Because blogging is cheaper than therapy.

(Disclaimer; This is not my typical writing. My heart and soul have been heavy for a few days. I recently met up with my father and a comment was made that transformed my normally dormant emotions into a crazy cyclone of feelings that have been stewing around in my head. I can't seem to think of anything else. I don't have a journal. I feel crazy talking to myself, so instead I thought I'd take my craziness one step further and write to a dead person. Consider yourself warned)




I've been wearing your diamonds lately. The diamonds that were once worn around your finger as a promise and token of my fathers undying love for you are now worn around my neck, as close to my heart as I can get them.

Walking past the Estee Lauder counter in Dillards the other night I snuck a sample spray of Red Door onto a paper cut out. The smell brought such a familiar comfort in my heart, But such painful memories.

I've been embracing my all-natural "mess" that I call hair lately because it reminds me I'm your daughter. I've even colored some select pieces red. I stand in front of the mirror with my big blue eyes and the frizzy, kinky, curly mess of hair and all I see is you staring back at me.

I met up with Dad last night for a beer. I had my crazy hair pinned in various ways to try to keep my side-show-bob locks out of my eyes. The way it was pinned must have showcased the red pieces. Dad asked how long I'd had those pieces dyed red. I told him a few weeks. It looked like he was in deep thought for a moment and then he looked up at me and said "Sometimes you look so much like your mother it kills me." For a split second I think both our hearts ached at the exact same time. We did our usual "Hurry and make light of the situation, change the subject or quickly crack a joke" I finished my beer and left him to finish his with his friends. I went and did my grocery shopping. I'd almost made it home when it hit me. A complete left hook of emotion socked me right in my face. I started bawling at a stoplight.


I miss you so bad. I constantly wonder about your timing. We left on such a loving note. If you would have chose to stay would we still be on that same note? Would we have the kind of relationship that I long for? Or would your sickness have divided us? Would we fight with one another because I wouldn't understand why you just can't buck up and get better? No sense in wondering I suppose.


I've lived longer without you than I have with you in my life. For some reason I feel like that's an accomplishment. I haven't done extraordinary things with my life but I feel content with what I have done. I'm a very strong, independent woman. I take a lot of pride in that. From time to time I wonder if you watch me. I wonder if I make you proud. Did you have higher expectations for me to live up to? Well, at least I've lived. That's more than what you seemed to be able to handle.


I'm still pissed off. I'm angry. Quite frankly, I'm disappointed in you. I'm also mature enough to understand why, and to realize that everything does happen for a reason, and as much as it hurts to say, it's all probably for the best. I think you knew that.


As frustrated as I get with you sometimes I always wind up singing your praises. You were an amazing woman who could light up a room. Your sarcasm, humor and crazy-off the wall behavior are traits I'm proud to admit I inherited. You were so spontaneous, fun, loving and daring. I hope I can live my life in such a fashion that it reminds you of yourself. I am your daughter and I'm very proud to say so. I need to learn to not curse my unruly locks, wide hips and freckles. They're the last reminders of you that I have. When I start laughing uncontrollably, not the polite dinner table giggles, we're talking actual gut busting laughter, all I hear is you. It's your laugh. The one I heard so many times. It's you. For one second you're right there in the same room as I am. Laughing. I suppose that's the reason why the way to my heart is through laughter instead of food. Although, you'll never see me turn down a burger, either.



I want you to know that I'm doing OK. The holidays get really, REALLY hard. Every year. Without fail. Not to mention the particularly shitty timing you chose to gracefully depart. The month of April totally blows; Your Birthday, Your Anniversary. The month of May is Mothers day; which, I'm proposing that holiday be outlawed anyway. I've taken it upon myself to turn it into "Get trashed with your friends day." It's all good. They get it. June first is the day you died. Seriously? 2 weeks before Dad's birthday and fathers day!? A month before my birthday!? Really?

Ya know, I really didn't have a lot going on in the fall. That might have been a better time for everyone. For someone who was doing such a "selfless act" you coulda' thought it through a little better. I suppose being a complete wreck inside for 5 months outta the year ain't bad though.



I'm taking care of dad as best I know how. I make sure every year I can afford to get him a 20 round punch pass to Eagle Mountain. I'm pretty sure it's the only way the man can get out and golf with his buddies. For me, That's priceless. I know how truely important friends are. I try to pry his home-body-ass out, and come meet me and his buds at the bar once in a while for a few beers. I invite him and the 12 string you got him for your anniversary out to my house for an afternoon of jammin'. Hearing him play is absolutely amazing. Depending on the song, He can still bring a tear to my eye. It makes me feel like a little girl again, safe, inside her bed, being sung to sleep by her dad, without a worry in the world. (Unless he's singing the song about dildos of course. Or the one about good beaver gone bad) It's safe to say our relationship is a good one. It's also safe to say I've got a one way ticket straight to heaven. This year I actually made an effort and bought his stupid wife a little something for her stupid birthday and stupid Christmas. I'm a fucking angel.


When it comes right down to it, at the end of the day, I'm good. People comment all the time on how well I've turned out considering my childhood and the unpleasant circumstances I grew up with. I'd like to think I turned out OK too. I do have some sort of weird, crazy, insane need to have a damn plan for everything. I can't seem to shake it. My entire childhood revolved around having a plan. Preparing myself. Having approximately 2-9 different options on what I'd do, who I'd call, Where I'd go when I walked in and found out that you'd finally succeeded in one of your many attempts to leave me. That trait has followed me into adulthood. I think it drives most of my friends fucking bananas but at the end of the day they're probably thankful that we'll always have more than enough beer, know where the closest hospital is and reservations made 9 months in advance.

I'm not quite sure of the most graceful way to end the most unorganized post of 09. I feel better though. I get told all the time that "I'm so Kathy" or "You're just like your mother" I can't think of a better compliment.

I don't know how you can still love someone you haven't seen or talked to in over 15 years, but, It's still there and I love you very much. I miss you like crazy and I hope all is well in your world. Wherever that is.

Sincerely,

Erica.