I just got my new laptop. I love it. It is a Toshiba and it rocks. It’s a dark blue in some lighting and a black in others. It has a huge screen and is really easy to use. Plus it was all under 500 dollars. Yay for money saving.
Besides that, I have had lot on my mind for the last few hours or so. I couldn’t even read. My head is like a bunch of nothing. It’s all rambled together. Sometimes I just want to scream. Scream so loud that the entire world can hear me. That it makes my face turn red and then purple and then blue. I want my voice to go hoarse from all that screaming. And then I want to be able to stop. Stop screaming and feel better. That’s what I want.
If only it were that simple. It’s not.
My other aunt from my dad’s side contacted me. She wants me to go and visit them sometime. That’s great right? I would love to get to know them. And then, I think, why is it that my aunts can want a relationship with me, and my dad doesn’t? Ugh. I hate this. I hate feeling like ‘daddy’s little defect’. I always wonder what things would be like if he was still in my life. Would I be able to write the way I do? Is it the pain that he brings me that gives me my talent? I probably wouldn’t be chubby. In fact, I would probably be thin and beautiful. Like my stepsisters. They are so gorgeous. Dad has this odd fixation with size. I remember that from that time I stayed with him in second grade. But, would I be a virgin then? Would my morals have disappeared along with my baby fat? I can’t help but ask if I am the way I am because I am his daughter, or because he gave up that responsibility?
What is worse than asking myself that question? Knowing the answer. Knowing the answer hurts more than I can even pretend to explain. He didn’t want me. Doesn’t want me. Sure, we have the occasional conversation every three years or so. I call him or he calls me, and then we play phone tag for three weeks before we just give up. That’s my relationship with my dad. It’s peachy.
I will never forget that night in Canada with him when I was seven. I had gone to stay with them for two weeks, and we were taking a road trip. Going to different friends of his houses and stuff, one night a whole bunch of us where sleeping on the basement floor at one of the stops. There was a wedding and a lot of people were in town camped out throughout the place. It was the first night that I wasn’t crying from homesickness. I think it was because it was like a slumber party. I always did better with a group of people then with the just one on one when it came to sleepovers; more people to comfort me or something. Anyways, my dad and I were the only ones still awake and he was talking to me about Galen, my (at the time) soon to be stepdad. I don’t remember all of what was said, but I remember him telling me that it was okay to accept him as my father. That it wouldn’t hurt his feelings if I chose to call Galen “Dad”. I didn’t really get it at the time. It took a long time for the real effect of that to sink in. My dad was giving me up. You know, when the beautiful bride walks down the aisle on her wedding day, and the father gives up his daughter’s hand for marriage? Well, my dad was doing that, only it wasn’t for my wedding, it was for my moms.
Even though I get what all that that conversation meant, I still don’t get why. Why would he do that? Did he think I wasn’t going to need him anymore? I don’t understand. I wanted to crawl into his lap so many times throughout my childhood, and wasn’t able to, and now, at 18 I still want to. But worse than that, at 18 I carry anger so intense that I don’t even understand it. I should not be angry at him, should I?
See, I know the answer to that question too. Yes, I may have a right to be angry, but sooner or later I need to let it go. And preferably sooner. Only I have been trying to for so long, and I don’t know how. How do I get over something like this? It wasn’t like he stole my favorite crayon in Kindergarten, he stole my childhood. At least that’s what it feels like. Maybe he isn’t the one who took it. Maybe I just never let myself have one. All I know is that I grew up way to fast. I didn’t get to have fun, the way I should have. In the back of my mind, all day EVERY DAY was his face. A made up face, because I still don’t know exactly what he looks like.
I blame him. I think that is the first time I have admitted that. I freaking blame him.
I’m angry at him. I am hurt. I am confused. But mostly, I am just sad. Depressed. I want to know how to fix all this. And I just don’t think that it’s fixable, not at this point anyway. I don’t seem to have the right parts to do the proper mechanics.
Ugh. It’s just so…complex. So layered; full of too many different emotions. I really have no idea how I am supposed to deal with all these feelings
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Friday, September 19, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
I'll Be Loving You, Aways...
Dear Grandpa,
I'm not quite sure how to write this letter. After starting it several times in my head I am still nowhere satisfied with the way it sounds. I suppose for the most part I have yet to completely comprehend your absence. But then, I'm not sure one ever really does comprehend death. It has always been an act of God that people question. Maybe you could ask him about it? Because if anything confuses me, the one thing that does not is that the faith you
had throughout your life has brought you to our heavenly father.
In the past few days I have remembered so many things about you that I had long forgotten. I remember the candy store that was just a few stores down from Grandma's, and how you used to come down and get change from the cash-register to take me to get sweets. I remember asking you serious question on those trips.
"Grandpa, why are horseradishes spicy?"
"Grandpa, why are they called horseradishes?"
"Do horses make them?"
I remember particularly the horseradish debacle because when you answered each question with "I don't know," it wasn't in an aggravated way like other peoples, but in a way that made me feel you too wanted answers to the world's horseradish questions.
I remember reading The Monster at the end of this Book, in your chair. That brown chair that was old and torn and full of history. I learned that the best way to eat cookies was with coffee in that chair. I told you the stories I made up in my head in that chair. We would sing songs together in that chair.
One thing I don't remember is you ever getting mad. I'm sure you did, anger is a natural emotion, but for some reason you never seemed to. One time when you came to pick me up from preschool and I had pinched another kid. After my teacher told you I was so afraid I was going to be in trouble, all the way home I was quiet, but you never mentioned it to me. You never told Mom or Grandma either, and I never got in trouble, even so though I never pinched anyone again.
You ate grilled cheese dipped in applesauce. An odd combination I've always thought, but still whenever I eat grilled cheese I can't help but crave a little applesauce myself. Of course I don't dunk my sandwich but it's still something I picked up from you. Like whistling; you taught me to whistle and teased me with you wiggling ears and slippery teeth and screechy – hearing – aid ears.
There are many more things that I remember about you, grape juice, stripped overalls, old spice, cowboy boots, shoe horns, and on and on and on. But the important thing is that I do remember you. And I hope that you save a place for me next to you in heaven just like you used to in your chair. I love you Grandpa, and I don't plan on ever stopping.
Love,
Your Granddaughter,
Chantelle Gemmill
I'm not quite sure how to write this letter. After starting it several times in my head I am still nowhere satisfied with the way it sounds. I suppose for the most part I have yet to completely comprehend your absence. But then, I'm not sure one ever really does comprehend death. It has always been an act of God that people question. Maybe you could ask him about it? Because if anything confuses me, the one thing that does not is that the faith you
had throughout your life has brought you to our heavenly father.
In the past few days I have remembered so many things about you that I had long forgotten. I remember the candy store that was just a few stores down from Grandma's, and how you used to come down and get change from the cash-register to take me to get sweets. I remember asking you serious question on those trips.
"Grandpa, why are horseradishes spicy?"
"Grandpa, why are they called horseradishes?"
"Do horses make them?"
I remember particularly the horseradish debacle because when you answered each question with "I don't know," it wasn't in an aggravated way like other peoples, but in a way that made me feel you too wanted answers to the world's horseradish questions.
I remember reading The Monster at the end of this Book, in your chair. That brown chair that was old and torn and full of history. I learned that the best way to eat cookies was with coffee in that chair. I told you the stories I made up in my head in that chair. We would sing songs together in that chair.
One thing I don't remember is you ever getting mad. I'm sure you did, anger is a natural emotion, but for some reason you never seemed to. One time when you came to pick me up from preschool and I had pinched another kid. After my teacher told you I was so afraid I was going to be in trouble, all the way home I was quiet, but you never mentioned it to me. You never told Mom or Grandma either, and I never got in trouble, even so though I never pinched anyone again.
You ate grilled cheese dipped in applesauce. An odd combination I've always thought, but still whenever I eat grilled cheese I can't help but crave a little applesauce myself. Of course I don't dunk my sandwich but it's still something I picked up from you. Like whistling; you taught me to whistle and teased me with you wiggling ears and slippery teeth and screechy – hearing – aid ears.
There are many more things that I remember about you, grape juice, stripped overalls, old spice, cowboy boots, shoe horns, and on and on and on. But the important thing is that I do remember you. And I hope that you save a place for me next to you in heaven just like you used to in your chair. I love you Grandpa, and I don't plan on ever stopping.
Love,
Your Granddaughter,
Chantelle Gemmill
Monday, January 7, 2008
You're Neither a Friend or Foe...
I hate him you know. I despise the way he treats me; my father the heart breaker. I hate that it took me five phone calls and 3 messages at least to get him to call me back. I hate that he didn't call me when my grandpa died, even though he knew. The death of his dad is what caused most of the alcoholic problems, so wouldn't he understand more than anyone how hard this is for everyone on my moms side of the family??? Wasn't it my grandpa that invited him and every one of his siblings over to the farm after his dad died? All I have wanted my entire life was to crawl up into my daddy's lap, like Montana is doing in the pictures I have of them. Instead I get tears so thick I can't see what I am typing clearly.
Everyone tells me that eventually I will have to forgive them, what they don't understand is that I have forgiven him. I could hate him so much more. I could hold him responsible for everything, except I don't. I don't blame him, or anyone for that matter. What happened happened, but that doesn't make it any less painful.
And besides, don't I deserve a morning period? Doesn't everyone deserve the feel sad and have a moment in time to pity themselves and reflect on how things could be…if only they were different? I think yes. And so every year, I usually feel like crap from October 2nd through January 1st. I guess it's no different than most people. You either love the holidays or you hate them, I just happen to hate and love them equally.
It is probably faire to say that I hate myself almost as much. Not because I caused him to leave or whatever, like I said before I don't blame anyone, but because instead of talking to someone about this, I bottle it up. I bottle it up and go through a box of Kleenex's a night practically trying to avoid any confrontation. No, I don't want people to know how truly week and pathetic I am, so when I am about to cry at school, I run to the bathroom or I bite my tongue. Leaving me, in the end, relying on my cats for comfort. Only how much comfort can a cat give? No more than an absent father I suppose.
I have so many questions running through my head about him. What color are his eyes? What's his middle name? Why doesn't he call? What did I do wrong? Because I had to have done something wrong, right? I mean, that's what I keep telling myself, because the other reason, that he doesn't call or write because he just doesn't care, is too hard to bear.
In the book After the Leaves Fall, there is a quote on page 73, "…you apologized for all the wrong things." Never before have I read a quote that pinpointed the exact emotion for me. When I do talk to my dad, he will say he is sorry for not calling or keeping in touch often enough, but it's never because he actually wants to change and repent, it's just simply to clear his conscious. Yet, every time I hear those words "I'm sorry," I am sure that he is serious this time. Sure that I will get to talk to him later on this week, like my stepdad does to his kids. Calls them all the time and they are adults now with families of their own. All but Amy, but she's 21, so she is almost on her own…
I know that it would be wrong to stay bitter for the rest of my life at him. But I am not going to lie to you all and say that I will eventually get over this all, because I can't actually promise that right now. I wish I new what I needed. Not just from him either, I don't know what I need in anything. It's like I am in this big drift. I'm lonely all the time and there doesn't seem to be a way to shake that feeling. When I read I feel better, but then the book is finished and I am left empty again. I suppose that statement up there was a little untrue. I do know what I need: God. Only I've come so far I don't know how to get him back I my life. I don't even know if I am away from him.
A part of me is angry at him. Not really angry, just confused. I don't understand how he works. Why would he take away a man so wonderful from the lives of people who need him the most just before the holidays? Why would he give someone a dad as crappy as mine? Not that I know if he is a crappy dad, because I don't know him at all. I have never questioned the things that I find myself pondering now before in my life. Which I guess is a good thing; I mean you have to know what you're missing to know that you need it right?
Having read through this the only thing I can think of now is that stupid Annie song, "It's a Hard Knock Life," or whatever. Pretty dumb of me to vent all of this in a blog. I just hope someone will read it and know what I should do…
Peace, Love, ME!
Everyone tells me that eventually I will have to forgive them, what they don't understand is that I have forgiven him. I could hate him so much more. I could hold him responsible for everything, except I don't. I don't blame him, or anyone for that matter. What happened happened, but that doesn't make it any less painful.
And besides, don't I deserve a morning period? Doesn't everyone deserve the feel sad and have a moment in time to pity themselves and reflect on how things could be…if only they were different? I think yes. And so every year, I usually feel like crap from October 2nd through January 1st. I guess it's no different than most people. You either love the holidays or you hate them, I just happen to hate and love them equally.
It is probably faire to say that I hate myself almost as much. Not because I caused him to leave or whatever, like I said before I don't blame anyone, but because instead of talking to someone about this, I bottle it up. I bottle it up and go through a box of Kleenex's a night practically trying to avoid any confrontation. No, I don't want people to know how truly week and pathetic I am, so when I am about to cry at school, I run to the bathroom or I bite my tongue. Leaving me, in the end, relying on my cats for comfort. Only how much comfort can a cat give? No more than an absent father I suppose.
I have so many questions running through my head about him. What color are his eyes? What's his middle name? Why doesn't he call? What did I do wrong? Because I had to have done something wrong, right? I mean, that's what I keep telling myself, because the other reason, that he doesn't call or write because he just doesn't care, is too hard to bear.
In the book After the Leaves Fall, there is a quote on page 73, "…you apologized for all the wrong things." Never before have I read a quote that pinpointed the exact emotion for me. When I do talk to my dad, he will say he is sorry for not calling or keeping in touch often enough, but it's never because he actually wants to change and repent, it's just simply to clear his conscious. Yet, every time I hear those words "I'm sorry," I am sure that he is serious this time. Sure that I will get to talk to him later on this week, like my stepdad does to his kids. Calls them all the time and they are adults now with families of their own. All but Amy, but she's 21, so she is almost on her own…
I know that it would be wrong to stay bitter for the rest of my life at him. But I am not going to lie to you all and say that I will eventually get over this all, because I can't actually promise that right now. I wish I new what I needed. Not just from him either, I don't know what I need in anything. It's like I am in this big drift. I'm lonely all the time and there doesn't seem to be a way to shake that feeling. When I read I feel better, but then the book is finished and I am left empty again. I suppose that statement up there was a little untrue. I do know what I need: God. Only I've come so far I don't know how to get him back I my life. I don't even know if I am away from him.
A part of me is angry at him. Not really angry, just confused. I don't understand how he works. Why would he take away a man so wonderful from the lives of people who need him the most just before the holidays? Why would he give someone a dad as crappy as mine? Not that I know if he is a crappy dad, because I don't know him at all. I have never questioned the things that I find myself pondering now before in my life. Which I guess is a good thing; I mean you have to know what you're missing to know that you need it right?
Having read through this the only thing I can think of now is that stupid Annie song, "It's a Hard Knock Life," or whatever. Pretty dumb of me to vent all of this in a blog. I just hope someone will read it and know what I should do…
Peace, Love, ME!
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