page four of this short story converted to comic
embarrassed to be
i was weird
of the way
of my being
to his own
to be my dad
that i wanted to be
he tried to convince me
of the mistake
he did not believe
i could possibly
i would be a failure
a man who did not
show his hand
who kept so much
he could not bother
i was to give a speech at my high school graduation because i was the salutatorian of my class.
my dad did not want to go to my graduation because he was sure i would embarrass him.
on my perfect little sister’s wedding day, i was put in the uncomfortable position of being her maid of honor. my dad’s words to me?
“don’t embarrass your sister on her day.”
he told me i would regret following my dreams. he told me that no one actually follows their dreams. he told me i had to be practical.
spent so much time pushing me down.
when i eloped with a stranger (because i just wanted to believe that someone could really love me,) he said, “you’re not my problem anymore.”
now that he’s dead
i can say that right back to him.
thanks to edward gorey for this illustration inspiration
i could tell “worse” stories about my dad. about his alcoholism and his violent temper & how terrifying my childhood was…but the weird thing is, though that stuff was terrifying…it didn’t hurt nearly as much as living a life knowing what he thought of me.
over on my patreon page i did an art journal page about my dad. somehow, using edward gorey in the illustration seemed to work.
this is the first time i have borrowed from edward gorey–one of my favorite male artists & an early dark influence on my life & art & sense of humor. i was pretty excited about doing it. i might try to do more in the future when my posts are particularly dark & dreary.
i have also done some other art journal pages (on enlightenment &
as well as another page of “stolen.”
speaking of…i watched warrior queen, a movie about boudica–a celtic queen who kicked roman ass.
i can very much relate to the ancient celtic lifestyle as well as their hatred of romans. does that prove i lived a past life as a celtic queen? who knows. but i am enjoying creating my story about it.
maybe he still holds me
into my heart
maybe he still keeps me
in a prison
with no bars
i think i am free
i am not…
how many times
have i left him
he still holds
refusing to let me
he pounds another nail
into my coffin
he is keeping me
as i was driving, monday, to take the minions to meet their dad, i glimpsed another passenger in my car when i glanced to the rear view mirror.
shortly after, i drove past a cemetery with a fresh grave.
i wondered, will their father be there, at the meeting place?
or am i finally free?
i was sure that my ex-husband had died.
however, as we now know, it was my father who had died, not theirs.
i thought that if my ex-husband had died, i would be a little sad. i mean, my kids would lose their dad…but i would also feel…
kinda the way i felt when i found out it was in fact my father who had died.
on retrospect, i guess i shouldn’t be surprised that i got the energy of my dead dad mixed up with the energy of my ex-husband…i mean, there is a reason i often choose charming narcissistic assholes to be with.
& what i wonder now is…can’t i be free without anyone else having to die? how do i break the binds that he keeps me tied with? because i truly believe that his not letting me go is stopping me from being truly free of him.
i usta sit
this same window
i now make art
with the light of
i stared at the dark
reflecting little me
reflecting damaged me
waiting for him
to come home
he would not
for daddy dearest
only forty years later
yesterday as i was driving back from dropping off the minions, my cell phone rang & “pure evil” came up on the screen.
i did not answer.
when i got home, i listened to the message. my mom, telling me that she thought he was asleep, but that my dad is dead.
that’s my mom, phoning around for a reaction before actually calling the paramedics.
so…my dad is dead.
don’t say you’re sorry, because i am not & if you say you’re sorry, it will only make me feel like a bigger shit.
i don’t think
could get any
where would it go
it would fill
a hot air balloon
& float it
to the moon
send my lonely
to the moon
root it out of
in a bonfire
on a dark solstice night
turn my lonely
to smoke & ash
& wait for the light
with big feelings come art journal pages. as i learn how to celebrate my brother instead of mourning him…the other pain rises to the surface. the pain of a broken heart.
a broken marriage.
a man who could not be the person i needed him to be and instead became a monster set on destroying me.
the lonely is so large right now as i don’t know how i will ever find love again.
but my heart still wants to look.
is thinking about
the blade against my skin
is a match
to burn it all to the ground
are the words
in my rotten brain
no one has ever loved you
is a free fall
away from my nightmares
and into a comforting
love is the easy answer
if by easy
makes more sense
no longer fantasizing about love
death. the ultimate distraction. no. i don’t really want to die. most the time i plan on living forever. but some days there is something deep & dark inside me. an overwhelming lack of hope.
it has a lot to do with escape. that’s what the thoughts of death are. i mean, when i was in the midst of it, i thought, what if i didn’t die–but just disappeared?
it was all the same to me. well. actually disappearing was more desirable than death.
i am sure other mothers feel this way. i am sure none of us like to talk about it. i talk about it because i have to.
if i keep things inside, it only gets worse.
squeeze it until it bleeds…& then it can get better.
i am not sure how i feel about this illustration/self-portrait. i feel like i am…too sexy? is death sexy? i wasn’t going for sexy. i’m not sure it is even sexy. trust me, i do not feel sexy.
i do like the illustration…it feels comic-booky to me. i just feel like a fraud for having drawn/painted it.
don’t ask me why.
i don’t fucking know.