Saturday, January 13, 2007

Finding “my baby daddy” on MySpace

The circumstances surrounding the conception and birth of my daughter could’ve come straight out of a Jerry Springer or Maury Povich talk show.  I’d been broken up with my then-boyfriend for a few months, and had a brief, rather intense fling with a man quite a bit younger than I (who’s the same age as my husband, but the gap seemed so much wider when I was in my late 20s and he was 19!). I can’t really say whether, how long or even IF it would have lasted, had I not gone running back to my boyfriend; who ultimately turned out to be a total dickhead who left me when I was 5 1/2 months pregnant with what we both thought was his baby. This, of course, after his being all gung-ho to be a family and whatnot.

Well, as it turned out, Dickhead was not “my baby daddy,” but that wasn’t established until well after she was a year old. I’m ashamed to say that I wasn’t the one to give the Boy the news that he’d fathered a daughter, but he’d moved away and I hadn’t had contact with him since I’d ditched him to go back to the Dickhead. It just so happened that he’d called one of my sisters to wish her Happy New Year, and she told him about the Princess. I was unprepared when she put the phone in my hand, and in retrospect, I realize that although I said exactly what I meant to say, it came off as cold, harsh and in his eyes was a big “fuck off,” although that was unquestionably NOT my intention. And for what it’s worth, I wouldn’t have slept with him at all if I didn’t love him at least a little bit. As much as I’d have liked to, I really never was able to treat sex the way a man would. The Boy would have had no place in my bed without first having had a special place in my heart.

It’s always been my opinion that no man should be forced to support a child he either didn’t know about, didn’t want or otherwise didn’t step up and commit to because he was left in the dark about things somehow. Most especially when he’s barely an adult himself. And if I didn’t live by my own convictions, I’d be a hypocrite!  At no time during my pregnancy was there even a hint of suspicion that the baby was anyone’s other than the Dickhead’s, so the Boy really had absolutely no say in the matter, and I couldn’t bring myself to hold him accountable for a decision that was, in the end, no one’s but my own. I’d made the commitment to be a parent, and had a long time to prepare for it; he hadn’t, because he’d never even known.

On that day so many years ago, I did promise him that I’d never lie to our daughter and that I’d always make sure we were easy to find if he was looking. I also told him that one day she’d probably want to look for him, and I’d help her to find him.  Although she didn’t start asking until last year, I admit I did do a bit of searching online over the years just out of curiosity. As it turns out though, I was misspelling his last name, which I figured out just a few weeks ago.  Oddly enough, he just recently joined MySpace at the urging of his younger daughter, after quite a long time of resisting because “MySpace is for girls!”

It wasn’t without some hesitation and anxiety that I sent him a message and a friend request; after all, I had no idea whether he’d ever told anyone about the Princess and I admit I was a little bit scared that he’d hate me because I was so cold and emotionless on the phone all those years ago.  Luckily, he’s glad we found him and he’s always let it be known that a day might come when a grownup version of the little girl whose picture my sister gave him years ago and he’s carried around ever since would come looking for him.

My long, long overdue apology, while truly heartfelt and sincere, couldn’t even come close to expressing how truly sorry I am… it wasn’t what I said, but how I said it. And although the truth of the matter is that at the time of that phone call I was, I know now, deep in depression and full of self-loathing for having failed to consider the possibility of the Boy’s paternity; and because during my pregnancy I suppose I was so invested in the baby being the Dickhead’s that I allowed myself to believe she couldn’t be anyone’s but his. I felt like a horrible person and a fool, and rather than show my shame and my pain I acted as though I felt nothing, when that was hardly the case. Worst of all, I hurt someone who didn’t deserve it.

If I’ve learned anything in all my years, it’s that words can and do hurt people, and quite often it’s not the most blatant attacks or verbal abuse, but a one-time conversation or something that might appear to be just a bit of teasing that turns out to be at the root of some of our deepest emotional wounds. Just as my uncles’ and my stepfather’s negative comments ("teasing") about my looks or my weight have (I’ve discovered recently) contributed a great deal to the negative body image that’s a huge problem for me, I can’t help but wonder if my words that day might have resounded down through the years and made some things problematic for the Boy in his life since then. I wish I could go back and do it all over again without hurting him, but it’s too late; so the best I can do now is be as supportive as possible as he & the Princess finally get to know one another. Both of them are thrilled yet nervous about finally meeting, and the Princess is so happy to know she has a little sister. And me, I’m just grateful for the opportunity to set things right after fucking it up so badly, and grateful that the Boy understands now that I never meant to cause him any pain. I may not be able to make up for the hurt, but I can do my damnedest to make sure that I don’t do anything so cruel and thoughtless again, no matter how bad I’m feeling myself.

Most of all, I can thank him for our wonderful, beautiful daughter who is the light of my life and the reason for everything I do. And I can’t wait for him to see with his own eyes what an exceptional young woman she is; flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood.

The Boy done good.

Sunday, December 31, 2006

How I’d like to spend New Year’s Eve

Champagne and Reefer!

Muddy Waters pretty much nails it with this song!

Still trying to work up the energy and fortitude to post my reflections on 2006… we shall see…

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

And when I die…

I’ve had this post in “draft” mode for more than three months now, and although I’ve meant to finish documenting whatever thoughts it brings to mind (and they are many), for one reason or another, I’d leave it for “another day.” I guess today’s that day. 

2006-04-02 09:10 AM

Today would have been my Dad’s 82nd birthday.  He’s been gone now for 19 years, yet there’s not a single day that goes by when I don’t think about him, miss him, and wish that he was still here to talk to.  There are so many things going on in the world that I think he’d find fascinating, or infuriating or just plain interesting enough to converse about; not to mention his almost-all-grown-up-now grandchildren that, sadly, will never know the man from whom they may have inherited some of their artistic, intellectual or genetic traits.  Only two out of the 8 children with a parent sired by The Rock ever even met him: my sister’s son, Patrick, who will soon be 20 and lives here with us; and my brother’s son Robert, who’s 27 now.  So in essence, there’s only ONE grandchild who even remembers the Old Man.

And when I die, and when I’m gone,
There’ll be one child born
In this world to carry on,
to carry on.

That song runs through my head quite frequently, because it was one of Dad’s favorites… and I remember us singing it while tooling down the road in whatever rather beat-up old car Daddy was driving at the time (they were all pretty much beaters, but they did their jobs - and if not, they got fixed, and I got to watch!).  We both considered it a matter of personal pride to know ALL the lyrics to the songs on the radio, or if we didn’t, could “fake it” enough to pass OR spew out some outrageous alternative.

Even though I don’t believe in souls, gods, demons, or “going” somewhere when I die, that’s still one of my all-time favorite songs.  The older I get, the more it seems I have to think/talk about dying and death… especially my own.

Just let me go naturally...

Since April, I’ve had plenty of conversations that brought me back to this post, intending to add to it or to finally get it published once and for all. For example:

The chat with Teebiscuit about my not wanting my husband to mourn my passing for years on end, but hoping he will instead start a new life with someone who would make him a good wife… who would take care of business and love him as I did.  I know that doesn’t make sense to most people, who believe I’ll somehow “know” what happens after I’m dead, but it makes sense to ME; because someone has to love my loved ones when I’m gone.  And someone’ll have to collect up the digital detritus I’ve left strewn along the information superhighway, in hopes that one day someone somewhere will find the words I’ve written and it’ll make a difference… even if I inspire just one small positive change in one person’s life, that’s immortality enough for me.

And there’ll be one child born in this world… to carry on… to carry on…

UPDATE 10/30: turning off trackbacks on this entry due to spam from some asshole in the Netherlands pushing pharmaceuticals.  Die, you fuckstick!!!

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Home Improvement vs. MySpace Addiction

So, losing my job midway through the kitchen remodel really sucked major dick, since I only had enough money put away to install the new counters.  That’s finally done, but now I have to do all the cabinet refinishing myself.  I was originally going to strip the old cabinets and then stain them and the new cabinets so they’d all match.  After spending 4 days stripping and sanding, I was able to actually stain 2 doors—and not only did they look like SHIT, but I couldn’t even get them to match each other, which didn’t bode well for matching them to the NEW cabinets.  So, onto Plan B:  Faux finishing everything.  It’s definitely not easy, but I’m starting to have fun with it now that I’ve done a couple of doors and they came out pretty good.  Once it’s all done, I’ll get a gallery of pictures up.

A while back, I created a MySpace Page but I just recently started adding friends and whatnot, at the behest of The Infidel Guy, to help him get new members and get the word out about his show and Free Thought Media.  Darwin help me, I’m fuckin’ hooked!  I’ve found several people I haven’t seen for years and years, and have found some really cool new people that have become friends (MySpace friends that is) too.  Including one of my heroes, George Carlin!  I find myself checking for new friend requests or messages in between coats of primer, paint or glaze; and I spend altogether too much time going off on tangents by clicking on other people’s friends, which leads me to other people and their friends… and so it goes!  I really need a clone of my own so I can be everywhere I need to be all at one time!

Now, here’s a plug for one of my newest buddies on MySpace, Jesse Blaze and his band BLAZED.  I’m not just biased because Jesse’s the son of my all-time favorite front man, Dee Snider… the band truly kicks ass!  I liked their songs enough to order the CD, and I’m hoping they’ll play a gig out here one of these days because I’d really like to see them live.

OK, back to Home Improvement Hell!

Friday, January 06, 2006

Hard to Believe…

I haven’t had a cigarette in 4 whole days - since January 2nd.  Why not the 1st? Because I miscalculated when I bought the last batch, and I still had more than a pack left at midnight on New Year’s Eve.  Since I’m such a cheap bitch, there was no WAY I was just going to throw away an almost-$5 pack of smokes!  So I finished those up as of around 11:30 PM on the 2nd, determined to be a non-smoker.

Though I bought some Nicoderm patches, I haven’t even felt the need to put one on yet.  I decided that since I’m already taking the Wellbutrin, I’d rather not add nicotine on top of it unless I feel like I’m jonesing so hard I’m about to have a meltdown.  So far although I’ve had a few moments of total bitchiness, I haven’t even come close to the completely psycho feeling I remember from previous attempts to quit smoking.  I’m pretty sure the higher dose of Wellbutrin is directly responsible for that.  The last fairly successful time I quit (for over a month) was while using Zyban and the patch.  Zyban and Wellbutrin are the same drug, bupropion, but one’s 75mg and the other’s 300mg.  After 30+ years and multiple attempts, I know myself and my habit well enough to know there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I could kick cigarettes without chemical assistance.  So far, it seems to be working, so I’m pretty pleased.

My near vision’s blurrier than normal, which I’m hoping is a side-effect that will go away after I’ve been on the meds a bit longer.  Some of the other side-effects I’ve noted are more frequent trips to the bathroom, and some agitation - although that might just be because I really want a fuckin’ cigarette!  Hahaha.  I’m not feeling the chemical withdrawal as much as I am the withdrawal from the physical rituals or habit of smoking.  The trouble is, I really LIKE to smoke… and if it weren’t for the health problems it causes, I wouldn’t give it up.  Little Oral Annie that I am, not smoking means I end up eating more, or chewing my fingernails down further than they already are.  Just what I need, to be fat and have raw bloody stubs for hands.  That should be helpful in landing a new gig… not!

I’m hoping this time it’ll stick, and I can quit for good (without getting as big as a house).  So far, so good.  We’ll see what it’s like to try and make it through the weekend, when everyone’s actually here in the house with me.  Being at home alone all week, I’ve been able to stay relatively sane by either getting involved in some cleaning project (they are legion around here), or if I don’t feel like I can work my way through the urge, I lie down for a few minutes and make my brain vegetate til it passes.  That’s what I’m going to do right now!!!