Sitting in My Corner Chair
Where I sit—
In my corner chair,
where I put on weight
and grow out hair—
Watch TV
without a care
sit and stir
and blankly stare
at the blankest page
without a word
just thoughts on things
I may have heard—
I may have lived
if I wasn’t scared
and sat all day
in my corner chair.
Sometimes I wish what I had was as real and tangible as alcoholism or drug addiction: there is something real to battle and win. Instead, I have this intangible illness that affects everything I do, that I can never be cured of, that hurts everyone, and I just have to deal with it until it eventually kills me.
I wonder how many people who have Borderline Personality Disorder die of old age? I know it isn’t impossible, but I wonder what the odds are. Even if they don’t commit suicide, borderline habits can lead to early demise.
Don’t worry: I don’t intend to turn to alcohol. I can’t mix it with my medication. And I won’t turn to drug addiction. I rattle enough as it is, with my daily meds. No, those aren’t the only reasons. My illness hurts those around me enough as it is – why purposely add to that?
All I’m saying is that “15 years sober” sounds better than “15 years off my rocker.”
Welcome to Father’s Day 2019, here at The Band Back Together. Today, we celebrate fathers-to-be, fathers whose treasures who are in heaven, fathers who don’t deserve the title, fathers who have shaped who we are for good, for bad, for life.
Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, Happy Father’s Day.
The Band.
To The Man Who “Raised” Me-
You married my mother when I was barely three-years-old.
I don’t have any memories of that day, but the pictures show a happy little girl. I don’t know what was going on in your mind as you allowed me to grow up believing you were my father.
I’ve seen all the pictures. I know they portray the quintessential American family.
I have memories that tell me those pictures were lies.
On the surface, I never wanted for anything. I had clothes that fit me, food in my belly and most of the coolest toys. What I didn’t have, was you.
Even at a young age, I remember feeling that I was somehow less than my sisters, somehow different in your eyes. As I got older, I picked up that it had something to do with having a different last name.
But I never got any explanation as to why.
I was only nine when you brought your daughter from a previous marriage to live with us. I was NINE YEARS OLD when you and Mom sat us down and explained that you weren’t really my father.
You asked for my permission to adopt me.
A chance to finally be YOURS?! Who could turn that down? Did you realize that I didn’t have the cognitive ability to understand what was happening? Did you know how desperately I wanted to have your last name? To be a part of the family, to no longer be different?
Why you and Mom went through with the adoption, I’ll never know. You were already fighting so much. A mere six months later, you were divorced.
Do you know what it cost me to tell my mother that I wanted to live with you instead of her? Do you realize that my desire to please you, to matter to you, caused a chasm between Mom and me that can never be repaired?
And what did I gain? A step-mother who made sure I continued to feel like less, separate from her family. The privilege of being your built-in-baby-sitter and maid. And constantly being bullied by my step-sisters every day of my teenage years. All while you turned a blind eye.
Somewhere along the line, I stopped trying to win your love and started to seek what I was missing from boys.
Even the negative attention I received when I acted out was better than feeling invisible.
For years I called you “Dad.” I bought you cards on Father’s Day every year, signing them, “with all my love.” For most of my life, I’ve tried to please you. I stood by you when others wouldn’t, and made excuses for you when you hurt others. Or me.
I can’t do it anymore.
I have a son now and while I may not get along with his father, I see what a strong relationship they have. I have removed the blinders – I see that we’ve never had a relationship. It’s not really a relationship if one person doesn’t even acknowledge the other.
So this Father’s Day, there won’t be a card from me in the mailbox. You won’t get a phone call or a text.
For once, I’ll be just as invisible as you always made me feel.
Love,
Me
This month on the Band, we’re sending letters to our younger selves – it’s important and it’s freeing. So please, go ahead and submit your own! (you can even do it anonymously)
We are ALSO looking for stories of brain injuries and other problems with the brain, by request, so please, let us know if you’d like to share.
Dear Younger Me,
I can see you so clearly in my memory. Snuggling up with him in a bean bag chair, watching Duck Tales. Making Chewbacca noises at each other, louder and softer, higher and lower, but always laughing about it. Chocolate pudding to get him to take his medicine. Stroking his hair while he seized, and he seized a lot.
I can see it change you. It made you resilient. It made you strong. It made you selfish and afraid. It made you paralyzed damn near thirty years later when your own daughter had a seizure. Even after helping through thousands of them, you panicked. It’s okay, you told yourself, and you meant it. It’s still okay, with hindsight. I would still panic now. You never wanted children because of him. You were afraid of what you would have to do if they were like him. But his wasn’t a genetic condition. It was the result of a brain injury either shortly before or after birth. Maybe it was a stroke before he was even born. Or the high fever after one of his vaccinations. All theories welcome, because we’ll never actually have the answer.
You lived in anticipation of the next Big Bad, and while you had many good things happen, you can’t shake that feeling. Waiting for the next thing to happen. It’s okay. They will, you know, they will happen. And you will meet them all as they do.
Loved you then, love you now, love you always (even when we forget for a minute).
Me.
On Saturday, a blogger/twitter friend and I decided at the very last minute to hang out for the day. It involved driving 90 minutes one way but it was SO worth it.
I grabbed bagels and headed south, blasting music that *I* like, not being interrupted by “mommy, mommy, mom, mama” and sipping on my *second* chai latte of the day.
Sitting with LM for the next 5 hours and hanging with her adorable son was so much fun. It’s as if we’d been real-life friends forever.
Today’s a holiday from school. I still have work to do. The kid will likely do something bad and make me frustrated.
But I’m going to hold on to that Dose of Happy and make a point to NOT wait 18 months to meet someone I feel like would be a great in-real-life friend.
**************************
What’s your Happy?
Don’t think you have one? Look harder. Something will make you smile today.
We want to know!
Share it with The Band. Find a bit of happy in this Monday!