Dear Angeleyea,

Early mourning......

For myself..

As I left this morning, I heard a mourning dove cooing on the street lamp post in the front of our home.  I had to stop and marvel him for a moment before I left for my busy day.  I love mourning doves.  I used to love to be awakened by them first thing at my grandmother’s house when I was little.

Tonight as I sit watching television, I also notice you smile at the stupid commercials, and silly programs.  

Your smile could light a tunnel.  I don’t see that smile much anymore.  It's been taken from you and I don't know why.

Digging into your sacred niches of sunshine and looting the grin from your face. 

When I say I’m sorry for your sadness, it doesn’t begin to express the depth of my anguish for you.  I feel tired for you.  I recognize the drawn expression etched in your beautiful profile, and I taste the swallow of the tears that pool in the corners of your eyes,

                             burning and flooding 

                             your once rosy cheeks.

Half of you speaks in smiles.  The other half is paralyzed with the stain of your virtue, and the pluck of your shadow.  You are a fragment of the woman you were before that heinous reality of life knocked you down.

I fear you will never laugh genuinely again.   And I hate how your thoughts make you feel knowing that nothing you write, and no amount of tears will ever make a difference , or more importantly.......make you whole.  You're missing something.

Your father will never be sorry.  He will never be a victim.  He will never place value in or around you because he isn't here anymore for you.  I am saddened that his death has stripped you of your charisma, your dignity, and your carefree ability to love without regard.

But mostly,

               I grieve your heart, 

                                   with its relentless beat

that keeps you moving.

Because I know you want to curl up and cease to exist.

And as selfish as it is,

if it did stop pumping,

I would die.

I heard a mourning dove when I left the house today.

I’m sure he was singing your name.

Love Always....yourself.

The letter I never received....

The letter I never received......

While i was sorting through some of my father's old things, i found a letter that he wrote to me. It was very sloppy, but I forgave him of his terrible handwriting. It really bothers me that he wrote this but never had the nerve to give it to me.

Dear Angel,

I wanted to say I’m sorry.

Sorry for yelling.

Sorry for drinking.

Sorry for cursing.

Sorry for giving up.

Sorry for letting my soul die.

I want to explain why I walk away, and why I have to be right even when you're completely right about what's good for me.

It was never anything you did.  It wasn’t what you said.  It was everything you did and said.  I lump it all together, because I grow weary of being wrong.  Not wronged by you, just wronged by circumstance.  I need someone else to blame for every miserable thing I have endured.  You have no choice but to take that brunt.  I gave you no other.

I scream, “I’m the fucking adult, that’s why!”  But the statement contradicts itself, right?

I want to give you advice based on experience.  Mine.  But my advice sounds hollow to you.  How could it not through my drunken slur…..?

I give you everything you ask for, because it’s all I have to give you.  I have done you no favors by doing that.  And if I acquiesce to your every whim, how can you possibly give my bottle the evil eye?  It’s my twisted, manipulative trade off.

I want you to forget the times I have crawled that carpet soaking it with tears, and vomit.   Erase the memory of the wild look in my eyes as I scream, and spew vile profanity.  Try not to remember the times I have cursed God for the rotten things in my life, forgetting your presence beside me, and how that must have felt.

I want you to look at me, at what I’ve become, and take that other road.  The one that leads to enlightenment, and grace.   I want you to be rubber when I shout my injustice into your face.

I want you to know that I want to be better, that I want to thrive again.  And I want you to believe it, even when I don’t.

I want you to adhere to rules, even as I break them hourly.

I want you to have morals, even as I burn my own bridges.

I want you to be stronger, even as I fall apart in the shadows.
I want you to be happy, even as I darken furthermore.

And please, dear child, reject that God awful drug problem that has been passed down for generations now.

As hollow, or drunken, or empty as it sounds, I want to tell you how fucking amazing you are, and that you are the brightest spot in my day, my life.   I want to tell you I didn’t mean those things.  I want you to know your worth, and your brilliance, and I want you to dance in your kaleidoscope of colors.  I want to tell you how much I drink in your essence, your soul.  I want to tell you you mean so much more to me than a footnote at the bottom of a page.  I want to tell you I love you.

I wanted to say I’m sorry.

Sorry for yelling.

Sorry for drinking.

Sorry for cursing.

Sorry for leaving.

Sorry for giving up.

Sorry for leaving you alone to deal with this.

But most of all Angeleyea, I'm sorry for never giving you this letter.

Maybe someday.......I can.

Love Always,

Your Father  

Green screen.

I sit back and watch you stumble from room to room, face yellow with the pallor that has become you.

Mouth drawn, eyes rolled at half staff.

It makes my hair stand on end.

You're a cadaver-weaving with toxic legs.

I don't want you to go to bed, I'm afraid you may not wake up. I know at some point tonight I'll have to leave you to your hallucinations while I revisit mine.

I finally go home, lay in my bed with the lights out-feeling so completely empty.

I remember when I was just a little child I would imagine that there was a man at the end of my bed, in plush armchair, knife in fist.

I knew that if I would scream out to you, you would just ignore me.-I keep my mouth shut.

It was hard to sleep when you were walking the walls with your hands, reading your way through the house like Braille, knocking off pictures, breaking lamps.

You use to be strangely calm as you told me there was no one at the end of my bed.

Come to think of it, there was a night when you crawled into bed with me and described your fears to me as a child. You were drunk with prescription perdition, and you told me things no 8 year old should hear, much less comprehend. 

As you snore, there is a raspy, frightening sound. My heart raced because I was terrified you would die and the man at the end of the bed would get me. I would lay my head on your chest. You felt bone thin from drug abuse. There was no cushion where you breasts should have been, only skeleton. I would reach up and twist your hair with my thumb and index finger. It broke of in my hand, crunching under the weight of my tender touch.

Looking down, I could see that the man was motionless.

Expressionless.

Mute.

I'd drift off to sleep.

I don't remember how old I was when the man went away. I think it was the night that Nathan beat you and you were laying on the coach, blood soaked.

Hours later I would come back to you, awakened again by the incessant screeching of  your voice.

Second battle.

One night.

After I finally fell asleep, you gathered up me and Amber. She was in infinite slumber, unwilling to rise for you. We got to the neighbors and you told me that everything was okay. I was inconsolable, snot bubbly, hiccupping, bellowing shrieks.

That night you were sober with fear.

I next night I begged you to keep the light on, "Because the man watches me all night."

You were exhausted, took your apology in pill form, and passed out. The light from the hall glowed eerily against his face.

He never moved. Never breathed. Never spoke.

But this night he looked me dead in the face, whispering trial of tribulation, slow motion. Strobe lighted pictures flashing before me of my life to come; and empty house with no one there. Reels of tape replaying my future at 9,12,15,18. Me in the foreground, in front of a green screen. I watched fascinated, no longer fearing this apparition. Because the knife was not for me.

It was for them.

After his gaped-mouth silent shrieking, and what I can only describe as spontaneous combustion, he disappeared without so much as a smoke trail. There was a lonely pace at the foot of my bed. Empty, and vast. A puddle of tears where his chair once sat.

It would only be a few years into the future when I would realize that night was the night that I lost my best angel.

Damaged is what you feel, not what others see.

I get a little tired of hearing about how people hate this side of me and what it is and what it's not. It's been a bit of a cradle for me actually. For me getting over myself and the loss of my father. It's been this way for quite a while now. Blogging has honestly been the only way that I've been able to let out how I feel without the awkwardness of talking about it with family. I know that eventually they will all stumble upon my blog sooner or later and they'll know exactly how I feel about everything.

Getting out my frustrations isn't what i love about blogging, it's that strange ability to reach out and touch. It's that way of reaching out that you can't do face to face with the people who you know needs to read them. The ones who can't quite picture who I'm becoming or who I was.It's not that they don't love me, but all too often they feel that I should be subject to their limitations, just because they are. When i blog, people can interact with who I am, right now, in this moment and this typing.-Interact is my word today.

So, here I am in the process of shedding a death, a loss.- That's the nicest phrase I can make for myself right now. It's a thing that everyone will have to go through at some point. I know that I should keep my feelings in my own mind, and in my own moments, but I think that one day I'll be able to look back on all of this and just see how much I've changed when my world fell apart.I did the counseling thing for far to long and it didn't do me any good, so honestly, this is my medicine.
I use to be the "giver" as well, so these past few years have been hard for me to become totally independent. But I have to be. It helps me to develop some of my own rules; these rules of which I hardly abide by but I like to think that I do sometimes.
So..if it's alright, I'll loan mine out to you. Hopefully you can use them.

I remember the couple of weeks of counseling I had, they had me write a list of the "rules" think I should follow to make myself become happy again..blahaha.
I just found this paper while I was cleaning today and I couldn't believe how much I've neglected what I planned to do. But grieving is about plans. I just thought I should share.

The Rules Of Getting Over You, Dad.

1. Try not to fall in love. It will just be a response to needs instead of a thing based on healthy and ready, and who the other person is.

2. When you feel really lonely, see rule one.

3. Remember that the people around you are more than listeners. They also have normal lives full of things less painful then yours. If you listen, they will take you into other places and you can leave yours behind a while.

4. Remember it is not your job to suffer. Hurt is a feeling. Suffering is a choice. It will feel totally stupid to go to that party, or that dinner, or that movie when you just want to cry. But by going you have chosen something besides that suffering. It does not matter where you go as long as it's healthy.

5. Your real friends love you even though they know you well. Trust that. You do think they are smart. Lean on them sometimes.

6. mourn sometimes. Watch the chick flick and let it out. Don't make it a habit. Don't hold it all in either. Tender can be good.

7. Remind yourself that you are also every beautiful, every loving, every good thing you did. It's easy to feel the failures now, and to hear the words you shared last. So it's fair and right to look at all the good things you were as well. Because you are still that person too. That love, that beauty was also you. Fight to keep those things close.

8. Remember that damaged is what you feel, not what others see. They see you as whole. They will treat you often as if you are healthy and complete. It's really hard to believe, but they are the ones that are right. Damaged is what you feel, not who you are.- Of all of my "rules" I still try to follow this one...although I'm not very successful.

The pain only a mother can inflict

Again.

You lost it again.-my respect. It's not like you've had it in the past couple of years. But I've lost what little respect I did have for you. You call me and text me begging for help and telling me that you love me and miss me and that you wish that I would come around to see you. It bothers me that I can't help you financial because I can barely help myself. I can't bring you back to happiness when I can't find my own to begin with you. I can only guide you to where I want you to be but in the end you will always stray away from me. I've tried to let you go and to get over the fact that I can no longer have you unless I accept the drugs you take. I can't just do that. How can you expect me to go through this cycle over and over again and still love you as much as I did before. I'm the only one of your children that ever stands up to you. Honestly is not something you can deal with.


Every time I try to help you, you curse me for merely "being." You've forced upon me tears of confusion, and I swallowed them, choking on the swelling wound in my throat.
You never apologize or offer explanation for all of the things you've put me through.. You've relished in hurting me, and you wanted to feel victorious and bitter at the same time.

As the years are wearing on, I cannot rationalize any of this. The truth is, I can't move the unmovable. I can't light a wet log and make it burn. Yet through all of this shit that you put me through, you still force me to go through your vile past and I'm stuck trying to reverse the karma that is surely suffocating you.


If only the thought of me caring could make you happy....


Our relationship is like a cut. I can't wait for it to scab over from the previous slash to my morale. Yet you pretend nothing happened and you talk to me about ordinary things, looking past my hollow eyes, weakened spirit, and stringent smile.
You feel satisfaction from making sure I cry over you.
You feel justified in hurting me.

I know at some point you wanted to reach out, it stitch this wound, to dress it, and then obliterate my stinging memory. The mark that you've made upon my psyche is likely irreversible, and scarring.

But you'll never care about me.
You gave up on that a long time ago while all along I've been hanging onto you in hopes to make you change.
But I can't change you. And I nearly choke on my words when I talk about this.

I wish that I could be your pulse, your pillar, and the mother to your wounded childed. Somewhere along the lines I realized that I can't fix what you've already done; I am your child. All this time I thought that by taking care of myself it would have made your life easier, but you actually took advantage of me in the sense that you quite caring; I was my own mother.

You probably don't care that you've deeply destroyed me; yourself. If you cared, even for a day, an hour, or a mere moment, it would cause your heart to deflate.

But somewhere in your foggy mind you admire, idolize, sustain, and glorify the very essence of me.

But I'll never truly know that, for you hide it in the far away recess of your mind.
You'll always swallow that pride, and grit your teeth against your own justification, chewing that curdled, god-awful hate that squeaks repulsively against your teeth. I will never be like you. I will never have to reminisce in your indifference.
You swallow the little bits I of what my soul use to be and you don't even give a fuck.

In my mind, I swore it would be the last time my complete unsoundness would overrule reason. I promised this the moment I saw my fathers beautiful face disintegrate under the weight of his indignity. And furthermore, when I turned to you and stiffened my shoulders trying to make it through the pain of my heavy steps, you caught the glisten in my eyes and told me you were done; that you had learned your lesson.

How many more inadequate amends are you planning to carelessly dump into my relentlessly forgiving lap?

To think, it all began when I was just a little child; lips quivering, shoulders quaking, tiny hands wringing, terrified essence, as you scream to me at the top of your lungs to ease you pain and to make it stop. I never learned until now that it was you inflicting the pain onto yourself this whole time.


That makes me feel less than zero.

It ends now.

Other lives, unkown.

Tonight I lit a candle, which I rarely do anymore. The thought of how much you hated them still lingers in their sweet smell. Laying in bed, I watched the light from the candle play tricks on my eyes. With each flicker of the fire, you were dancing on the wall in front of me. I seen the demons in the shadows devour you as the gust of wind overpowered the light that you had so creatively brought to me.
Now that I'm sitting in total darkness, I can't seem to get myself to go to sleep. I miss the warmth from the candle. I would have re-lit it, but I don't have anymore matches.
I've been seeking ways to relax lately; bubble baths, aroma-therapy, all that stupid shit that doesn't work. It only makes me feel good for a little while but it never fully puts my mind at ease.
Tonight I drank a glass of toxins that made me quiver from the terrible taste left on my lips. At times I can't seem to feel my legs and my eyes get heavy but your still on my mind. I couldn't stop thinking of you so I poured more into my glass and sure enough, you were gone. Never had I felt so peaceful until another gust of wind blew through my curtains and for some strange reason, it made me think of you; that in some way you were dancing among the aroma left in the room. So now I'm writing this and I'm kind of here and kind of not. I hope I'm not creating an addiction worse than you. It only makes my emotions about you stronger.
Tonight I found that I'm not a social drinker and never will be.
Instead I feel like if I ever drink another glass of poison I might start to think you're here again so I won't stop. Because honestly, it brings your memories closer to me and although my anger goes away, the pain does not.
It can't be possible that I'm like you.

Hey dad...

You have been on my mind a lot lately. Thinking about life and what it was to you; what it was to me.
You loved me like no one else and yet you hurt me like no other.
I remember all of the times when you would drive all the way over to my mom's just to get me to go out to dinner with you. It was so greedy of me to say no. We both know that you were trying. It was just how you were. I felt so mad at you when you were there and I often wished you would leave me alone just for a few weeks...

But then I also remembered the pain of separations and the defeat I felt when you would no longer fight for me. It was during that week that I wanted to let you see that I wanted to come home. But you left me anyways. Three days, four, seven, fifteen.

And then on Easter you came back for me and it felt as if we were never apart. I felt safe, but I don't know why I didn't get in the truck with you to leave. I don't know why I laughed with you and smiled but then I said goodbye. I don't know why. But from that day on....I didn't see you anymore; at least not until the day before you died. That was the last time.

You would never just calm down..you would never just rest, even briefly, for you have far more important things to do with your days. You made me smile and laugh like a father should. I love you. There is a special love a daughter has for her dad, a love that stays branded on her heart and in her memories. They are words that matter only to me. You always had a warm heart with me.
But when I left for Spring Break, I came back to you after doing all of the things I could do in my time off, but your time was up. You were cold. Unmoving. No breath, no sweet words. Just you staring blankly at the wall with fixed pupils & blue lips. I wonder if you tried to call out to me and all you could muster was the expulsion of fluid from your lungs, with your last breath. Did you say my name?

A cruelty. An injustice. You were everything to me. I tried to breathe the life I once knew into you, but I felt your soul pass me as I pounded on your chest. I would have tried to grab it, to force it back, but I would have fail.

Over 3 years have passed. There are days I don't think about it at all. Hardly. Not every hour at least. And there are nights where you haunt me in my dreams, never touching me or knowing me. I will cry out for you to see me, but you walk on as if looking for something. Or someone. I am broken and empty without you.

I look for you in every man, every woman, every child. I struggle to remain upright. I won't take the easy way like you. You swallowed my soul when you swallowed that lethal dose.

I take my face out of the jar everyday and no one ever knows I'm upset or in pain. Not really. Because if they did, they would take advantage. Make me feel better. Tell me it wasn't my fault. Make me love myself again.

I will not let this loss ever happen to me again because my heart has been stolen by you, tattered and bruised in it's casing, and I wait, futile in my efforts. But I wait.Yes, I will wait for you to give it back to me.

How could a father steal from his own daughter.
You stole my heart & soul.

I still love you with all that I have left. Goodnight.