Sunday Scars

Sunday afternoon, I just woke up after a great nights sleep. I intended on sitting down and getting on with my writing (if you recall I said at least one or 2 hours daily. OK I have already missed 2 days.  Yesterday I finally got off my ass and began to clean out the apartment.

When I was home a few months ago after relapsing and going into a manic state then of course depressed as all hell.  I began buying all these little candleholders and just plain stuff. It makes me feel better when I can shop. It is sort of a high (something that I will be paying for until I either meet a prince or hit the lottery). I am so amazed at how I creative I am becoming or maybe that isn’t said right. Anyway, I feel that I want to be apart of something.  I am not hung over today; I am not desperately on the hunt for someone to love me to validate me as a woman. It feels odd and very grown-up.
I know that I was talking about my first child and “the baby daddy”.  We will get back to that but as I sit here I am reminded of my own daddy. He died last year and as luck would have it I had not seen him in 20 years and I had been searching for the past ten years. When I received a email from a lawyer telling me to contact her directly. I knew before I even called. Some months earlier I had sent him a letter to a post box that I had come across. I really didn’t think anything would come out of it.   Most of all I did not think that I would receive this dreadful call. He was dead only a week before he got the card. He was trying to contact me already through the same attorney. That gives me some odd comfort.

peek at my writings

My dad had many sides to him but the one I liked best knew I was his little girl and it showed whenever you saw us together. It turns out he was Bipolar and later I found she was also hearing things and listening to voices. This is very difficult to write, I write I stop cry, I write. I had known that he had to go away every now and then. My first memory of that and I think his first time “going to rest” was me coming home from school and in the front yard was my mom crying. Since they fought a lot, maybe I should say he beat her often I was used to it. But then I was only able to get a quick look at the figure lying naked on the grass and these men trying to get ahold of my dad. I was terrified. I had blocked this out for many years and so did the rest of the family. Upon his return from these “rest stops” I always came home to find something new for me, a princess bedroom set, record player. Keep in mind that this is the 70’s and my family was struggling to be middleclass. I don’t recall ever feeling poor back then but that is from a child’s eye. Now I just see how they wanted to just be middleclass.
We moved between Oakland CA, the Bay Area and LA. 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s