About My Father

I always got super mad at him and then realized that–whatever he may have intended,, the Lord worked it for the good.

For instance, I had thoughts of wanting to change my son’s name, and I knew that in Buffalo, where he was born, you could do so until age 5. And I was always hassling this poor child with my wanting to consider other names. This was because I couldn’t pronounce it! It was hard for me to say it.. I used to say “His name came to me on a breeze from California.” He was all white and pure like the seagulls on the shore that day in California that I always remember when Alex was seeing a work friend. And my father always stalled me out and I felt like it wasn’t his business. But, I gave him a beautiful name, it was very English and my (English) parents loved it.. For many years I was very angry at my father for doing this, blocking me like that. He had had a stroke and I resented his limitations because he had never helped me with mine as a disabled person. But, I realized finally that it was for the best that I didn’t change my son’s name. I realized that ESPECIALLY in the situation of the stroke, the Lord was helping my father to do the right thing.

As for my mother, not so. She did not have a heart for me. My father had to relinquish control to her because he lost authority. He was dependent and couldn’t be seen going to mel

I hated what they did to my relationship with my son. They blocked me there. At the same time, with my psych and other physical med history over the years, maybe there was no other way that could happen. I could only prove things through retroactively. I couldn’t ENGAGE in the present. The PHYSICAL EXPRESSION of LOVE was hampered. I had a bizarre condition that nobody understood, least of all my psych providers. Nobody can possibly understand how the diagnosis of “schizoaffective disorder” hurt in this regard. And other diagnoses, even worse.

But, what if I had known at 21, when I first sought psych counseling, what if I had been told that I had a clitoral and urethral injury, would never really be able to enjoy sex, and would not be able to have a career as I would have liked.

My life at that point became like a fairy tale. I chased my future husband,, married him, and then was held in a thrall of psych meds, suicidal ideation, and suicide attempts, opioid-like smoking, and psych wards, an underground similar to Hades. It was like the Greek Myth of Hercules. Or the fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty.

Also, trapped in a book several times. “August,,” a novel about psychoanalysis that my first psychologist gave me to read; and the Tolkien Ring Cycle, which I read during my first stay at the state hospital; by the warlock there who seduced everybody.

So, it was a literary journey as well, and gradually became a religious one as well. More on that some other time.

My parents oughtn’t to have taken the steps they did to get me to go to the state hospital. It created a horrifying situation that is still being worked out today. I am finally pulling out of it.

Given what happened, there wasn’t much that could be done.

But in the end, I healed well enough to meet Alex and leave the area; and go to a beautiful situation out West. I just didn’t see it that way at the time. I was still extremely ill. I lost the Harvard pretentions. Then, I had to come back East and they didn’t acknowledge the change that I had gone through and they proceeded to harm me with my child.

But, looking back, I have to accept that my brother also had a serious situation and my sister was also troubled and that they were good to help me as they did.

My father had the stroke shortly after my son was born; then, my sister got shot in the foot outside a club in Allentown by a crazy person and OF COURSE attributed that to me. I don’t remember which came first. I lost his support after that and instead was aware of his deliberately using me to help the others as had always been the case. Even though I had a baby and was all alone.

A year later, in Maryland, where we had once again moved; I completely cracked up. I’ve been recovering ever since. I was sitting in the apartment all day YELLING. I was RHYMING. Ian was sitting with me, we were watching t.v. He started clapping his hands, poor child.

I never got over it.

So, there is a whole lot more to tell but not here, now.

The point is, generally, I feel like my father generally helped; he at least showed up. And he had some standards strictly held. I didn’t always have the same ones but I appreciated that he did.

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