I Stabbed My Dad

 

Last night I dreamt that I was walking in my mother’s house and came across what could only be defined as a cardboard cut out talking version of my dad.

He yelled at me, “What do you want?”

I screamed, “To be your daughter,”

He screamed back, “I’ve done everything within in my power to make you go away. I never wanted you in my life. Leave!”

Enraged, I stabbed this paper cutout with a butcher knife and woke up screaming in sobs.

I guess the pain of his abandonment still runs deep.

imgres

 

I’ve been so far removed from my emotions that they are coming up in my dreams.

 

There is nothing worse than the betrayal of ones own family.

 

I don’t miss him, but what he did still hurts.   It cuts deep, and maybe that’s what my stabbing was about.

 

He left my brother and I, while under the spell of a seductress, and now our family is left in shambles, including him. My mother has been gone just under three years, but it feels like an eternity. Oh, to have her back.

 

But I’m slowly piecing myself back together in therapy.

 

Any thoughts on what this dream could mean?

Advertisements

Grief makes you dress like SHI@!!! Am I alone?

images-6

I left the house to the grocery store wearing faded black work out pants, a black tank top, no bra (I really should wear a bra), a black and white poncho, leopard print flip-flops, and no make-up (no one should ever leave the house with at least mascara).  I didn’t care.  Until, I was bumped into by a very handsome man in the produce section. I think he was single– No ring! (but these days you really never know).

He smiled at me, and said, “Excuse, me.”  Scanned my face, then asked, “Are you okay?”

I said, “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just– you look a little pale,” he answered.

I looked at myself in the mirrored wall behind the produce, and I saw a ghost of myself. Pale. Sad. Broken.

Never in my life would I consider leaving the house looking at least somewhat presentable.  My long hair was strands of stringy mess strewn over my shoulders, hidden under a hat.  I have beautiful hair, at least I did once.  Thank god, I still bathe.

photo-11

I politely moved on, but it was at that moment that I realized how broken I really am. How much grief has taken its toll.  I simply don’t care about myself or how I physically appear to others, and I should.  This is not me.  My dear mother would be horrified if she saw me in some of the outfits I’ve thrown together, while forcing myself to leave the house for basic necessities. Sadly, this outfit is actually one of the better ones.  Granted, leaving the house for groceries is progress considering all I’ve been eating is take-out or delivery, but, I think, I’ve finally had it with feeling tired and malnourished.  My mother taught me to be put together, to be neat in appearance, to dress well.  I look like a slob and this is a dishonor to her.

Hopefully, next time I leave the house, I will look civilized and not homeless.

My new mantra is to be, “Stressed, depressed, but well dressed.”

What grief outfits have you worn? How bad have you looked? Hopefully,  I’m not alone.