I woke up last Friday morning feeling as hungover as I've ever felt, which, for those of you who don't know me, is not saying much, as I've never actually BEEN hungover (it's my superpower). I didn't drink on Thursday at all, but I felt puffy and dehydrated, headachey and like I'd been steamrolled. The events of the week and the amount of tears that had come out of me was the likely culprit. After deciding Zumba wasn't going to happen, I wanted to get all my feelings out and share what had been going on with everyone who had been so wonderful and supportive. So I vomited out all of that here, and honestly, as soon as I was done, it was as though a weight had been lifted. The pressure, the sadness, the hurt, the resentment, the frustration, all those negative feelings left, and I was left with a feeling of peace.
When I started that post, I was pissed. I was ready to take the low road and use my words to smack down the people I felt needed smacking down. I wanted to lash out and make them hurt as badly as I'd been hurt, make them realize that I was NOT the bad guy in this scenario, that I was the child who had been abandoned and cast asunder...not the reverse. Not that I thought any of them actually read my blog, but I just wanted it out there, in the universe, so I'd be heard. By the time I was done writing (which went relatively quickly, but it was so many words!) I truly felt the peace I talked about in the last paragraph. I felt GOOD about having stayed on the high road and had no desire to do anything but.
Here we are, just over a week later, and everyone has been checking in and seeing how I'm doing...and I kind of hate to admit it, but I feel really good. I've barely thought about it except in passing. I feel like now, when I want to hang out with biodad, all I have to do is think about him, not call his captors and make an appointment (the last one I tried to make was denied to me, about a month before he passed) and pretend to be nice and sweet and non judgmental. I just have to think about him and he is with me, and it's so much nicer than before. There is so much of him in me, and instead of it reminding me that I should call or I should visit, it just reminds me of him. It's kind of fun to think of him seeing me and those things without all the bullshit I'd get from him in person. I'm not sure if that makes me heartless, or callous, or just a survivor, but that's the truth. I feel fine.
After I wrote my entry last Friday, I went to my mom and (step)dad's for a birthday dinner for my brother, their child. His birthday was the day of the memorial, so they waited for me to have it, and for the first time all week, I talked to my dad about it. From day one, when I was 8, he never wanted to step on anyone's toes, he never wanted to make me feel like my real father was being replaced. If I had any complaint about him growing up, it was that he should have felt more ok doing that. I could have used a stronger father figure...but he was always super careful. Friday was no different. He wasn't going to bring it up, but I felt like it was the elephant in the room, and frankly, I saw it as the last piece in the puzzle of healing, so I started the conversation. I told him everything that had happened that week (my mom had told him about the death, but not about the treatment that followed), I told him about the memorial, I told him everything I had been feeling...and he listened, was incredulous when incredulity was necessary, was sympathetic when sympathy was called for, and I think, was thankful that we discussed it. Because after all of the rollercoaster of the week was over, I was left with this truth- the man who is my father did not die on May 14th. He's alive and well (and kicking someone's ass in court in litigation) and is there for me and will continue to be there for me. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel about that other guy, but I think I'm done feeling it...and I feel fine.
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