could somehow change things, as if they could combat our demons and make our dreams materialize. As we prepared for college, I felt closer than ever to her. I loved her like the sister I never had.

One day, my mother and I returned home from shopping, and she said I had mail. Looking at the envelope, I could tell it was from my best friend, I had no idea what it could be. I read the letter as I entered my home. It made me swoon; I ran to the bathroom with tears streaming down my eyes. I cried for almost an hour, rocking back and forth on the toilet with the door to the bathroom locked. When my mother knocked on the door, I could barely move my lips to tell her clearly that my best friend no longer wanted to be friends with me.

In her letter, she told me two things which shocked me: 1) She was a lesbian 2) She was in love with me. She didn't want to be friends anymore, because amid all of that laughing, and talking, and sharing, I apparently said something hateful about gays. I was devastated, had I really been intolerant at some point? Me, with all of the friends from so many different backgrounds? I hated myself. I didn't care that she was a lesbian, I didn't care that she was in love with me, all I wanted was my friend. I wanted to be able to talk to my friend. She was all I had in the world that was so like me. She was my crutch against the outside, and I loved her, but now, she was gone.

I learned about the weight of words then. I learned to measure them carefully.

Tomorrow, the Mask. . .

Stalked

In reading One Smarmy Mama yesterday, I realized my own sense of the value of words. The weight of words, the power of words - how they can destroy and build. How many times have words destroyed my own world? How many times have I used words to build that world anew? This constant recycling of reality is normal, and although I should take measure of my own self-worth from within, it is often the words of others I use as supporting evidence in the on-going trial against myself. And once in a while, I lose the trial, then words have nearly become my executioner.

It was words that started this mess, in Moving On I was asked to troll the internet in search of a woman for my boyfriend and me to share. I did this obediently, but often I would come across other men in my search, Most of these men I ignored, but after a while I began to crave conversation with others. I wasn't speaking with my family, my boyfriend and I had no conversations other than those relating to sex. I was lonely. I wonder how many tragedies start from loneliness?

On the internet I met a man who seemed to be ideal. We talked about baseball, his divorce, his children. It was refreshing to talk to someone about their life; someone who seemed to care about what was going on with me. He lived far away, and for me, that was great, because the temptation to cheat was minimalized by the distance. As the months went on, the more disillusioned I became with the person I lived with. All of the love I had inside that I wanted to give, was slowly being shifted, like weights on a scale. My affection was being shot out through electricity traversing wires composing the internet. This man on the internet was responsible; he had children, he was a contractor for the DOD, he owned a home. I was impressed; but relationship-wise I was a child. The man I lived with was only my second boyfriend, and I had no clue what it took to maintain a healthy relationship. I only knew that I wanted affection and attention, and at the time, I didn't feel like I was getting it at home.

Eventually, my internet friend and I started calling each other. We would talk for hours while my boyfriend was at work. I would tell him of the growing pains my relationship was going through, and he would tell me about the struggles he was having with his ex-wife. It was comforting. Eventually, he would let me speak to his children, and girl and one boy. It felt as though we were building some type of virtual family, and it made me feel warm inside. Then a day came when my boyfriend decided to thoroughly review the phone bill. He found my new friend's phone number and asked me who it was. I lied. I was too weak to tell him that this was a man I talked to to feel normal, and not like some janitor or sex slave. If I had to do it again, I would have told him the truth, but this is a lesson I only learned through the rough hands of experience.

He dialed the number. The voice on the other end was a recording repeating a message that included a name. I stood there terrified, wondering what my boyfriend would do. He asked me once again who the voice belonged to. I said an uncle. Then the conversation was over.

My virtual friend and I talked for years. When I moved out, I decided that it was time for us to meet in person. He came by train. It was awkward, us seeing each other for the first time. I quickly acclimated to the new sensory information he presented, but he was clearly nervous. As we made our way back to my place, I was talking up a storm, but he struggled to make conversation. I was worried, I wanted my friend, the person I had known for years, to be comfortable with me. I didn't understand what the problem was. Was I ugly, fat, tall, short. I had no clue why he clammed up.

When we arrived at my home, we slept on a blow-up mattress together (I didn't have a bed then). There was no touching, no kissing, no nothing. This increased my worry. In the morning, I began preparing for a party I was throwing at my house while he watched baseball. Then, suddenly, he came into the kitchen and started telling me he didn't expect me to be as tall and big as him. I felt hurt to the core, but also, I thought it was strange. The wording. . ."as tall or as big as me". . .not, I didn't expect you to be so fat, or ugly, it was just strange. As my friends started arriving for the party, I confided in one of them what my internet friend had said to me. She was a young, beautiful, French woman. She told me that I should march into the living room and kick him out, but I refused, standing there in the kitchen crying on her shoulder.

People came and went all day. My last guest arrived at 3am. It was an epic party with 70's music, a disco ball, a strobe light, alcohol and food. By sunrise, my internet friend was ready to leave. I never expected to hear from him again.

A few days later, when I was coming home from work, I saw him. . . but it wasn't exactly him. I had happened to glance in his direction, and when my eyes happened upon him, fear pierced my heart. He was in disguise! He was wearing a wig, something on his skin to make him appear darker, and ice blue contacts. But his nose, his very unique looking nose was the same. I stared and stared, and although I was afraid, I didn't quite know why. I wondered why he would be here when he lived so far away. I wondered why he would be wearing a disguise. I wondered why he didn't talk to me. When I got home, I examined these thoughts over and over again, until it finally hit me, he was stalking me! I was too afraid to move. I knew what he did for a living, the weapons he had, I immediately thought of his words, about me being as big and tall as him. Those are the words of someone who is planning to attack, the words of someone who has decided the direct approach wouldn't be best. Beads of sweat ran down the back of my neck and my hands began to shake. I knew that I didn't have anything to go to the police with, so I waited.

Every day, I had visions of him attacking me from behind, or breaking into my apartment and assaulting me. Every day there were things missing from my apartment, underwear, household items, things were moved. . . Finally, one weekend, I went away, when I returned a lock on my door was broken. I called the police and asked them to write a report, but there was no solid evidence and they did not dust the door for prints as I hoped they would.

I lived in fear for my life every day. I prayed to God that this man would not take my life. Although he never touched me, there was something inside me letting me know that he wanted to hurt me. Instinct, that nervous twitch I get when something is about to go horribly wrong. I felt like an animal in a hunter's crosshairs.

I had my locks changed, I changed my route home frequently, and I slept with a weapon. After a year, that feeling of being watched went away. I was able to sleep again.

Tomorrow, The Other Men. . .

Life In Prison

I've come half way in my journey to find normal; I've come half way in unearthing the bits and pieces of me that resemble other beings. This excavation is tough, for the earth is unyielding and my tools are dull. But the rewards are great. Burdens are being lifted, the fog in my mind clears, my soul unfolds and the ice in it begins to melt. It may be 30 days of rain/tears, but, much like this coming spring, I will soon have the internal climate allowing for blossoming, and when I bear that fruit, I will share it with you as I have shared the persistent desolation that has plagued me. The desolation of tragedy, the desolation of fear, the desolation of life in prison.

Yesterday, in Taken, I described my entry into foster care. It was from the eyes of a 7 year old. Things seemed to happen without reason, or much fanfare. It seemed incomplete, and was incomplete, because in my mind at the time pieces of the story were missing - and pieces that were there were interpreted by a mind without the tools to comprehend such adult matters.

We had been shuttled to an elderly couple who would care for us over the next two years. From the beginning, I knew things would be horrible. We were split up. My youngest brother was given a bedroom on the main floor, while my other brother and I were sent to sleep in the basement. It was a dry well finished basement, but it was lonely, and cold. Worst of all, my brother wasn't with us.

After a few days, we had our first visit with our mother. She came into the agency looking like a broken woman. We cried when we saw each other. We hugged, we held, we held on so tight, we held on to become one with her again, we held on to alleviate the grief - to share the sadness - to heal the wounds. She tried to explain, in her best adult voice, fighting back tears, why we couldn't be together. We spent our hour well, coddling each other, and when it was time to go, all of our hearts sank. We left first; we piled into a car with the woman who would care for us from now on. There was traffic, so it was slow moving. I looked around, and I saw her, my mother - stumbling down the street, clutching concrete walls, tears flowing down her face - and my heart exploded with tears and sobs I can't reproduce this day, but try to - because they come whenever I remember this vignette of loss. The woman who was to care for us looked in the direction where I had my attention focused, then she looked at me, grabbed my chin, and said, "Don't you dare cry for your mother!" I was stunned. Eventually, we began having visits without the woman.

Watching my brothers run to my mother crying out "Mommy!" as she walked through the doors to the agency hurt me as much as being away from my mother. It was my fault we were there. It was all my fault. To make matters worse, we were actually being abused at our foster home.

My 5 year old brother who was about to turn 6, was told to memorize all 50 states. When he couldn't do it he was told to tear a thin branch off of a tree and he was beat with it. Our new caretakers had teenage grandchildren who would come, tie my brothers to chairs and duct tape their mouths while I looked on feeling helpless in that cold lonely basement. Once, the woman of the house beat my brother down the flight of stairs leading to the basement. I watched him tumbling, tumbling, down all those steps and I cried. We weren't allowed to take baths or showers unless it was the day before a visit, other than that we had to use a sink to wash up, which I had never done until then. I didn't know the word then, but I know it now, it was humiliation I felt.

I reported these things to my mother, and she gathered evidence, my soiled underwear, bruises, scars, and she reported the woman. On that day, when we arrived back to our temporary home, the woman met me in the basement, "How dare you tell them I hit you and that you don't bathe!" She snatched me up by my throat and I dangled like a rag doll in her hand. I couldn't breathe. She said more, but I couldn't hear anything except the sound of my heart racing. After a few more seconds she let me go and went about her day like nothing happened. Later that night, I was abruptly moved to a finished room in the attic. Now I had no one to share the long nights with.

Every night, every single night, without fail, for 2 years, I prayed to God. I didn't want to spend my life in this prison. I prayed to be returned to my mother. I prayed that God make our family whole. A few months after my 9th birthday, He did.

This experience, truly prepared me to deal with my nieces situation in Temporary Housing. It's why I couldn't sit back and let them be subject to strangers, who may have hurt them as much, or if not worse, than their parents. I knew what it was like to be in a prison, and I wanted them to be free. . .

Tomorrow, Stalked. . .

Taken

Yes, normal exists. We are living normally, we are examining the world with curious eyes and open minds, wondering, questioning. As the book suggests, many of us Eat, Pray and Love. Childhood is our kiln; we bake until hardened. We ripen under the sun and grow from love. And so, now I can accept my own place in this world, my own normality; now I embrace it, because I remember grabbing a jar of crunchy peanut butter and sitting down with my brothers and digging spoons into the jar. We devoured the peanut butter, our bellies bursting, and I thought, "I never want to see peanut butter again." What is more normal than that? But sometimes interruptions come. Sometimes we are taken out of the kiln before we are done. Sometimes we are removed from the vine unripened, only for someone to tape us back up after taking a bite and deciding that we were bitter. And so, this is how I felt when I was taken.

We were young. My brother was 5, I was 7, my youngest brother at the time was 3. It was a time when we played and laughed and were care-free, and although I had my own room, I would occasionally sleep in my brothers’ room, telling them stories. Trying to scare them so bad that they wouldn't be able to sleep. Tickling them until they begged for mercy. Sometimes doing arts and crafts with them. One night, after a day of crafts and fun, we were cutting out drawings we had just colored, we each got under the covers and we began an epic tickle fight. Rolling beneath the covers, tossing sheets, laughing until we drooled. Then, suddenly, there was a scream, no a shriek. A high, trill sound, piercing me. Something was horribly wrong.

My mother came running into the room. She grabbed my brother from under the covers and examined him. He was cut. She wrapped him in a blanket, threw a coat on over her night gown, and rushed to the hospital leaving my younger brother and me with her boyfriend. In between the hours of her departure and return I replayed everything in my head. We were having a tickle fight. There was paper and scissors on the bed, but the scissors fell behind the bed while we were kicking and squirming. As only a child's mind could, I drew the conclusion that I scratched him with my nails. I bit off my nails as I lay in the bed and cried. It never occurred to me that my brother was cut by the scissors and didn't feel it until after they fell to the floor. No, it was my fault, I was the oldest and it was my fault.

When my mother returned, she wasn't alone, police followed behind her, but there was no brother. The police asked me what happened, I told them the truth as I knew it, that we were playing and I scratched him with my nails. My mother was hysterical. I later learned that my brother had been taken into foster care due to the severity of his injuries. The only saving grace of the situation is that my uncle and aunt were allowed to act as his foster parents.

Months went by, it seemed as though we lived in family court. I was interviewed several times by several people and it was always the same. They would ask me what happened, I would tell them, and then they would tell me their version of what happened. According to my interviewers, either my mother or her boyfriend held my brother down and cut him in some ritualistic practice. I vehemently denied this, but they always 'comforted' me and told me that I didn't have to take responsibility for what I didn't do.

One day, after a grueling interview that lasted for what seemed like hours, my brother and I were herded into a room. When I looked towards the courtroom, I could see my mother being escorted out by paramedics, she had fainted. People were rushing by, my thoughts were a jumble, I didn't understand what was going on. A woman approached my brother and me. She had a friendly face and a soothing voice. She led us away from the chaos of the crowd. We went to an office and she ordered us sandwiches. She explained that my brother and I were going into foster care. I asked if we would be going to my uncle's house like my brother, when she said no, I didn't know what to think.

We were herded into a car, and several hours later we arrived at an older couple's house. We saw our other brother sitting at the kitchen table. The woman asked us if we were hungry, by then it was past 8pm, we said yes. She fed us spaghetti. Silent tears fell to our checks as we ate.

Tomorrow, Life In Prison. . .

Moving On

Normal to EatPB, it's normal. It's normal to eat peanut butter, it's normal to experience love, it's normal to live through tragedy, it's normal to look for others like you. People who you can bond with through the mundane, illuminating, and horrifying. Speaking with my husband yesterday, I wondered if exposing my life stories were helping anyone but me. I pray they do, but I wish I could know for sure. My intention is not only to heal my own wounds through cauterization via this blog, but I also want to reach out a hand to those who feel as though they're drowning in an ocean of their own emotions. I want to scream, "Look at me! I don't know how to swim, but I was able to float to shore, you can too." I want to be a catalyst for introspection; I want to be a warrior for the scared, a joy to the sad, a companion for the lonely. I know lonely well, it's how I felt when I left my second home.

Anyone who has read Leaving Home knows the circumstances of my departure from my mother's house. I moved in with a man 16 years older than me, someone I knew little about, to escape the pressure I felt at home. The first four months of my union to this man consisted of three states of existence for me. I was the home-maker, the sex-toy, and the crying child. Mostly I was the latter. I cried and cried for weeks on end, I had only been separated from my mother once before under extremely traumatic circumstances. I cried so bad at night that he couldn't even sleep with me for the first 2 weeks after I moved in, he slept on the couch with his dogs. I didn't speak to my mother for the first four months of this union either.

Things were idyllic our first year together, at least in my head. I didn't know what it was supposed to be like and my young impressionable mind was open to any kind of treatment. The only thing I wouldn't tolerate was being beat. Fists And Blood was an in-my-face lesson against such treatment. Don't get me wrong, I had standards, I had morals, I had ideas in my head of specific things I would never do. But as the saying goes, never say never.

Looking back through the lens of experience and the filter of wisdom, I know that the behaviors he exhibited were not behaviors conducive to a healthy relationship. The things he asked me to do would never be asked by someone who truly loved me. I was an object to be maneuvered and placed and worked. Some examples of this are: although I received mail there, I was never given a mailbox key, I was not allowed to answer the phone, I wasn't allowed to answer the door, I wasn't allowed to go through any of his personal things. I felt like a figure in a glass menagerie. Not allowed to touch, and only allowed to be moved by the owner.

He would get me drunk and then ask me to do things with him sexually that I didn't have the mental or emotional capacity to refuse, I don't know, perhaps it isn't rape if you're passed out. Perhaps it's less degrading to be violated in every possible place imaginable if you're feeling like you're floating on a light wine cloud. As with most vignettes of life that swim into the foreground as I travel down the road of time, I had a sense of whether it was right or wrong, that innate internal switch with no gray area. Just 'Right' and 'Wrong'. Immediately, as I was walking out of my mother's door, I felt queasy, but I didn't know why. Every day after I woke up questioning, and finally I came to the conclusion that he was morally corrupt, and corrupting my morals.

All of his spare time was spent on the internet watching porn until the wee hours of the morning, and then he would come to me with all sorts of debauchery in mind. At the height of his sexual frenzy, he asked me to find a woman for us to share. I loved him so much; I trolled the internet for weeks trying to find the exact right person. While he was away on a business trip I found the one I was looking for. I had her come over for an interview of sorts. She seemed nice, she was married with a daughter, she didn't live too far away, and she was gorgeous. When he came home, I called her over to introduce the two of them. He was impressed and wanted to hook up that night. When she came back, she and I went to get started while he went online to get primed. When he came in she had no interest in him, she was focused on me and didn't want to change focus. When she left, he was pissed. He blamed me for her dis-interest and he wanted to try again with someone else. Although I told him yes, in my heart I knew I wouldn't do it again. Meanwhile, my new 'friend' wouldn't stop calling for me or unexpectedly dropping by, she became a stalker.

Things continued this way, he would ask me to something humiliating, and I would tell him yes, but never do them. The encounter with my now stalker ended the sexual trust between us. After two years, things had deteriorated greatly. On one of his business trips a woman called and left a message I could hear about how she couldn't wait to see him. When he got home, I confronted him. He said she was trying to break us up and that he would never cheat on me. I accepted what he said, but I had adventures on my own to be discussed in another blog. After some months of me letting off a little steam, I took some time for introspection; I decided to go back to church. I felt my heart filling with an untarnished love, I felt my soul being repaired, I felt my mind being renewed.

I invited my boyfriend to church with me, but he never came. I wanted to be cleansed, I wanted us to start fresh, but it couldn't happen if I were doing it alone. I decided to move. When I told him, he had a similar reaction as my mother when I told her I was leaving home. He had no reaction; either he didn’t believe me or he didn't hear, so when my friends came to help pack my things he was shocked. My 3 year hiatus from my own moral base had come to an end.

In my new apartment I had felt lonelier than I had ever been. There was no mother, no brothers, no lover. And I cried. . .

Tomorrow, Taken. . .

Fists and Blood

I encourage anyone who feels touched by these stories of my life to please click 'follow' at the top left of this page. I would also appreciate any comments you may have, however brief. I respond to every one.

Memories come and go at their own whim, they don't care about timelines, they come when they are called - by triggers, smells, sights, sounds, other memories. Thus, my blog is starting to follow some winding ribbon in the space-time continuum. I hope this does not confuse anyone. Some of the memories that I would like to talk about are not mine to tell. They are memories that happened to others in my family and did not directly impact me, and so they will remain untold, however tragic - but never fear, I have a list, and I will be able to keep my promise. 30 tragedies. A tragedy a day for 30 days. What happens after that, I cannot say. Maybe my light will be extinguished. . . will I go peaceably, or will I leave this life kicking and screaming; life punching me in the ribs until I cough up blood and give up my last breath?

My mother is prolific, in every aspect of life. She thrives in even the bleakest of times, and has an aura about her that attracts people - makes them love and admire her. It wasn't long after my father left that my mother had suitors, and a few years later she was re-married, and expecting another mouth to feed.

My step father was from another country, but had been in America for many years. He was regimented. While he lived with us he reigned and expected total compliance. He was the king and the rest of us were peasants and his word was supposed to be taken even above my mother's. He often liked to quote the Honeymooner's; some of you may even recognize the previous peasant quote from an episode. Bang-Zoom, to the moon Alice, to the moon.

I never liked him. Firstly, I still had men issues from the whole episode with my father. Secondly, I was suspicious of him, probably because of things that happened to me which I will discuss in my last blog. Thirdly, in my mind, no one came before my mother. There was nothing I liked about him; I didn't like his accent because I couldn't understand him, I didn't like the fact that he had no problem walking around me in his underwear, I didn't like his demanding ways, I didn't like the way my mother kowtowed to him. . . I could go on and on.

Once, when I was doing my chore of cleaning the kitchen, he watched over me. As I scrubbed the oven he told me to take it apart and clean each individual piece. I rolled my eyes and continued to scrub; I must have been about 12. He grabbed me by my arm, took off his belt and beat me until I bled. When my mother arrived home, I was on the floor in a corner crying. I didn't hear her stand up for me, although years later she said she had a talk with him at the time. All of my complaints about my step father went unheeded. The under wear thing, which I thought was inappropriate, and the way he talked to my mother. The way he degraded her. He liked to have sex with her with the door of their bedroom open, allowing my brothers and I to have access to visuals and audios that disturb me to this day, so I guess what happened next should not have been a surprise.

One night, there was a shriek. I reluctantly came out of my room to see blood smeared on the white walls, and my mother and step father struggling; my mother caught in his grasp while he was punching her in the gut. She tried to fight back but he was too strong. My mother was yelling for me to call 911, my brothers slowly drifting out of sleep to come see what the matter was. As I approached the phone, my trembling hand reaching out for the cradle on the wall, my step father yanked it out of the wall breaking the cord. My mother then pleaded for me to go to a neighbor’s house. As I ran to the door, my step father followed me, my mother in tow being shuffled along. He tried to block the door, but my mother mustered enough strength to open the door enough for me to squeeze out. I ran, for what seemed like forever. When I reached the neighbor, she called the police. We went back to my house together. When we arrived he had already left.

My mother explained that while my step father was at work she became curious about a briefcase he kept in a closet. It was always locked and he warned her to stay away from it. This particular day, a nagging feeling inside led her to break into the briefcase. What she found were pictures of children, birth certificates, and letters. He was married to another woman in his home country and they had 8 children together. Her marriage was a farce. When he came home she confronted him, they argued, and he hit her with a statue. That's when I woke up.

You might think that this would be the end of the story, but shortly after the police left, my neighbor lined up my brothers and me. She made us stand and face her as she degraded us for not fighting my step father to help my mother. She told us how ashamed we should be of ourselves. She told us we were bad children, and we believed her.

Tomorrow, Moving On. . .

A Lost Father

The longer I continue down this path, the more at peace I feel. Thank you all for sharing this trek with me; this expedition through my mind and soul. I have come to accept that my search for normality is absurd, for the conundrum that is me, the enigma that is me, is the wonder and decidedly unique mystery of us all. Sure, we are all flowers growing in the same patch of dirt, but some of us are dragon lilies, some of us are roses, and so on.  I won't pretend to be as full of wisdom as my twitter mate @rogerpovey, but I know what is true in my soul, and my soul has been crafted by my experiences. My soul has been crafted by the miscarriage of my baby, the death of my uncle, the loss of my father.

I know it is said that memories don't start until around school age, but I have distinct memories of sharing a crib with my cousins - one of them stepping on my head as she tried to climb up the railed wall of the crib to see the cartoons on tv a little better. I have memories of my brothers and I dancing with my mother; day, night, whenever the mood struck her. She would hold us up by our hands and have us step on her feet, and we’d sway around to songs like “Always and Forever” by Heatwave : ) And I also have memories of my father. My own memories, not words put into my head by my mother, but my own picture-thoughts.

It's cathartic, looking back at these thoughts, and deciphering what a young mind can never hope to process. I remember for instance, my father taking my brother and I out to lunch while my mother was in class pursuing her master’s degree. We went to get Chinese food. I liked to look at the red paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Sometimes, afterwards we would go to a lady’s house. My brother and I would sit quietly on the couch while my father and the lady disappeared into another room. My brother and I never mentioned this to my mother; how could a four year old and a two year old know that my father was disrespecting his marriage, hurting my mother, tearing our family apart? I look back on those pictures, I struggle to comprehend them, and I am disgusted.

I remember my brother and I playing, going all throughout the house, poking through drawers and being nosey, while my father sat on the couch watching television - oblivious to the adventures his children were having. In one drawer, my brother and I found some white balls that we decided were candy and gingerly popped them into our mouths. Looking back, I know that they were moth balls and not candy, but there was no one there who cared enough to keep us out of harm’s way.

There were several such instances of my father's brand of neglect. My brother, aka my partner in crime, and I broke open thermometers and liked to roll the mercury in the palms of our hands. I drank a bottle of shoe polish. My father let me walk in the street barefoot and I gashed my foot open - I still have the scar. But in general, the memories of him were memories of a promise breaker. A person who promised my mother to watch over us, a person who made a promise to me to build the bike he bought me, the promise he made to love us - all abandoned at some point during the undertaking. All in various stages of incompleteness.

One night, my brother and I were in our room playing with a picture projector with cartoons of scooby doo and yogi bear when we heard screaming. I can't remember exactly what the words were, but I remember the image: my mother, kneeling on the floor crying, as my father walked out the door. that image of my mother was forever imprinted into my memory. When she realized that we were peeking through the cracked door, she brought us into the dining room, sat us down at the table,  and made us chocolate pudding. Why does this image make me cry. Why am I crying now? I can’t explain what this means to me, I guess it's watching my mother trying to make things normal again, trying to pretend like she wasn't just on the floor crying. We hung our heads, our eyes fixated on the little grey plastic pudding cups, and we scooped the delicious treat into our mouths knowing that something terrible had just happened.

He would come by sometimes, uninvited, and this would always lead to fights. Eventually things calmed down. We moved into a bigger place, with a long hallway outside the door that seemed to stretch on for miles. I had memories of him, my bike sitting in my bedroom, still only half put together so I was never able to ride it, and to this day, I still don't know how to ride a bike. One Christmas he came. He had gifts, he was like a six foot tall slim santa. He put training wheels on my bike which still was unrideable, he gave my brother and I rides on his shoulders, and then he left. He walked down that tremendously long hallway as my brother and I peered from behind the door and decades passed before I saw him again. . .

Tomorrow, Fists and Blood

Leaving Home

First of all, I'd like to apologize to my readers. I feel as though I've been rushing through some of these stories just to meet some self-imposed deadline. Also, I am not going exactly in order, but I am not sure if it matters. I want to give you the same passion consistently, but I'll admit, sometimes it's hard to get in touch with feelings you've locked away long ago. Feelings that have hardened and have made themselves a part of your heart. I visited Simple Simon Says and read an anecdote that made me think, "What if people only knew me during my times of great tragedy?" I wondered what they would think of me; would they think I was strong or whiny? Perseverant or defeated? Maybe I am all of those things, but I think most of all, I am independent - it's why I left home at 19 and never looked back.

I had always been a good student. I started reading when I was 2 and a half. I was very curious about the things around me; I wanted to know how they worked and why they worked. When I was finally ready for school, I read voraciously; completing assignments well before they were due. My school years were littered with gifted programs. My dream was to become a doctor. I remember playing with a little doctor's kit my family had given me for Christmas; pretending to take my brothers temperatures and testing their reflexes with the little plastic hammer. By freshman year of High School I had my life planned out: I would be a doctor by 25, be married by 26, and have a family of my own before I turned 30. It makes me smile now, it all seems so ludicrous. As I recently told one of my younger brothers stressing out about college, life comes whether you are prepared or not, and my life at that time came rushing at me.

My father left when I was five (we will explore this more tomorrow), and my mother had been a single parent for most of my life. There were times when she worked 3 jobs at once to make ends meet; after all, there were 4 children to feed. For a while, my mother carried the burden of our family on her own, but as I got older and wanted more things - like to go to the prom - It became evident that I needed to help with that burden. I began working just before I turned 17. Somehow I managed to juggle my school work, home life, and job. I was able to pay for some of the things I wanted and could help out a little with household expenses. I felt like an adult, taking care of my responsibilities.

Senior year, college applications sent, responses received. I sent out 10 applications. Of all of them, I received one acceptance, to a prestigious and very expensive school. At the time I was so happy, I never thought about how it would be paid for.

Going into the admissions office, I felt a sense of pride, of the thousands of people who applied to this school I got in. I was pre-med, just as I had planned, but there was a price to be paid. I graduated High School on a Friday, and started a pre-semester workshop for college that Monday. There was no summer vacation. No time to gracefully finish a maturing process that happens when one leaves High School. I dove in head first, inundated with Chemistry, Literature, and Calculus. That summer, there was only school to think about.

My first official semester, I went to the bursar's office to pay my tuition. Even with the scholarships, loans and grants, there was still a hefty cost. I didn't have the money to pay for the school and I only had 2 weeks to get it. My first thought was to ask my mom to reach out to my dad for the money; this was naive of me, I know, particularly considering that I hadn't seen him in over ten years. News got back to me that he wouldn't pay for my education. I was devastated. Somewhere in my heart I thought I might have made him proud of me, proud enough to want to be a part of my life again. In the end, my mother had to borrow the money from God knows where, but I knew I would have to pay my own tuition going forward.

That semester I started with one job. One job became two jobs, and two jobs became three jobs. I was pre-med with 3 jobs. It was insanity. It just seemed like I had so much to carry; my tuition, helping with the household expenses, and meeting my own personal needs (books, transportation, etc.). One job was at a quasi-fast food joint, another at an art company, and yet another with a well-known social club. On top of that I had extra-curricular activities with my sorority of sorts.

Changes began to come, first slowly, then rapidly. I began having panic attacks on my way home. One was so bad, a stranger offered to assist me. Then I began lots of under-age drinking with my friends. One night, in a cab, the cab driver began talking to me. He wanted my phone number. I didn't want any trouble so I gave it to him, at the time I was too green to think of a fake number and name. He called and called but I would tell my mother to say I wasn't home. Finally, he had a friend of his call, and I began dating the friend. So at the time, I was dating, had 3 jobs, was pre-med, and had just been elected president of my sorority. I was fried.

It all stopped, or more accurately, I stopped. I stopped working, I stopped attending classes, I stopped doing things I loved. When I went out with my boyfriend I would cry when he drove me back home. I felt like going back home was equal to putting a 1 ton weight on my chest. It was unbearable. I couldn't face that place, I didn't have the fortitude. Finally, he asked me to move in with him, and I said yes.

We planned it for February. We had only known each other for 4 months and I was moving in with him. He worked in IT and was 16 years older than me. That is about as much as I knew about him at the time. One day I casually mentioned to my mother that I would be moving; I'm not sure if she didn't hear me or merely dismissed me, but there was no reaction.

Then, the day finally came. My friends came over to help me pack my things. My mother wanted to know what was going on.  Again, I told her that I was moving. She was furious. She called me a jackass, a bitch, a slut; she called me every name she could think of - I was stupid for moving in with a man I knew nothing about - I was going to be hurt. I watched her sit at the dining room table and cry. Cry to heaven, cry to God, but my heart was ice. I left, and I would only return to visit.

Tomorrow, The Loss of a Father. .

The Accident

The comments I've been getting and the direct emails have all led me to one conclusion: There are people out there, who have been touched, and want to touch others - ease their pain and load. It's such a wonderful feeling to have that knowledge. It makes me smile to believe that this is part of normal everyday behavior. It gives me joy, that things as mundane as peanut butter, and work, and school, are not the only normal everyday activities. Loving, is also a part of that equation. Most have a natural love for their parents. Most would crumble upon seeing one of their parents in pain.

I was very standoffish from my family at one point in my life. No calls, no visits, just me working and going to school. It was mundane, and I was happy, because my life has always been filled with such drama. I wanted to have a bit of peace for once. I just wanted life to leave me alone.

It was Sunday, and I received a call in the middle of the day. My mother was in the hospital, she had been in a car accident 2 days ago. She had been in the hospital 2 whole days without any of her children knowing. I rushed there and found her in a bed. A rod through her right ankle used to hold up her leg, a seatbelt bruise across her chest, her teeth shattered, her femur broken in 3 places; but she was alive and she was awake. I couldn't hold myself together. It was torture watching her in pain and so banged up.

For the next few days my brothers and I were in and out of the hospital. One night around 2 o'clock in the morning she called me and said the doctors wanted to give her a blood transfusion, but she didn't want one - and if she had to have one she wanted blood from me or one of my brothers. I called my brothers and we rushed to the hospital. They wouldn't let us see her because it was so early in the morning. We were helpless, we stayed for an hour or so, and then we each went home. The next day I dragged myself to work. It was difficult managing my responsibilities there and trying to keep up with the needs (physical and emotional) of my mother. I drifted into a deep depression.

When my mother came out of the hospital, I couldn't be there for her. I was fighting myself to get out of bed in the morning. I was forcing myself to go outside. I went for days without using my voice, not talking to a soul. The longer I stayed in the depression, the worse I felt, because I knew my mother needed me and I wasn't there. I was in some sort of death spiral and I didn't know how to stop it. I had always been the strong one for my family; coordinating events, making sure people had what they needed, and now I was useless.

The accident took away my mother as I knew her, it took away my sense of my mother's immortality, it took away my ability to function for a while.

One day I awoke and decided to have an internal dialogue with God. I needed guidance and faith. I decided that I had to be stronger than my circumstances, no matter what they were. Little by little I began participating in life again, more so, I began spending time with my mother and supporting her in her recovery. I tried to invite her out whenever the mood struck me. We would have dinner, go to the movies, go for walks in the park. One day, she told me that the times I would call her for us to do something together were usually times when she was at her lowest. Times when her pain was so excruciating she didn't want to live, by then she had developed RSD ( Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy Syndrome) as a result of the trauma from the car accident - RSD is a complicated reoccurring pain disease that is incurable.

It brought me joy to know that I could help her in that way. I knew she needed support emotionally; she was going in and out of the hospital since her accident due to pain. I thanked God that I could be there when she needed me despite the emotional distress I felt watching her deteriorate, because I knew that no matter what, we would have each other.

Tomorrow, Leaving Home

The Big Bad Wolf

I've been reading blogs; sixtyfivewhatnow, non linear thinking, land of shimp. . . I've peeked into other people's lives in an intimate way. In a way I haven't peeked into some of my own friends lives. I've read stories that convince me that although each of our journeys is different we are all the same inside. What does that mean? Are we all normal, or are none of us normal - and more importantly, does it matter? Once upon a time it mattered, it mattered enough for me to want to cause my own end.

How do you sum up heartache, karma, your own self destruction? How do you tell a story in a few paragraphs that weaves throughout your entire life? How do you tame the big bad wolf enough to get him down on paper?

There was a pinnacle, a time when I felt at my physical peek and my mental low, it was the perfect storm. The perfect time for me to fall. I was working for a large firm in the financial industry, one particularly filled with people who embodied bravado and self-importance. I had a sense of pride working there, then that pride turned into conceit. I was a wall flower who had blossomed and then over-bloomed. I went from staying home and painting - never drinking, to attending company get-togethers and having drinks after work, and finally going out dancing and dating almost every night of the week. But I had this weight inside me, a voice, it kept telling me that no matter how much others thought of me, no matter what I did, no matter where I was, I would never be good enough. I would never be truly loved - the best I could hope for is that people might want me. I'd play this dialogue in my head day in and out, the soundtrack to my thoughts was "Jane Says" by Jane's Addiction. The movie of my life was "Eye of The Beholder". I had a whole world in my head of excruciating emotional pain. Pain I wanted to "share" - inflict on the source of my pain, men.

Sometimes this meant dating men for months and months and withholding sex, only to break up with them - they would never hear a peep from me again. Sometimes it meant creating a lie of love, where I would do all I knew would allow them to fall in love with me, but not me, really a character I created in my head. One who had all the qualities they wanted - and usually that character was nothing like the real me. She was someone I created through getting into the psyches of my victims and wearing their desires like a second skin. It didn't matter what they wanted, I would be that for them. And when I felt like they were engrossed with this false love, I would crush them like little bugs, and leave them. Some would get on their knees declaring their love for me, some stalked me, some cried. It's what I wanted. I wanted someone to cry as much as I cried, I wanted them to feel as worthless as I did. I wanted to devastate.

None of them ever really knew me. Most never even knew my true name, or where I lived - they never met my family. I was a piece of fiction, and although the men didn't care in the beginning, I tried to make sure that they did by the end - that was the only way I could get my satisfaction. It was an addiction. Crushing the souls of gorgeous successful men was delectable. It gave me temporary reprieve from my own pain.

One night I was with a man I had been dating for a few months. Sitting on his couch sipping wine and staring out of his window. He asked me what I was thinking, and I told him that I wasn't one of his patients - he was a published psychologist - oh, the irony! Then he told me how beautiful I was, how I had the shapeliest legs he had ever seen, how much he wanted me. It fed my ego and the wretchedness in me. It was what I lived for. He had a tendency to take it to the edge when we had sexual contact. We did out of the ordinary things - partially because I didn't want him penetrating me. He often got S&M-lite on me. That particular night my spidey senses were tingling. I felt strange, extra drunk, it just felt like something wasn't right. Then he kissed me, and began choking me. After a few minutes he stopped and I went to the restroom to compose myself. On my way, I saw handcuffs and a big sheet of plastic crumpled up in a corner. I felt queasy inside. I had been tied up before, but I had no idea what he planned to do with that plastic - it was creepy. That was enough for me. When I came out of the bathroom I excused myself, stumbled down the stairs and out into the street frantically trying to hail a cab. My mind was racing, I thought about all the times languishing in his bed at his home and beach house, listening to other women leave him messages about how much they wished he was there, and how I laughed at them. I thought about how superior I felt. Now I was in a cab fleeing from him. I knew I had to change.

I searched my contacts and actually gave some of the men I dated face-to-face apologies for breaking their hearts. I stopped dated for a year, and I did a lot of soul searching. When I decided to get back into the dating scene, I changed the type of person I dated. I focused on what was on the inside. That's when I met the man I thought I would marry. I liked his spirituality, his work ethic, and I loved the way he treated me. We created new experiences together that were joyous and wholesome. I was happy, for once in my life I was happy. I was normal. On one of our dates, I told him how happy I was. I told him I loved him, and he told me how beautiful I was. Uh-oh, I made a mistake. A few days later he called me and ended it.

I was devastated; I had literally dreamed of marrying this man. I loved him, I wanted him to love me. I fell into some vast gorge of hurt. I didn't want to live, I didn't deserve to live, and this was exactly what I deserved for what I had done all those years. For all of the hearts I crushed. For how cruel I was to so many. I grabbed every bottle I could find in my medicine cabinet and swallowed. Sleeping pills, cold medicine, anything and everything, and I laid down on my couch. It was midnight.

As I began drifting off, I heard the doorbell ring. I staggered to the door - it was my mother. How did she know? What was this? I let her in and I told her that I had broken up with my love. She made my some soup and watched me slowly eat without saying a word. I kept thinking, "I don't want my mother to wake up to a dead body". I was fighting to stay awake. I went to the bathroom and tried to throw up. Nothing came out. All I had was shear will power, I didn't want to tell her what I had done and be rushed to the hospital. That was one of the longest nights I’ve had, but here I am today - my mother saved my life.

Tomorrow, The Accident. . .

A Lost father - The Second Coming

So, I have finally been assured by a reader that I am normal; this is exciting stuff! Why is it that it's so easy to feel as though no one shares what you perceive to be your abnormalities? Do I really want to be unique so bad that I'd rather be perceived as abnormal? Is my striving for normality some false plight, some invented struggle? Perhaps. . . I know, for instance, that there are many women with daddy issues, so that must be normal.

This is not a story of death, despite what the title sounds like, it may as well be, but it isn't. It's about emotional loss. The loss of someone who's inherent duty, from the time you are born, is to protect you - to love you - to guide you. My father left us when I was young, but that's "A Lost Father - The First Leaving", remember, we are working our way backwards in time. After that, we were estranged for many years. I told people that he was dead. He didn’t exist for me. The men I dated, my co-workers, my friends, they all believed he was dead.

My brother decided he would reach out to my father via an aunt we still kept in touch with; my father's sister never made excuses for him. It often felt as though she loved us twice as much to make up for my father’s absence. Upon contacting my father, my brother reported back to me. He had re-married and had 2 sons. We had more brothers! I was conflicted, I wanted to know my brothers, but I wanted to keep far away from my father. I decided to wait and see what my brother's reunion was like before I attempted one.

My brother went to visit him, it seemed as though the reunion was luke-warm at best. My father blamed the situation on my mother. He said she was crazy, but my question was, why would you leave your babies with a crazy woman? Why would you not come to see about your children in 20 years? Why would you just leave? My brother spoke to me about his experience, and then ended our discussion with some advice, advice I had heard from the few people who knew that my father was alive. He said that I needed to try and repair the relationship with my father, that I had to be the one to reach out, otherwise I would likely not have a successful relationship with any man. My brother knew my history, I would get into relationships, and when things were at their best, I would run like a scared rabbit. I wouldn't accept gifts, phone calls, or visits - I would cut the unsuspecting victims off entirely. So, maybe my brother was right, maybe I should reach out to the man who changed my life in ways I was still discovering.

I made a phone call. He wasn't home, so I left a message. The sense of anticipation in my heart was overwhelming. I felt shaky and nauseous. When he finally called me back, the conversation was short. He said he would be in town visiting my aunt. I invited him to have lunch with me, just he and I, trying to hash out our difference in this intimate restaurant meant for happier occasions. I had a few weeks to prepare for the visit. It almost felt like I were about to go on a big day; spa treatments, hair appointments, manicures, extra work-outs, teeth whitening. I wanted to show him what he missed out on, what a great woman I had become, how successful I was.

When we met at the tiny stone restaurant in the park I recognized him immediately; he was a little grayer, but he looked like the same man who walked out the door and down that very long hallway - the man who never came back. We sat down and ordered a cheese and fruit platter along with coffee. He asked me what I did for a living, I told him that I was in the financial industry and preparing for another job. He told me that I should settle down and find a career, that I wasn't getting any younger. Right away, I felt insulted, I was making lots of money, not having a hard time finding jobs, and was living on my own without anyone's help, and immediately he begins critiquing me. I told him that he had no right to criticize anything I do because he wasn't there to help raise me, and that I had worked hard to get to where I was. I wasn't on food stamps, I didn't have any children, and I was living life and traveling around the world on my own dime.

It was downhill from there, but he asked for another meeting the next day; he'd bring my new-found brothers along. I invited them to dinner at my house. When they came, I was happy to see my brothers. They were tall and handsome and well-mannered. I made steaks and vegetables and rice. My father said they weren't allowed to have sugar, or second helpings of food. It was so hurtful to see the way he protected them, so hurtful to see his concern for them - even in that miniscule way, knowing how he'd abandoned my brother and I. My pain was so deep. It was like a black rotting seed veining through my body with darkness surrounding. Inducing thoughts of bleak self-hatred.

When they left, I knew I couldn't speak to my father again, I knew I couldn't experience that level of self-loathing again - it would destroy me. I had to look inside, and find something that made me worthy, something that would kill that spark of emotion slowly destroying me like ivy climbing and expanding in brick walls eventually turning them to rubble. And that something wouldn't come from my father, it couldn't come from him. It had to come from me. I knew, I had lost my father again, in my mind he would go back into the murky waters of death, and there would be no return or resurrection. He was gone.

Tomorrow, The Big Bad Wolf

The Death of An Uncle

Travelling back in time, your thoughts become clearer on the situations you've been in. Is it embellishment? Is it the benefit of hindsight? This is a natural phenomenon, it's something I think everyone does, looking back and thinking of the things you wished you would have said or done. Things you thought you said, but didn't. I wish I could go back and say the things in my thoughts, especially to my uncle who passed, and that feeling is only normal.

My family is so huge, sometimes we lose touch with each other. I had an uncle who lived four states away that I met as a teenager when my mom tracked down her father. He was so cool - he wasn't like any of my aunts or uncles I grew up with. He was candid, he shared stories with me of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. He taught me life lessons and a bit of tolerance. And like I said, he was cool :) He was in a rock band, but he also had a steady job with the military. He loved children, but he dated strippers. He insisted on order, but he looked like a hippie. That was my uncle.

I met him, we hung, and then, like that, we lost touch. Somehow life had gotten in the way.

He reached out to me again years later, he wanted help re-decorating his house. Every weekend I'd take the over 3 hour drive; and we'd paint, we'd laugh, we'd talk. He'd tell me of his lost love as I reached into his refrigerator for a beer; pictures of my uncle with strippers - nude and partially nude - staring back at me. He'd tell me about going into the desert on a vision quest; peyote, sweat lodges, shamen. He'd tell me of concerts he played, bands he'd met before they became famous. Those weekends were treats for me. Like little candies I got to eat for the price of painting, which is something I love to do. I didn't want the project to end, but it did, and then the visits gradually stopped.

Sometimes we would email each other, but it wasn't the same. I would often think about him; his words, particularly about his lost love, they haunted me. As it is the case with life though, years passed, days coming and going without recognition of human contact with one I cherished in my mind. Then a phone call, "Your uncle's in the hospital - he's in a coma."

Over the Thanksgiving weekend he had slipped into a diabetic coma, thankfully a neighbor found him - his neighbors loved him and watched over him like hawks protecting their nests. I drove to the hospital with my then boyfriend, now husband, and we wondered what condition he would be in when we got there.

Walking into the hospital room and seeing my uncle with the respirator was startling. His eyes were open, but it was like he wasn't there. He was swollen, he was still, he was silent. No more talks. No more stories. No more life? Family and friends, we all spoke to him, we all wanted to feed him back the stories that he had given us, and nourish him with his own wisdom and love. Back at the bed and breakfast, in our little room, I cried with a flood of emotion I didn't know I had, feelings that I did not want to share with my boyfriend, a person I wasn't sure I was going to be with till the end. I wanted to hold back, but my heart wouldn't let me. The grief was too strong; and yet. . . I was comforted, I was held, there were words soothing my soul.

My boyfriend and I travelled back and forth twice, sometimes three times a week, waiting. While we were home, my mother called and said my uncle was conscious - I was so thankful. We went back, and there he was, so surprised and happy to see me. I introduced him to my boyfriend and we all began talking, sharing stories and laughing again. He wanted us to fix up his house. We decided to paint the interior of the entire house and renovate the kitchen, while others in my family did the rest. Once again, I was travelling back and forth, this time, with company.

We would work on the house during the day and visit my uncle at night. He'd ask us to bring him pizza, and Chinese food, his lesson not learned. Maybe more so, he just wanted to live his life, and that meant eating what he wanted to eat. We'd show him pictures of our progress. My boyfriend would rub his feet with lotion and we would both help him stand up. Sometimes, I would leave the two of them alone, and they would talk. After a couple of weeks I confessed to my uncle that I was thinking of ending my relationship. He held my hand and looked me in the eyes and told me not to. He said, "That man loves you, don't be like me, you have to do what's in your heart. It will be a mistake."

Eventually, my uncle was well enough to be moved to a rehabilitation center. He began walking on his own again, and was on his way to returning home. I guess that's why it was such a shock when I got the call that he was dead.

It was so final.

Chaos ruled my brain, I didn't know what to say, do or think, but I knew one thing - I would go to the funeral. Many family members had passed, and I avoided their funerals, but I would go to this one, I can't explain why I chose my uncle's funeral to be the first I had ever attended, but I knew it had to be.

When we arrived, there were a crush of people and cars, tears were already welling in my eyes covered with dark sunglasses, and my mother was being held up by my brothers. So many people loved him, so many people with warm memories. My only regret, it wasn't the funeral he asked for. He sincerely wanted strippers at his funeral who would through thongs on his casket as it was buried. He wanted a party.

Tomorrow, a lost father - the second coming. . .