Denial is not just a river in Egypt.

Hi guys.

Here's something I've been stewing over lately. When you've been in therapy for as long as I have, and especially when you've studied Psych./Soc. like I did in school, you develop certain... talents. Skills if you will. Such developments are very helpful, both in therapy and in life. When something goes wrong, or you catch yourself behaving in a way that is resultant of whatever you're receiving treatment for, you can apply the mechanisms you've learned. They can be incredibly helpful, but like everything else in this world there are pros and cons. Once you've mastered (so to speak) the art of self-examination, you start looking at other people the same way. You start applying what you've learned to them. And that doesn't always turn out well.

The ability I'm referring to today is that of psychoanalysis.

Dictionary.reference.com defines psychoanalysis as follows:
noun
1) a systematic structure of theories concerning the relations of conscious and unconscious psychological processes
2) a technical procedure for investigating unconscious mental processes and for treating psychoneuroses

Today, let's talk about the latter definition.

Having psychoanalysis in your supply closet of coping methods is invaluable (unless you are one of those individuals who take it too far *cough* BBC Sherlock Holmes *cough*). It allows you to ponder things out for yourself, to pick apart your motives, desires, and actions. Once you've done that, it's easier to focus on each aspect. That's where the professional help comes in. Understanding not why you do something but what drives you--or stops you as the case may be. What blocks you from getting what you want?

In theory it's a fairly straightforward process. Ask questions; get answers. The questions my therapists usually ask me, and I have now begun to ask myself, are paraphrased below.

What do you want?
What actions can you take to achieve that goal?
What steps have you taken?
What stopped you from taking those steps?
What are the excuses your subconscious provides?
What are you afraid of?/What about this makes you anxious?

What are the reasons behind your reluctance to act?

What is the origin of that reason?

What can you do to manage those fears and anxieties?

Well, essentially those questions. I think I got the spirit of it, anyway. Fact of the matter is that these aren't just questions; these are The Hard Questions. At the source of every decision or non-decision you make or don't make (choosing not to decide is still choosing, by the way) is a reason. A fear, anxiety, a traumatic incident, whatever. It is one of your vulnerabilities.You may not be able to recognize it.

More importantly, chances are you don't want to.

Your mind and heart and sometimes body will fight and fight and fight to keep that Reason hidden. Safe and untouched at the back of your mind or deep in yourself where it won't hurt as bad, and you can live without acknowledging it. You will rebel against the invasive, cruel, rude and unnecessary interrogation you or your therapist is putting you through.

You will get angry.
You will be afraid.
And it will hurt.

There are as many reasons, many of which are instinctive emotional reactions, to bury your vulnerability. Sometimes you hide these parts of you because you're ashamed. Sometimes it is because you have been hurt before. Sometimes it is even because you have examined it before and know it's irrational--but you feel it is truth regardless.

(Shit like this is why we need therapy.)

I can't very well expect you to examine yourself so uncomfortably closely without doing so myself. In the spirit of fairness and the immortal words of everyone everywhere:

I'll show you mine if you show me yours.

I genuinely believe I am replaceable. To expand on that a little: I believe myself to be a burden, and feel very deeply that "I am not the child my parents would have wanted". Why do I think that? Simple: I was conditioned to, through many unhealthy friendships, believe absolutely in my lack of self-worth. I am worth nothing without them by my side, I am unwanted, I am substandard, I am a bad person. Those thoughts wormed their way into my mind around the same time I started to really grasp the concept of "money" and understanding that my medications and therapy sessions were draining my family's funds. I was causing trouble, I was making life difficult for them. I still am: I am unemployed, I do not drive, I drain the family coffers with my wants and wishes and medicines. To this day I have problems--big problems--with feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness. I wrestle everyday with the concept that I am loved [And here I am stumped. I don't know how to phrase the next part of the sentence. ...because of who I am? ...despite who I am? ...regardless of who I am? They all have drastically different meanings. I'm not in my family's heads; I can't figure out which words to use and be accurate.] Because of this:

I am afraid of being left behind and/or forgotten. That is it. That is the bottom line. This one is simple. I submit myself to abuse, I am desperate to leave an impression, I dress in an unusual fashion, I spend time memorizing jokes. I am grateful for every single instance in which someone I have not seen for some time recalls who I am, and yet due to the above, remain incapable of speaking to such people for fear of interfering in their life and causing them trouble. In school I was so desperate to be acknowledged I maintained abusive relationships, openly mocked not only myself but others in a frantic bid to impress my so-called friends. I devoted myself to them, some more than others. I loved them and gave them everything I could--nearly all of me. It wasn't enough. For almost three years I spent money, my family's money, to talk about my friends and get advice on how to help them (she wondered why my years of therapy didn't seem to make a difference). Even now, even this second, I am fighting the urge to give in, throw what little self-respect I've built up since graduating out the metaphorical window, and contact them. Just one of them. Just her. Just her.

I hold myself responsible for things out of my control/I give myself too much credit. In contrast to the above I tend to feel that I (potentially) have a large impact on those around me. You saw some of this in my last post, but let me give you an example: If my father and grandmother get into a fight, and he leaves angry to go on a drive, I consider it my duty to catch him before he leaves, give him a hug, and try and calm him as much as I can. So far he's always come back. No car crashes, no arrests, no anything awful that doesn't bear thinking about. But if I were to move out, and my father and grandmother get into a fight, and he leaves angry to go on a drive, and crashes and dies because he wasn't thinking clearly--that would be my fault. I would carry my father's death on by shoulders for the rest of my life, not simply because I would mourn and miss him, but because I was responsible for not being there. I selfishly left home and foolishly expected my family of adults to actually be rational, responsible people. I also consider myself responsible for losing friends. You see, I have been friends with and lost so many people who are so very different. The only common denominator in every one of those relationships--was me. Logically, I am at fault. Which leads quite nicely into my next admittance.

Something is wrong with me. No ifs, ands, or buts. Something is wrong with me. As a person, a friend, a daughter, a sister, niece, cousin, goddaughter, human being, something is wrong with me. And whatever it is, is irreparable.

(I go to therapy to deal with shit like this.)

So. Psychoanalysis, yes? For me that means prying myself apart, combing through the separated strands of my memories, feelings, impulses, and thoughts, and looking at them very, very hard until I start seeing how maybe this way on the left there has something to do with that down in the right corner.

It is an invaluable ability. It tides me over between sessions. It empowers me to take the lead in my own therapy appointments instead of following the guidance of the person giving counsel (thought sometimes that is most certainly needed). I can direct us to where I want to go, what I want to work on, what I think needs to be examined.

(Therapy means unweaving the messy tapestry of my life, one section at at a time, and painstakingly investigating the source of the errors and mistakes before putting it back together, better. More like I wanted it to be when I started. Thankfully, despite my metaphor, I still get to jump around. I don't have to do it in any particular order. As things come up, as I have my revelations and epiphanies and go through various life experiences, I tackle them. One step at a time.

It's sewing and realizing you fucked up a stitch a while back but not so far it's worth tying off the thread where you are. It's going back and looking at what you did, trying different ways to fix it, and finding something that works. Then you move forward.

It's trying to get a degree and having to go through prerequisite classes, only the classes are the therapy, and the degree is you finally in control of your life.)

But you can't do it alone, not really. I have had several experiences with bringing something up and having my therapists calling me out on that one, odd thing I said. Like a thread sticking out of the hem of your shirt. And she pulls at it insistently until I am clinging to my defenses/excuses/reasons by the skin of my teeth... and then once more. And out comes the truth. The hard truth. The painful, shameful, embarrassing, irrational truth. And then I can start thinking clearly.

At last my defenses are down. At last my blinders are off. At last I recognize that I am in a safe environment, working with someone who's primary concern is not to make my life easier, but to help me make my life better.

So yeah. At the start of this I mentioned the pros and cons.

Fact of the matter is, there are very few cons. Just one, really, that comes to mind...

I bring all this up because a fortnight or so ago I found myself idly, coldly, objectively dissecting the reasons my sister has not taken a certain action. I came to a perfectly reasonable, rather upsetting conclusion and wondered how she would react when I mentioned it to her.

Then I stopped and thought how much that would hurt her, and decided not to do so.

During the subsequent moment of clarity I made a choice... a new rule for myself: I will not psychoanalyze the people I care about. And if I do, without realizing?

I will not bring up my deductions in a fight. I will not back the people I love into a corner using things I've learned in confidence or realized on my own as weapons against family and friends. I know that pain. I know that fear. I know the helplessness and misery that comes with becoming the victim of people less conscientious than myself. I know what it feels like to be betrayed.

I also know what it feels like to be the assailant.

I've done that. And I spent years trying to make up for it. Years never being quite forgiven. It hurt. Hurts nearly as much as being on the receiving end of such an attack--and yes. They are attacks.

As someone who has been on both sides, I think I'm entitled to say that both suck and nobody ends up truly happy. One because they are haunted by another's words and deeds, the other because they will always wonder 'what if'.

I would say it happens on accident sometimes but I've never had that experience. Each time I hurt someone like that, using my intimate knowledge of their feelings and weaknesses and personal demons, I knew exactly what it would do. I planned what to say ahead of time. I steered the conversation down a path that would allow me to say, quite naturally, the thing I knew would hurt them most.

So. Psychoanalysis, yes? No?

Pros: better person, handle on your own emotions, understanding the reasons behind (in)actions, taking charge of your own life, making progress, learning more about yourself, able to better understand others

Cons: better able to hurt others' feelings, temptation to use knowledge against others, potential for social disaster when incorrect, potential path to misery

Basically? It would behoove you to remember a few things:
Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.
Karma is a bitch.
Think, then speak.
With great power comes great responsibility.
They are rubber and you are glue; whatever you say bounces off them and sticks to you.

And that's a wrap, folks. I know my personal views and experiences got us way off track. But honestly, it says at the top of the page I'm ADD, why did you expect me to stay focused?

...I think that's the closest I've come to writing an essay is about four years. Golly.

Ja na!

Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

Hi guys.

Been a while, huh? I'm sorry. Life happened, and this blog became one of the things I would think of and then flinch under the weight of my guilt. I liked doing it, and felt productive when I did so. I thought I was contributing something, maybe even helping people.

Who knows? Maybe I did. EDBBSO (wow) isn't... dead. Not really. It just became less than what I had hoped. But I'm still going to tell the truth. Not the whole truth--but nothing but.

So, um. To catch you up on things. My trip went well. I got a boyfriend out of it! That October I worked in a costume shop and became a sound tech for another, amazing play. Seriously, everything I've done and that was my favorite. Woman In Black. That is some scary stuff right there, man. And I got to make about a third of it happen. I'm still so proud of that show. Just before Halloween, my long-distance boyfriend of five months called, and we mutually broke up with each other. Then we didn't talk for almost two years.

That doesn't matter though.

Not really.

Umm, what else happened? I worked for an in-home daycare for awhile Spring 2012. That sort of gave me a wonderful opportunity--I spent just over a year working for an Indian family, which was a wonderfully enriching experience. I didn't really do much else. But my mom lost her job around the same time, so that was scary. I ended up going more than a year without my Concerta, which was even scarier. There were times when I didn't even know what I was thinking. I would be having a thought and suddenly realize I didn't know where it came from. Which was unpleasant to say the least.

I got a lot of ideas, though. For writing.

There was awhile somewhere in there that I had to live out of my sister's room, because mine was infested with ants. Considering my crippling fear of insects, that was... kind of a problem. Eventually things got better. I didn't realize my mother was steadily draining her retirement fund to pay our rent. At this point, there's pretty much nothing left of it at all. Illogically, I feel like it's my fault. I should have tried harder I shoulder have worked more. I should have gotten a day job. I should have grown the hell up, faced my demons, and spit in their faces.

I didn't.

I carry a lot of guilt over that, I guess.

I carry a lot of guilt for a lot of things.

It's stupid.

I ignore it whenever I can.

(To me, by the way, guilt feels like the prickle of gooseflesh across the backs of my shoulders, the itching sting that follows the planes of my nose down to my cheeks, and the sickening hollow-heavy feeling you sometimes get in your stomach. Yeah. That one.)

I've... been working to improve myself.

I got a watch.

I got my meds back.

I kept my job with that family.

I went to therapy.

Didn't do much else. (What a waste of time. I wonder--in seven, ten, twenty years will I look back at this time in my life and remember how awful it feels to do nothing for daysweeksmonthsyears on end? Or will I envy my younger self for having so much time?)

Pottermore came out! I joined. Got through the entire first book in one sitting. Before you ask: Hufflepuff. (I always identified with them. It wasn't a surprise.)

I was able to get 'my' kids presents. That was nice. I won't be able to do it this year.

I haven't even seen four of them in months. My fault, all my fault--I haven't contacted them since they moved away, I keep telling myself to, I keep composing the message I want to send and just... never... writing it. I've missed two birthdays. I felt awful on each of them. I should call, I would think. I should send them a message. But because I didn't on the first, I was afraid to do so on the second. They're siblings--what if the former thinks I like the latter better? I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, I don't want to interrupt their life, so I just keep to myself and hurt like hell over it.

I ignore it whenever I can.

I got a wicked cool new laptop for Xmas. It's a life saver and now I'm just putting off sending it in for repairs--which it needs, the power cord keeps slipping loose which is BAD. I really love my little computer.

The last thing I needed was a way to spend every day in my room.

I tried dieting--lost some weight. Gained it back when when my Grandmother died this last February. The eighth. Feels like that should be in caps now. The Eighth. My dad's mom, who lives... lived... In Maine. (I spoke to her while she was in the hospital. Just once. Why didn't I say anything? I couldn't think of what to say. Her last memory--if in fact she remembered my, at the end, would be of me essentially speechless. Stumbling and awkward and uncomfortable. I should have said something. Something meaningful. I thought I knew what regret was. I thought I was familiar with that bitter, coppery, bloody emotion that creeps up my throat and tries to fight its way past my tongue, my teeth, my lips. At least I saw her on my trip. At least she got to know me, the real me, the me who is a person not a child... But I was invited to stay with her a few days. I didn't, I didn't because I enjoyed my aunt't house and company more--it didn't smell bad there, like piss and disease. Not like Grammy's.)

I found out my favorite uncle has cancer eleven days later. Stage 4, incurable, no-doubts-about-it-he's-going-to-die-soon cancer. I didn't even know he was my favorite uncle. I hadn't realized it, hadn't examined my feelings or our relationship. Not until I called that ex-boyfriend of mine, whose younger brother has had cancer. Twice. He asked if we were close and I started crying at the sudden, club-like realization. My employer told me to believe in miracles and his strength. I secretly wrestled with the fact that if I saved enough money to visit Maine like I had wanted, to see my aunt to see my cousins to see my uncle to visit my dead grandmother, God, I would be too late anyway, she is dead... that I would have to give the money to my mom. Because getting to see her baby brother is more important then me getting to see my uncle. (At least I saw him on my trip. At least we had a chance to talk, for him to see how I've grown, into me, the person who is not a child. We didn't get enough time, he was going to work every day, he had the cancer while I was there I should have known, done something, changed things somehow. Damn. It was like I'd swallowed a serrated penny.)

Plans were concocted. Of visitations, of trips to Florida, or him here. Wonderful! I would get to see him before he died! (Three months, they said. Three months to five years. With treatment, and only if he took to the chemo. Then they found more, all over his body. Going towards his brain? I didn't ask. I don't like details.

I'm a writer.

I have a very vivid imagination. So I don't want to know, I don't, I don't, I don't. But I do, because this is what's taking my uncle. My uncle. It can't have him, no, he's Superman. He was my Superman. And this was his Kryptonite.)

This hurts. Writing this hurts. That was in February.

My employers told me they were moving to India. They didn't want to, but her father's health was failing and his were getting older every year, ha ha, and they felt the very strong need to be with family. I could relate, so I smiled for them. Helped them pack. Watched the kids. Cleaned their house. The normal stuff. We promised to stay in touch. They said to call them if I ever go to India. But my god, they had become such an integral part of my live. I was devastated when they left. (Their two year old wouldn't hug me. He didn't understand what was happening. Didn't know he'd never see me again. I miss him, the annoying little shit.) And I didn't hug either of them good-bye, because we'd never hugged. We were friends by that point, but we never hugged. I should have done it. I should have. I should have messaged her on facebook. I should have done it. I should have. They said I could call. I should have done it. I should have. I still should. Bitter, coppery, bloody.

I got another job at the same daycare. Under the table, below minimum wage, but still work. Still money, when my family was in such need. I should have quit there and interviewed other places. I had done it once and nearly gotten the job. I was one of two people they seriously considered. The other won out because of experience. But as my Indian friend regularly said, "How can I get experience if I do not get this job?". I suppose that's too logical though. Still, at least I tried. I tried. The job I did end up working wasn't what I had been told to expect. I did not get the hours I was told I would. More children came. One of my favorites left. I was devastated. Again.Why do I keep losing people? Our oldest dog collapsed and couldn't stand up; she was dying. Bitter.

My uncle did manage to visit. He brought my cousin, his eldest son, who is older than me by a few weeks and never lets me forget it. I spent some time with them. But I had to work. I hadn't known they were coming with any advanced warning, and besides, with that many kids at the daycare she needed somebody else to be there. Legally. (For some reason her husband didn't count?) The time I spent with them was.. minimized. Diluted, I guess. I didn't get to talk to my uncle alone. They went to the beach without me, I remember that clearly. I made me start sobbing: I got home from work to find them and my grandmother in the car, and my mom walking towards it. She said they were going to the beach, and they just left. They just left me standing there in the yard without a second's thought for how that might effect me because Mom was too distracted by her brother being there to remember her kids. Or at least me. Copper.

She didn't say goodbye to my dad either. All I could think was how hurt I was, how much I would have wanted to go with them, how I hadn't gotten so much as fifteen minutes with my dying uncle when they'd spent days and days and days together already by that point. And if they got in a car wreck or something and all died... But they didn't, and it didn't matter, and my mother apologized, and I forgave her. (That doesn't mean I've forgotten how much it hurt. I have abandonment issues, okay?) Apparently, a plan had been made for my uncle and cousin to spend time with my sister and I--together--that Friday. I worked Fridays. I didn't know my mother being emotional also meant her being stupidly cruel. Because, you know, it never had before. I took the day off.

(While they were here--or rather while they and my grandmother were visiting Seattle when they were supposed to be here visiting us--I finally got the second piercings in my ears I'd planned to get before leaving for my trip. Hurt like a mofo, but worth it. I've had a few scares with them though. Like having to be held in place by my father while I screamed and sobbed as my mother pushed the piercing earrings back through closing holes. Apparently I have a metahuman healing factor? And wow, can you tell I'm a DC girl, not Marvel? Metahuman. Not mutant. Ha. Funny, the things that occur to you. The way little things come up in the oddest of circumstances. I went with my dad, and we ran a few errands, and he held my hand because I hate quick pain. I hate stabbings, I hate splinters, I hate water running over a bloody cut when I shave).

My sister, cousin, uncle, and I went to Multnomah Falls. I got an overwhelming sense of deja vu as I'm pretty sure we went there the last time he'd visited with his younger son my sophomore year. (Bad memories, bad memories, go away, go away!) The three younger of us started to climb up. Please note that my cousin attends a military academy and has for several years, and I... have asthma, weak ankles, and am 200+ pounds. I don't look it, thankfully, but I am--which is, hahahanotfunnystoplaughing--a heavy weight for me to carry because I decided long ago I would never be... well, I would never be obese. Like my parents. (Tell me a fat joke and I'll punch you in the face, I swear to God I will.) I didn't get very far. I felt horrible, but had a nice chat with this nice old lady who visited the falls regularly since she was a little girl. I got to know the history of the area, which was nice. The next day, or maybe the day after that, my sister, cousin, and I went to Oaks Park. We had a really, really great time. Laughs, songs, jokes, exhilarations galore. They went home a few days later.

I still hadn't really gotten time with my uncle. A few vague comments, thinly veiled as jokes to disguise my pain, and his solemn responses don't count. (Tell me everybody dies as much as you want, that doesn't mean you can.)

The dog recovered. I wished to God my uncle had instead. Blood.

I worked more. A lot, really. Visited my best friend, her hubby, their amazing son. Turned twenty-one in July. Got drunk a week or so later. That was fun. I... don't really see what the fuss is about, so that's good I guess: I missed out on the alcoholism gene. (I'm afraid sometimes that my sister didn't.)

Months passed. Life resumed, with the new addition of regularly getting updates on how close my uncle was to death. He needs surgery, gets it, gets infected and nearly dies from that, falls ill, keeps going with chemo, goes back to work. He's a cop! By all rights he should have been given a desk job, I don't know what the hell they were thinking letting a terminally ill man back into the field. The school. Whatever. Whatever. Bitter.

When school started the number of the kids at the daycare went back down to manageable levels. I lost my job. I'm so done with unsatisfying everything. And I'm so done being a burden on my family and sometimes, sometimes I think about how it would be so much less painful if I just--But no.

No.

I won't. I won't. For everyone. For everything. Life is beautiful. Life is kind. Life is worthwhile, and it will get better. It will get better. It will get better. It will get better. It... it might. It might. It might get better, but I don't see how, I don't see when. Copper.

I got a boyfriend. He's... pretty wonderful. We don't live close--in fact we live pretty far from each other. And neither of us drives as of yet. We talk on facebook, but... not as often as I'd like. He has a heart condition. The last time I dated someone with a "heart condition" he was lying to me. I lost nine months of my life to that boy. And they have the same first name. And I still miss my last boyfriend. It's been two full years since we broke up, he and I, and I still miss him. We were... really in tune. Unusually in tune. Too in tune: we didn't need to talk because we knew how the other would react. We held conversations with the other in our heads, and didn't talk for weeks. I'm just having issues with being in a relationship again. Ignore me, I'm being silly. (That doesn't meant I'm not still scared, I don't want this ignored I want answers. I want to know where I stand with the first boy I ever truly imagined a life with.) Blood.

The second of my four grandmothers died. Completely out of the blue. My grandpa walked into her room in the morning and found her dead on the floor. I don't have that day marked in my calender like I do the other things. I started crying. I cried for... I don't know. Probably half an hour? I just exhausted myself. I couldn't--can't--understand why people keep dying. Why do I keep losing people? At least I saw her on my trip. We spent the evenings together watching funny, silly reality shows. When I realized I forgot my deodorant at the last place I'd stayed (my uncle's, the same uncle, the dying uncle) she gave me some unused ones she'd gotten from various hospital stays. She was totally cool with it and helped me not be so mortified. She teased me for having a new boyfriend. We talked books. She made breakfast for me every day I was there. She... we had apple pie for breakfast before I left, they said it was my birthday pie. I hugged her before I went out the door. I remember clearly how I felt when Grampy kissed her goodbye--because they had split up but were still married, still lived on the same land, I was so surprised and so happy--and that I thought, When I get home, I'm going to call her. Just on some random day. I'm going to call and chat with her, and Grampy. But this is me we're talking about here, and I didn't. I just... didn't.

I missed the convention I got to every year. I've missed plays at the theater. I've missed chances to see my friends, my boyfriend, my kids. I keep not contacting my psychiatrist. The dog is going back downhill. And again, again, that feeling.

Bitter

copper

blood.

Regret.

Cory Monteith died.

I didn't realize he'd had any effect on my life until he was gone. It wasn't much, but he still... still reached me, you know? With music, with his acting. I was sad to realize he was gone. Is gone. Why do I have such a problem with changing tenses after a person I've seen waking, talking, moving, is dead. It doesn't matter. A part of me cheers up with the thought that at least I have firsthand experience writing grief now. Another, louder parts wishes I didn't. Most of me... Well.

I ignore it whenever I can.

I learned what explosive, devastating relief feels like. Seeing people you love safe after their house catches fire. Being told that yes, we can make the rent this month after all. Coming clean to your family about that one, huge, ugly lie you've kept hidden under smiles and pain and misdirection after five years of hiding the truth... having them accept and forgive you your own, personal deadly sin. Learning that your uncle has reacted to well to the experimental chemo that his cancer is for all intents and purposes gone. My Indian employers told me to believe in miracles. I do.

I ignore a lot of things. I live in fantasy worlds of my own making or choosing, until reality slams home--in my dreams. I've never had dreams relevant to my life and worries, not really, but a month or so ago I had one that the youngest of my kids, the ones who aren't really mine and I haven't seen since spring--I had a dream, a nightmare, where he couldn't remember me. I was devastated. And I have these waking moments where I stand stock-still, frozen by the fact that I remember picking up a little blonde bundle of joy and smelling smoke in her hair. I guess I learned more about fear this year, too.

I ignore it whenever I can.

One thing I can't ignore, though: I thought I knew what regret was. This year I learned I was wrong. I mistook shame for regret.

But none of that is what I actually came here to tell you about. I came here because I need somewhere to talk about this... incredibly traumatic experience that I've gone through. It was last night, just last night and--God. It brings tear to my eyes just to remember it.

Rewind.

Basic fact about me: I don't like sleeping until I know my whole family is in the house. Shut up, yes, I know it's stupid. But my brain is wired to jump to the worst possible conclusion of any scenario I'm presented with. My sister is going to be an alcoholic. I am never going to learn to drive. I will never publish a novel. We are going to be evicted. Our dog is going to die and I will be the one to find her corpse. My relationship is going to fail.

My dad worked the closing shift last night. She should have been home around midnight. But he didn't, when he's promised--he'd promised--to call home on the nights he had to work late after closing, because I stay up when I don't know where someone is. (I have stayed up until ten in the morning waiting for my sister. Turns out she had an impromptu sleepover with a friend from work after drinking.) And I hadn't been told of any such call. So I called him. I expected to have a snippy conversation with him about how he didn't call when he should have to let me know he'd be late.

The first call happened--in my room with my Superman nightlight on, sitting on my bed, with only a few of my numerous blankets to keep me warm--probably somewhere between 3:30 and 3:45. I got his message box. Hang up. Redial.

By the fifth call--each of which was exactly 25 seconds of ringing and the first few words of his message--I was no longer angry. I was worried.

By the tenth I was frightened.

By the fourteenth or so I was calling by rote. It was automatic. I decided to keep calling until he came home, in case his phone was dead. I quickly squashed the thought Or he is. I left a message. I composed it in my head, very calm-like. I manged to almost say it right, only my voice was raspy as I tried not to cry and I mixed the order of two of the sentences.

"Daddy, this is ridiculous. It's ten to four in the morning--where are you? I've called at least a dozen times."

It was supposed to be "Where are you? It's ten to four in the morning." What a stupid mistake. Really. I couldn't do anything right. Sure he was okay--and then that vivid imagination I mentioned before? Kicked into full gear.

The problem with entertainment today is that there's too much blood, gore, and violence. There are too many movies with cars crashing and flipping and tumbling down mountainsides. To many advertisements with horrible things in the background, whether played straight or for laughs. It's too much. Much too much. You don't like gore, skip the next paragraph.

I was able to--or rather unable to stop myself from--visualize with big-screen hi-definition clarity my father driving home. A deer standing in the street. Whether he swerved and went over an edge or couldn't stop from hitting it and it slammed through the windshield and crushed his head the result was the same. A crash with a drunk driver; his car flipping and landing top-down. My dad suspended from the seat belt, blood leaking from his body in the various places where the car had contorted and crushed his limbs, and pouring where the various things he keeps in the back had struck or impaled him. His phone laying on the roof of the car, flashing at him as I called and called and called. Maybe he was conscious. Maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was in the hospital, rushed to the ER. Maybe they wouldn't find him in time. Maybe the phone was in the street, lights blinking, and he could only watch it as life drained from his torn body. Maybe my calls would be how the cops tell us he's gone. My dad, laying on the side of the road. From attack. From freak accident. From falling asleep at the wheel. From getting distracted.

(People can't understand why I don't drive. I can't understand why they do.)

Because the worst possible, frighteningly logical conclusion of someone being hours late and not picking up the phone is because they are cheating, or they are dead. And I cannot, will not believe my father would do the former. So: I was left with the latter. After so much loss, death, and fear in the last ten months, is it really a surprise I immediately believed?

Last night, I thought my father was dead.

My dad.

Dead.

My dad.

Impossible.

I was going to keep calling until he came home. I had to. Trying to get to him was the only thing I could do. I felt five years old. Terrified and alone.

The thirty-third time I called he answered. Or at least, I think so. I didn't count. Couldn't count. First thing I heard was him saying something to someone--a male voice, a coworker. He said, "... my daughter."

Then he asked what I wanted, and I started sobbing. Understandably he panicked.

My dad has years and years of experience understanding me when I cry and try to explain why I'm crying at the same time. He got angry--because he had called home. He had told my mother he would be late. And she hadn't told me, so I'd stayed up hours after I should have, with the back door unlocked for him to come in through, fighting the sleeping pill I take to counteract my insomnia every second of every minute of those hours, waiting for him to come home. So I could lecture him on needing to call home to let us(me) know he would be late and not to worry, like my sister never does, and make sure he got the dinner we set aside for him, and lecture him about needing to take care of himself, and listen to him tell me about whatever thing had kept him this time, and I would sympathize, send him off to bed, drop into my own and be out like a light in thirty seconds.

He had been cutting lumber with a buzz saw with his iPod playing. He didn't even know his phone was ringing, or vibrating, or whatever. (I imagine that coworker saw the number of missed calls just as I was calling again. He got Dad's attention too late, but then I called again and Dad answered. That's all she wrote.

But there's more to the story.

Of course there is. (Every story has three sides: yours, mine, and the truth.) He said it was okay to lock up the house. After crying for a few more minutes I did so. But I didn't change into my nightclothes, I didn't get into bed properly, and when I got back to my room the first thing I did was step onto the foot of my bed and start digging though the boxes and piles of stuff there, looking for something, anything, that my dad had given me. But really I'd already made up my mind, and I was still crying and fighting crying, and as I searched I must have really lost it because I was whispering, begging for my Ty stuffed leopard--named Nathaniel--to just be found already because I needed him.

I found him, sat on my bed, pulled my top top covers back over me, curled into a ball with my face buried between two pillows, started rocking myself, and stopped fighting that sort of truly agonizing, gut-wrenching crying you never see on TV. Where every breath is like a gasp after drowning and every sob is that deep, throaty, wet, ugly sound of pain and fear and despair and relief and exhaustion all at the same time. True to ADHD form, I was rapidly, insistently, stroking the very softest part of Nathaniel, and pulling the covers tighter and the pillows nearer as I tried to just disappear. Eventually the tears stopped.

A minute or so later I got another flash of that--of Dad, hanging upside down by his seat belt, with the phone just out of his reach and blinking while I called and he couldn't answer and there was blood everywhere, and a cop picking up the phone. The tears started again. I remembering noticing that I could actually feel the individual tears sliding across my face, over my nose and down my cheek. I usually can't. But I could last night.

Last night, when I honest-to-God went though some sort of twisted, rapid, intensely painful and frightening form of mourning for my father.

Last night, when I thought my dad was dead.

He woke me up when he got home--for which I'm grateful. I shot up and hugged him, and eventually found my way into bed properly.

This morning was... awkward. Because I was really mad at my mom, and didn't want my dad to leave my sight. And when I say morning I mean 12:10pm when I was woken by my sister. Or my mother. Or father. I don't remember. Whatever.

It doesn't matter. Not really.

It happened. "We all learned from it," I said to Mom today.

Yeah. Well. What I learned was that I had to make a goddamn iron-clad indisputable rule that if Dad calls home to say he's gonna be late, he can't hang up until he talks to me directly. Like what happened tonight, a few hours ago. We spoke for about ten seconds, it seems like. That's all I needed. Just... to make sure he knew, and she knew, that I knew he would be late. 'Cause guess what? My parents finally got it. Finally understood, through guilt, and pain, and empathy.

I don't like sleeping until I know my entire family is in the house.

Shut up.

Yes.

I know it's stupid.

I'll ignore it whenever I can.

Ja na.