The WayBack Machine (Archives)

You know you want this cute little button! Grab it!

For Women

Overshare much?

I’m guilty of oversharing. I’ve gotten better as time goes by, but I was always one who laid it all out there for everyone to see. Don’t get me wrong, everyone has their secrets, as they should, but for the most part, I am an open book.

One of the main reasons for this is because of how my father’s illness was treated. The situation always seemed to be hushed, the truth swept under the rug because it was awkward and uncomfortable to talk about. Besides, you just don’t talk about such things in mixed company. I don’t blame them for being that way. I understand.

But I can’t be that way. I always felt that had we been more open about the truth, as uncomfortable as it was, we would have been better able to work on it, fix it, make it easier for the world to understand. Then maybe I wouldn’t be sitting her, typing about how I still haven’t figured out my feelings on my father’s death…Over 8 months later.

He really was an enigma to me. Which means, ultimately, half of who I am is a mystery. I think part of what bothers me is that it was such a fucking waste. That gets thrown around a lot, whenever someone dies young. My dad wasn’t young, but he wasn’t old and he could have had a lot of years ahead of him. I also feel like he just took 10 years to die, because what he was doing after his attempted suicide certainly wasn’t living. I get really angry, but then feel relief at the same time.

Angry because I was never able to really tell him how I felt, but relieved I’ll never have to tell him. Angry that he hurt me and my sister and was never ever held accountable for it, but relief that he will never have the opportunity to apologize. Angry because he will never know his granddaughters, but really relieved that he will never know his granddaughters. Because now I don’t have to explain to them what’s wrong with him. Although on the flip side, when they ask, I’ll have to explain anyway (one day).

I’m angry that people treated us like trash because of something we had no fucking control over. Angry that they looked down on my mother when she didn’t create me out of thin air. Just fucking angry.

But I can’t let that bring me down. I can’t wallow in the deep end of poor-pitiful me. I’m an adult and should have moved on. It’s hard to reconcile, though. No matter how many times I try to remember that what has happened to me has made me who I am, I still get angry because no child should have to deal with that. Then, I just get sad.

Leave a Reply

You can use these HTML tags

<a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>