Your Father’s Day gift came today. Sort of. Only half of it arrived – annoying. Hopefully, the rest will get here before Friday… I’m not holding my breath… I’m still going to give you what I have, though.

I spent most of the morning working after my meds appointment then did some work in my Securely Attached journal. I need to remember to pick up my meds from the pharmacy after physical training. Then I’m off to do bird routes.

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We spoke on the phone for nearly an hour tonight. We talked about work, my garden, the gym, your camper project, and my secure attachment journal. It was nice to have such a long conversation.

Something I worried about is your health. You don’t sleep well and that alone is enough to fret over. But you also seem concerned that you’re not losing weight and suspect you have low testosterone. I want you to live for a long time…

I saw a post online the other day. The question was “If you could sleep with anyone past or present, who would it be?” or something along those lines. A man replied that he would want one more night with his wife who had died from cancer and said his body yearned for hers. It made me think of your parents… and then about us. I’m under no illusion that we’ll be lucky enough to die how we were born (on the same day), so I know one of us will probably outlive the other. The thought of losing you to death sends an ache shooting up my chest and grabbing me by the throat.

So I hope you can get your sleep back on track. Maybe if you move to Indy and settle into a home somewhere, your sleep will improve. You’ll probably want some place more rural than the suburbs but I hope whatever you choose, there will be good schools.

I remember the attachment quiz I took that came back as disorganized. I’m working through my guided journal and I think I fluctuate between all three negative styles but lean more towards avoidant/dismissive.

One of the questions in the journal asks how my relationship with my caregivers made me feel. It’s not something I’d ever thought about before.

My grandfather was aloof, stoic, and impenetrable. What some might have mistaken for a carelessness, I can now recognize as the trauma he carried. In the span of 22 months, he lost his daughter in a violent car crash on the day he was supposed to bring her home from work but couldn’t, had to identify her mangled corpse, then he lost his wife to sudden heart failure. Then he was left alone in the world with his adult son and his preschool-aged granddaughter. He had no idea what he was doing. Maybe he was trying his best. Maybe he was terrified I would grow up and be just like my mom…

Whatever the reason, my relationship with him always felt very one-sided. It was rare to see him smile, and when he did the corners of his lips would turn down but his eyes would twinkle. I often felt like I wasn’t ever good enough for him – I just need to try harder, get better grades, make better choices… I grew up feeling like I would never be good enough to receive love and praise. It was very lonely. Especially when Kay would go off and he was no where to be found. But I knew if it came down to it, he would protect me.

When I was little, someone almost ran us over in a crosswalk in D.C. I was probably four or five. He cussed out the driver, hit the car with his hand, and flashed his badge. When I was a teenager, he refused to let Kay kick me out of the house. After I married Craig and the abuse became too much to take, there was my grandfather with a U-Haul, ready to take Mara and me to sanctuary. In some ways, I felt obligated to be thankful to him for all he’d done and in other way, gratitude was more than earned.

Kay was an intruder. She showed up in our lives and before I knew it I was being shoved into uncomfortable shoes that were too big for my feet and a scratchy dress for their wedding. I remember my grandfather telling me he married her because I needed a mom. But even at six years old, I knew I didn’t need a mom. I just needed my dad to love me. Kay did everything in her power to make sure I knew I was an unlovable little pig. That I didn’t matter to her or the rest of the world. She made me feel worthless every time I made a mistake or didn’t live up to her standards. As far as she was concerned, I was disposable – a nuisance that could easily be gotten rid of without a second thought.

What was so hard to understand as a child was her duplicity. Sometimes she would seem to care, like she was trying to reach me but then the demonic rage would take her over. I remember the first time she hit me. I was six and struggling to detangle my hair one morning (something a bonnet would have fixed!)… she sat me down on the floor between her legs and began to rip the brush through my hair. She got frustrated – I don’t know if it was my crying or maybe her arms got tired – but she began hitting me in the head with the back of the brush. She called me a lazy pig and went on a tirade. At some point if must have stopped but I can’t remember anything else. I don’t know how much later, but she told me once that if I brushed my hair more it would look more like my Barbie’s. She had to have known it was a lie but she said it anyone. My hate for my hair only grew from there.

When I was twelve or thirteen, I’d done something to set her off. By this time, I was standing up for myself at school so the bullying had died down. But at home, her criticism knew no expiration. Maybe my room was a mess (it usually was) or maybe I forgot my clothes in the washer again. Whatever it was, the ran her mouth about it. I probably called her a bitch or talked back or something. But I will never forget her using the words “nigger fucker” to describe my biological mother. It was probably the first time I unabashedly released my rage. I didn’t say a word, just walked across the living room and began punching her in the head. She screamed over and over “Jim! Jim! Jim!” until my grandfather stumbled in from the den and pulled me off her. Her face was bleeding and I told her if she ever said another word about my mother, that I would kill her. After that day, I realized how pitiful she was and any fear I had of her was gone, replace by a divine rage. One born from a daughter’s love for her mother.

And I held on to that rage for years. It was the only thing that could protect me from being mentally or physically hurt. Until Craig came along… then my anger was just gasoline on a much bigger fire than I could manage. Sometimes it was like nothing set him off, he was just pissed. I remember one time I tried to leave him, he punched through the glass in the garage door. He would take my car to work and leave me stranded at the house. I was one of the first of my friends to have a baby so everyone else was busy living up their early twenties, they’d forgotten about me. And even if they hadn’t, Craig joined the Army and was stationed at Fort Bragg. So I was isolated from everyone and everything I ever knew. I clung to hope that therapy would fix things. We went to one session with a military Chaplin and after he suggested Craig help with changing diapers, my first husband declared the man incompetent and we never went back. There was no arguing with him – that would just lead to pain. He taught me how to quietly accept things I couldn’t change.

He was removed from our home by his commanding officer more times than I can remember for hitting me, putting me in a chokehold, or being drunk underage. He raped me more times than I can remember. I so desperately wanted him to love me…

I was 17 the first time he gave me a black eye. I went to pick him up from his friend’s house in my Grand Prix. I remember we go into an argument about his seatbelt and he was drunk – or maybe high (could have been both). I refused to take him home until he put on his seatbelt. I think I hit him first… then he started to wail on me. I tried stopping him but froze when he pulled out his butterfly knife that he carried everywhere. He jumped out of the car and stabbed my tire before running off. I drove home and cried. I think my dad called the cops. I can’t really remember much.

It was the summer or fall after I graduated high school. We broke up. It must have been summer. Because when August came around the next year, our friend Derek was killed in Iraq. Craig was a mess. He called me to tell me the news and I drove to his house. We got drunk and had sex, but didn’t keep in touch. He was mad at me for going to the funeral – so I stole his spot.

About two months later, I realized I was pregnant. When I told him, he joined the military almost immediately and proposed to me. We broke up before long and I dated this guy for work (I had dropped out of my dream school and moved back home to Lehigh). My self-esteem was at an all-time low. Chad cheated on me with his now-wife. Depression had sunk me so low that I made very clear plans to kill myself after my baby was born. I was finally in therapy at this point but it wasn’t helping. My therapist Baker Acted me at seven months pregnant, so I had to go to the hospital and was kept under suicide watch until I gave birth then I was transferred to Vista.

I don’t know why, but they wanted to transfer me to a facility in Orlando – three hours away – but gave me the option of inducing labor so I could go to an inpatient facility. After I gave birth, I learned they were planning on taking my baby away. But Craig was there and he fought for her. He stayed on leave until I was released and we got full custody of our daughter. He asked me to marry him again and I said yes, again. A month later, we eloped in Georgia, then we moved into the house on Yadkin in Fayetteville. Things were fine until his first robin sage exercise… then they weren’t.

Although I’m thankful that my grandfather came to my rescue, living with Kay again was not something I looked forward to. The only job I could get was a a pizza delivery driver. May pay and tip barely covered my gas. I was financially dependent on my grandfather and Kay was a monstrous as ever.

Mara and I stayed in the attic. She cried a lot (because she was a baby but I also thing everything she witnessed negatively impacted her.) My final straw was Kay calling my one-year-old a bitch and demanding I “shut her or” or she’d do it for me. I raged – as a mother protecting her only child. And I left. I packed what I could into my car and drove to Maryland where my hopes that Ethan would prove himself as a father were dashed for the first time. I literally spit in his face when he accused me for placing my mother on a pedestal but not before reminding him that she wouldn’t need to be up there if he hadn’t killed her.

I left again, this time back to Florida. I moved in with Richard, met Justin while he was on R&R from the Army. He was plain and gentle and interested. I was lonely. It was around the same time I met Katie and Topher and you… When Justin’s time overseas was done, he came home and we started dating, even though I hadn’t gotten around to filing for divorce from my first husband (who had gone AWOL and received a dishonorable discharge.)

Tristan was born before the divorce was finalized, and just two weeks into my first semester back in school. I think Justin resented me for going to school while working full time at the portrait studio. he was even more contemptuous when I started going to church with my friends instead of him. Bible study had more of an appeal than a weekly lecture on how to “do better.”

Charlie was born two months before I graduated. I was deeper in the church and trying to live Christian values – which meant no more premarital sex. Justin was no happy. After I went chaste, I would wake to find him fondling me while he masturbated. I should have canceled the wedding then, when I knew he didn’t respect my religious beliefs or – more importantly – my autonomy.

But things just went downhill from there. He would complain to his friends and family about me. he started an affair with a woman at work. He would call me names in front of the kids. He hated my friendship with Richard and Katie. And I felt like he wasn’t doing enough to pull us out of poverty. He had the same job for years and never asked for a raise or thought about quitting and finding something better. I wound up selling my mom and grandmother’s gold jewelry at one point just to survive.

I was finally so fed up with his apathy, disrespect, and lack of motivation that I told him I wanted to see other people. He cried and threw up and I didn’t care.

I downloaded Tinder the next day and later I started fucking a guy from the Sprint store (until I found out he had a pregnant wife). Maybe a month later, I filed for divorce. I was homeless that January because I would have rather slept on the street than spend another night in bed with him.

The kids stayed with him because his family would watch Charlie for free, the kids’ school was spitting distance from his work, and I worked three jobs with random hours to stay afloat. It was a mistake to leave my precious children with him.

For a while I slept around. Until I met Michael. I fell head over heels for the former bodybuilder who knew exactly the right things to say to boost my confidence and turn me on. I thought I was falling in love with him. That Thanksgiving, I went up north to visit my family. He broke up with me over the phone while I was 1,000 miles away. I was devastated. I fell into a deep depression. I cried at work. I thought about driving my car off the causeway… and then I had a miscarriage and I went numb.

I ramped up the sleeping around. Three to four guys a week… never the same guy twice. No overnights, no snuggling, no real name. Until I met Wick. I thought he was a safe fuck. It felt more like friends with benefits. I knew I wasn’t going to fall for this man. And no matter how funny or nurturing he was, I never felt with him what I had with Michael. At one point, I got really sick. My throat was covered in open sores like when you eat too much ketchup and you get a canker on your lip. I couldn’t eat, swallowing water was excruciating, and I was eventually limited to communicating with post-it notes.

The ER was useless and my ENT said I just needed some pain killers. I can’t remember why I went, probably because I was so sexually active, but I found myself at Planned Parenthood where I learned I’d contracted chlamydia from Brandon. One pill and I was all better but Brandon and I drifted apart.

I can’t really remember how or why we reconnected. It was after Sierra moved in with me, close to our birthdays. I only know that because one of the earliest memories I have of our relationships is me bringing you a homemade turtle cheesecake for your birthday. I was done with my bed hopping days and hoping you were interested in being more than friends. You really weren’t, not after all the pain you experienced because of The Witched Bitch of Oz. I can’t remember what I said to convince you… I hope this isn’t a pattern whereby I harbor feelings for you for an extended period then you give in.

No. I shouldn’t think that. You’ve already told me that you’re with me because you want to be and I’m making the conscious and determined choice to trust you for your word.

We are together today because you want me. You want to be with me. You include me in your plans for the future. You think about what I like and don’t like. You made me a delicious meal. You respect my body, my mind, and my boundaries. You want me to be comfortable. You care about me. And I choose to believe you when you say you want to be with me.

I’m getting very tired, so I’m going to sleep. I’m looking forward to the day you tell me you love me.