Let Dead Dads Lie

I've never written a more painful post.

I've also never been so angry and hurt and conflicted.

I'm not sure that I've mentioned this before, but my father, who died when I was 15 was a pedophile and I was his victim.

It's not something I talk about often and it doesn't define who I am. But it's one of those things that occassionally rears its ugly head and comes back to bite me in the ass.

Like tonight.

Mom was cleaning out her desk a few weeks ago and found a journal that Dad was forced to keep for his probation after I outed him.

Mom wanted to know if I wanted to read them and I didn't that particular day, but she left them on her desk and everytime I walked through her room they were there staring at me.

So tonight I didn't have the kids and Mom was gone, so I went and got them.

I should have left it alone.

The vast majority of the entries, that spanned two months, were complaints: about writing, exhaustion, lonliness, work, money and chores. He wrote about how his situation was hard for him - he wasn't allowed contact with children of any kind. How he missed the family enviroment, my mother and my sister.

In two months worth of entries my name appeared 3 times. He hadn't seen or spoken to me in 7 months, and never would again, he died within a month of the last entry.

I am hurt, and angry and confused.

I never idealized him, and saw him as a sick bastard that sometimes could be very kind and loving. But I guess I thought he was remorseful in the end. And that in his deluded, sick way, he loved me.

But his journal tells me a different story.

He never said that he was sorry, or that he regretted what he did to me. They gave me more of the impression that he was sorry he got caught, not really that he did it.

He also never says he missed me. He mentions Amara and missing her and being sorry that he hurt her (he never laid a hand on her), but never me.

What kind of father doesn't miss his child when separated from them for 7 months?

(and let's not get into the obvious - "the same kind that could molest said child".)

And I was sick during this period - passing out for no apparant reason at least once a week.

He talks about Fantasy Football 50 times more that he talks about me!!

I'm angry. And outraged. And really I don't have many coherent thoughts. I just needed to vent.

I promise I'll be back to my old snarky self soon.

Barbituates, Bean and Why I'm Sleeping on the Couch Tonight

**DISCLAIMER**
This is actually kind of a gross posting now that I've read through it. So if you don't want to know entirely too much about Bean's bodily functions, you might want to wait until tomorrow**

There's actually at least two reasons I'll be sleeping on the couch tonight - the first is for blogging about this, but you know, Bean didn't specifically tell me not to, so that's just like permission, right??

And the second reason will come later.

Patience my friends.

So, our wonderful date weekend was interrupted (very rudely) by food poisoning (or a stomach bug, or a really convincing psychosematic illness* - but whatever it is, it's not pleasant).

Yup, that's right, in the middle of the night Saturday, Bean started with the vomiting and all that goes along with a stomach something.

He started to feel better on Sunday morning, so we thought that maybe he'd be ok for "Wicked", but then, like clockwork, a few minutes after checkout time, he got even worse.

Now, I'm one of those people that starts gagging the minute I hear someone else doing the same, so being in a hotel room where the other-room-where-I-can't-hear-you options are slim was not pleasant.

I finally got him to let me take him home about 3 hours later, but he was being pretty insistant that I not only go to "Wicked" but that I also use the hotel room and since really there was nothing I could do for him, I did.

I took Oliver and we had a really good time, but that's another post.

Today I went to work and Bean called and asked me to get his prescriptions. No problem.

Yeah, right.

Did ya'll know that they card you now at the pharmacy whenever you get the good drugs?

I found this out when I got out of the hospital and tried to go pick up my vicodin. I had just gotten out of the hospital and Mom wasn't being very motherly and was procrastinating over getting my drugs, so being the passive-agressive bitch that I am, I showed her and went myself.

So I drove my sore, cut up, seriously bloated ass to the pharmacy really wishing that I was picking up something stronger than vicodin and the bitch carded me.

I was still wearing a hospital bracelet and the bitch carded me.

I had to hobble my sore, cut up, seriously bloated and peeved self out to the car and dig through Bean's bag to find my wallet to get my drugs.

Not cool.

Anyway, today I went to get Bean's prescriptions and the same bitch was there and carded me again.

So I'm thinking - Is she doing this because she's a power-hungry bitch and gets off on inconveniencing people or did Bean get some good drugs??

Turns out he got some barbituates.

So if you're anything like me, you're thinking these are sleeping pills, or pain pills maybe.

Nope.

They're anti-gas pills.

Because he has trapped gas.

He just took the pills, and that would be why I will be sleeping on the couch tonight. Because Bean is sometimes a stinky guy without barbituates. With them?? Yeah, I don't imagine it will be pleasant.


*For the record, I don't really think that Bean has a psychosematic illness. I'm not quite that girly. But there is a little voice in my head (we'll call her Bonnie) who likes to whisper things to me about how he happened to get sick in the middle of our romantic weekend.

vacation from my vacation

So, I'm all back from Colorado and whatnot. But I guess because I didn't die on the multiple planes, that means that I should have a medical emergency.

I'm in the hospital with appendicitis.

And I haven't eaten in something like 20 hours.

And the nurse is mad at me because I didn't remember the last time I pooped. (Apparantly you're supposed to write it down IN CASE of any abdominal pain)

And my roommate has a large family that are all visiting at the same time and babbling LOUDLY in Spanish.

And I NEED a fucking cigarette. BAD. I may kill a few nurses soon.