I do not write this story for sympathy or pity. For long ago that time has passed. I only write to help cleanse my soul, make me laugh, tell silly dog stories, cat tales, or just simply to write. My therapist tells me to empty myself of that which torments me. As if by doing so will somehow make me free. Seven years with her and I still have my doubts.
Although he was able to show two personalities, my father was a raving bastard. A screaming demon, as we cowered in terror, at his uncontrollable rages. I am his daughter.
When he was feeling particularly evil, he would further terrorize my sister and I by threatening to give us to the maintenance man: “that nigger JD”, a sweet elderly black man who might have been the devil for all we knew.
He was basically a hillbilly from Northern Alabama, from where he spent his entire life running….running….running from his past. Did he think no one has shame? That no one has secrets?
My sister would get strawberry cream pie from Frisch’s. I never did. To this day, the site of it swirling in their cooler makes me want to vomit.
If you met him in person, you’d never know it. He was talented, brilliant in math, admired by many and as evil as Satan.
My mother, incapable of defending us against this madman spent her life running….running…..running from the Nazis…..We were a sad and broken household. She drank and ran the vacuum constantly. To pipe down the pleas of her children and the screams in her head.
I was the first, but only by mistake. In the 50’s abortions were clothes hangers, something she never failed to gleefully remind me of when the madness of the the two would combine to torment me, for I too, inherited the insanity.
Often I wished the witch just would gone ahead and done it it. But then I think of all I would have missed: my dogs, my cats, my yard, the friends I have, the things I’ve done.The Monarch that is peacefully resting on my screen. All has not been lost in my world. I have two personalities, just like he did. While he would see us starve or walk naked before wasting a dime on us, lest it be to impress his friends, he could be so charming. She could be so admired. And so it was.
When you grown up lonely, you learn to be alone. I guess that’s why the peace of the MileWoods, the smell of of my pets, the majesty of that which grows give me solace.
Pray ye, pity me not, for being unwanted has developed in me a compassion that may not have taken hold. My brother, the golden child, spoiled from day one, is now the father of at least three children by three different woman, worthless, yet still worshiped.
Twice in the rehab-liked it so much the first time, he sucked money mother again for a second ride. It would surprise me not at all if he were begging for a third trip.
No one ever said the world was fair. That we would be somehow given all we had hoped and asked for. The One who created us all gave me the gift of pen. It is a great gift. I don’t always know how to use it, but it is a gift. Language. Easy for me to learn. Culture of others, I respect. Notwithstanding my upbringing, I am neither bigot or a racist. Surely these things must count for something.
The One gave me my daughter, and the one who helps me raise her. I have not always been successful, many times I have failed, but the gift was given. And I have tried.
I was given Jackson. Hadji, Piggy, Brodie, Teddy, Carmen, Jessica, Truman, Walden, Macie, Beckett, Beloved Bodie, Naughty Sugar, Kenzie, all the travelers on the Underdog Railroad who found a good night’s rest and a hearty meal here.
Perhaps when the time comes, there is a God, and his proxy asks “and why should ye enter”? The yelps of joy from the Bridge will be my key. For I wait to smell that sweet fur again more than all things. I want to ask the man whose number I wear lest no one ever forgets: “Tell me about yourself. No one ever did”.
I was given children to teach. Laoshi! Laoshi! Teacher teacher ! They would squeal. To this day they remember. Bowing with honor, they were my biggest fans. From me may they have learned much. To be certain much I learned from them.
Nothing pleased me more than chasing the Great Satan, Michal Vick off the field. Where he went, we followed. To be banished from his website, Facebook Page. Even Nike’s page! To be known well as his enemy. I may be a crackpot and played not a whit of football, but I along with my sisters, were badder any line that guarded him. BOOYAH!!!!
Pity me not. I am stronger than you think. This day I read a story of a woman who lost her beloved. She takes dinner to her and dines at the grave site, tells her of her day. This is the love that somehow I missed. That the cold in me longed for. But I am glad to read of it. Glad to know it is there. Glad to know someone was loved. And loved so well.
Peace be unto all of you my beloveds. Peace.