There's a lot of things I'm crowding in my head and I suspect that it would be easier to do so here, sorting them out, laying them down. So here we go. By numbers. Get this shit laid out.
1- Dad requires a full set of spoons.
I love dad. I lived with him as an adult for a full year. Mary helped me deal with him back then, my step mum, she didn't let him (or me) get away with any shit if we were being out of line. There was much confrontation but it was manageable. Mostly. (When he and Mary weren't telling me I wasn't as injured or sick as I knew I was.)
Dad though is complicated. Losing Mary wasn't just losing someone I respected but also someone I trusted, someone who also understood what Dad was like, and could stand up for me when Dad was just full of shit. (Likewise she'd also tell me when I was full of shit and most of the time she was right. Not all the time. But a lot of the time.)
Dad gaslights, he is verbally abusive, and expects the worst. He also considers me a failure, thinks I try to manipulate him, thinks I'm someone who's already past their prime and hopeless, someone who should have been working for a decade by now. I know that feeling's mirrored in most of my family and I don't have a lot of contact with them so I don't have many hard feelings about them not knowing what I've been through... but Dad, this from Dad, who knows the health situations I've been trying to recover from... it is a whole other impact on me.
2- I can't tell family.
I couldn't tell my stepmum, Mary.
She was a victim of abuse herself. She and Dad had a great relationship, they matched each other well, and she wouldn't hear of it. Not even the slightest hint of it. So I kept my past to myself.
I can't tell family. I suspect they know, having known dad as well, but I can't speak for their experiences with him or their coping mechanisms. What works works and I won't judge them for that.
Then Mary died and Dad's grief made him cruel. Terrible. He was like he was as a teenager and I wanted to love him, support him, I wanted to be there for him. I still do. But he started to be verbally abusive again, and I can't resist, I can't NOT stand up for myself, and my brother was caught in the crossfire and trying to tell us both to let it go...
Its been two years and I still struggle with the idea of visiting Dad. I want to. I just can't bring myself to.
3- Memories and reliving trauma.
Two weeks ago I had to retell my entire history, childhood and teenage years, to a psychiatrist and I've been swimming in a soup of brain vomit that is all memories and none of them easy to deal with.
Things from my childhood and teenage years that were lost under a fog of forgetfulness, memories, and I've been disassociating from the world since in an attempt to deal with it. Forget it all again? Who knows. The fact that I don't remember everything is as difficult to deal with as remembering what I do remember. Back then as a kid and a teen it was easier to wipe it from my brain. I would forget within a day or two. I knew something bad had happened, Dad had done something, but I could never recall what exactly.
Likewise I have to deal with memories of being overwhelmed. Of screaming, smashing things, banging my head on the wall, remember how it was like being two people- the overwhelmed me, the one who was suddenly melting down, who didn't know how to deal with things. And the me that was standing back watching myself with no control.
I have to remember being bullied.
I have to remember sexual predators.
4- Suddenly Dad is sick.
I'm two weeks into trying to tip the brain vomit back into my brain so it can settle down. I'm a fricken adult. This shit was a long time ago. I can fucking cope. I have tools, art therapy tools, and even friends who probably understand.
I can probably write. I want to write. I CAN write. Fuck. I've been writing for my entire fricken life. This shit isn't complicated.
Dad's sick.
Fuck.
Suddenly, I can't put Dad off anymore, he's in Melbourne for a nephew's wedding and he's sick. Right now. I have to put that brain vomit aside and visit Dad. I WANT to visit Dad. I WANT to be supportive. I really do. I love Dad. Yet everything emotionally is unsettled.
5- I can look after you.
So I am visiting Dad, unsettled by memories I had to dig up just to prove I have ADHD, and suddenly in an attempt to prove to him that I'm not an unempathic screwup with no hope I'm offering to be his carer if he comes down here.
The thing is, it isn't a false offer, I WOULD gladly look out for Dad. Anyone. I would gladly look after anyone who wants help. But a full time carer? I am still learning to function myself! I still want a job, finish my study, a family, I want to recover. Make friends. What's the difference between living with Mum here, where I can't have friends over, where I am still in a parent-child dynamic, and living with Dad in a claustrophobic unit where I would be uncomfortable with friends over because of reasons. And I'd have to be worried that the dog would stress Dad, and Dad would treat the dog wrong, not to mention how Dad treats ME when he's stressed or unwell.
What is WRONG with me? Why would I offer that? I need help myself at the moment.
6- What is WRONG with me?
That's just it though. That question. That's Dad's favorite question. He throws it at me whenever he's angry with me. What is WRONG with me? Fucking nothing, and everything, and it isn't the point. It is a question that I'm constantly plagued by. It fuels my anxiety. It taunts me whenever I remember how old I am and how little I've been able to do.
What is wrong with me?
7- Dad's not safe where he is.
This bothers me. I think it bothers my brother. If Dad spent three weeks ignoring symptoms that something was wrong in his stomach, something Mary would never have let him do, then does he need to live closer to us all? Does he need his kids to check in on him? Would that fall on me alone? He's currently living alone, interstate, and all his friends have passed away. Dad's alone. He doesn't want to make new friends.
That's not safe for someone in his mid seventies. That's not okay. He should be independent but it worries me now that he's not taking care of himself.
8- And I'm back to emotional brain vomit.
Sounds are too much.
People are too much.
My feet hurt. My back hurts. My stomach hurts. I want to hide in my bed and end up rambling to myself out loud trying to work out my brain. There's a migraine brewing behind my eyes.
Then I think about writing and I just feel like crying. I want to write. I want to be in a place where I can enjoy Nanowrimo and not deal with this emotional upheavel. I want to be able to be around friends and not ramble on about things that are complicated, emotional, difficult, or even just my own health, not be self centered.
I want to be successful, make money, build a life.
Then I think about it, new place, new people, new things, and possibly another abusive supervisor and housemates that misunderstand what I'm about... and the idea of a job is just overwhelming.
So I'm going to remember to take my pills, breathe, and function. Tonight I only need to deal with taking pills. That's it.
