I have said often that no man on the planet gets the honor of breaking my heart because my father shattered it before my 5th birthday.
In a federal prison until I was 16, then piss drunk every time I saw him for the next 15 years, I honestly don’t have a word to say of him that could be considered complimentary. Of course, that did some damage to my inner workings, and I am the first to admit, I have daddy issues and they ain’t the kind you throw a band-aid on.
I Just Want Some Nod of Approval
While my father was locked up, he obtained a masters degree. Due to prison programming, he was able to teach a few Literature courses at OSU. Having been a poet since the moment I was born, I tried to show my father my poetry a few times. He was less than impressed, to put it mildly.
I have been writing professionally for over five years now. I just started sharing poetry in the last two. Not as a “do you like it?” sort of sharing. More of a “can you see my two middle fingers from hell?” sort of sharing.
So, of course, if I am involved with someone, they had better be my biggest fan. It’s a prerequisite. If you aren’t cheering my column from the front row daily, you aren’t performing a major portion of the role. I’m already cutting you loose, if that’s the case.
I Just Want to Feel Safe
Dear Baby Jesus, my momma sure could drag some trash in off of the street. Any two bit, dope dealing, piece of shit from the bottoms, they were stepdad material in my childhood.
Of course, that meant I spent a number of years in some bad scenarios at home. I’ve outgrown the worst of the PTSD, and left the majority of the trauma behind me.
However, I still am terrified of the dark. Yes, genuinely, at 43, terrified.
This also means that if you bring a giant man who plays the protective role into my life, I’m instantly head over heels. It has done a major disservice or two over the periods of singledom, because no sooner than I am holding my own and treading water, some giant man who likes to tussle shows up and I am talking about changing my last name.
Unfortunately, the men who solve problems with their hands, sometimes end up being the same men who solve arguments with their girlfriends with their hands. And, here we go again…
I Just Want to Be Worth Living Right By
Nobody ever gave a damn enough to stay out of prison, or stay sober, or stay at all. I’ve grown to love the solitude, but every great once in a while, it makes me wonder, “what is it about me that makes everyone leave?”
Of course, the well-adjusted adult woman before you knows it isn’t me causing the leaving. But, try telling that to the broken woman inside. Here’s a spoiler: she doesn’t take it well.
I Just Want Someone to Say, “That’s My Girl, And I’m Proud of Her”
I know it’s a little late for it, but one can dream. Well, not really, you know, that whole afraid of the dark thing. But, sometimes I like to imagine there is someone in my life that I can call when things go right.
I lean on my fans entirely too much in this respect. Any slight win, and I’m writing a column. Why? Because I don’t have anyone else who actually would give a damn. I mean, my dog, but she can’t talk, so…
All that being said, I feel like I’m out here just totally wrecking it, smashing my goals, and still doing the things I told myself I would back before I was sure I would make it in this arena. Would I call my father if he were still alive? Are you fucking kidding me, of course not.
Would I want to?
Of course. He was my father.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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