one last chance

Lately I'd been thinking that I want Dad completely, totally out of my life. To the point of having my wedding, whenever that day comes, in another city just so he wouldn't be the one to walk me down the aisle. To the point of not going to his funeral, when that day comes. I figured I would be safer, happier in the long run that way.

But...that car ride with Dad was probably the most honest conversation we've ever had. And it got me thinking, maybe we can make something work after all.

Maybe I could give it one last chance.

So I called him...and I could tell he was a little confused. I never call him. I never really talk to him. Even when I call Mom and he picks up the phone, I just ask to talk to her, and not to him.

I asked if we could get coffee or something after school.

He said sure, maybe we could go for dinner, he could bring Mom too.

I told him I was thinking it'd be nice if it was just the two of us, and we could talk.

Silence. More surprise, I guess.

And so we decided on dinner, just the two of us, at 7:30.

My boyfriend said, "your funeral."

But there's a small spark of hope in me. Maybe tonight will go okay. Maybe it will lead to other times that go okay.

And if not...at least I gave it one last chance.

we've all been here

I have a fancy meeting tonight, which means I need to wear fancy clothes.

Clothes I haven't worn for a couple of years.

And of course they don't fight right.

I'm trying not to let it get to me.

I want this day over.

a fun morning with dad

"Let me tell you something, now that I've got you in the car and you're not going anywhere. I didn't appreciate your telling Mom that you were leaving because of me. I had to sleep outside that night and we almost got divorced over it."

"...you wanted me to lie to her?"

"Don't go and move in with your boyfriend and then tell me it's because of something I did."

And so there it started.

Oh, I knew Mom talked to him about it. How could she not? She'd thought - and so had I - that I would live with her until I was married, that my leaving would be a happy occurrence, with me moving on to the next phase of my life. I wasn't supposed to leave because my emotional survival depended on it; it wasn't supposed to be like that, and she was angry at him for making it so.

But he'd denied he had anything to do with it from the beginning, insisted on it, until both Mom and I believed his mind simply wouldn't accept any other possibility.

And then for him to bring it up on his own - well, I definitely wasn't expecting that. Maybe he was, actually, wondering whether he'd done something to make me leave. Maybe he wanted me to reassure him that he hadn't.

Not a chance of that.

I told him things I'd wanted to for a really long time. That I needed to leave because living there, with him, was giving me panic attacks. That he was emotionally abusive. That most of the time he was not a good father. That he never said he loved me or was proud of me; all I ever got from him was anger and criticism and swearing. That if he'd hurt me physically the way he'd hurt me emotionally, child services would have taken me away years ago.

It went by in a blur. He was angry, but not as angry as I thought he'd be.

And it was so, so strange for him to be the one to bring it up.

sometimes a breakdown is a good thing

I think I may have had something of a breakdown. A breakdown, and then an epiphany, or maybe it was both at the same time.

A little over a month ago, dad and I fought. He's so good at making me feel so worthless. I'd been looking forward to a long weekend, to relaxing and enjoying it. I'd had a good streak of taking care of myself, of dealing with my emotions without cutting or starving or purging. I thought I was making progress.

It wasn't the first fight we've had, and it wasn't even the worst fight we've had, but it was bad enough to trigger a panic attack. I tried to ride it out, just let it run its course without doing anything self-destructive, but I couldn't. I fell back to old habits, and I fell hard. By night, I still felt so panicked that I locked myself in my bathroom and slept on the rug.

The next morning, I tried to think of what I could do or say to make dad understand how his anger affects me. But I couldn't think of anything I could do or say that would make a difference. I've tried talking to him before, and it just doesn't work.

And I realized something, maybe for the first time. It didn't matter how much therapy I had, how much time I devoted to learning better coping mechanisms, how hard I worked on becoming assertive and rebuilding my confidence. If I stayed in that house, he would destroy me.

So I left.

And it's indescribably wonderful, to be out of that situation.

And I've gone 34 days now without throwing up.

asleep on the bathroom floor

We fought. We fight often, and though neither of us ever wins, it seems I always lose more.

But everyone has a breaking point.

And this is mine.

With a burning throat, an empty stomach, and blood dripping down my arm, I know this is mine. If I stay here, you will destroy me, and I don't want to be destroyed. I need to save myself while there's something left to save.

a brief history of a tangled mess

I started this blog, originally, in January 2010. It was more or less impulsive. I didn't know why I was starting it, what I wanted to do with it, what I thought it would accomplish.

Now I feel like most of those old posts missed the point somehow. Perhaps it began with too shallow of a context - before I'd really started figuring out what I needed to figure out.

There's a lot I need to figure out.

My parents had five children, and I am one of two who survived to see our first birthday. I understood death - really understood it - before I was two years old. I've watched my mother struggle with cancer, autoimmune diseases and various complications since I was seven. At eight, I was sexually molested - not raped, at least - but terrified and scarred nonetheless.

At sixteen, my father was in an accident that robbed him of his youth and mobility overnight. As the years progressed, he became depressed, angry, overly critical and emotionally abusive. Sixteen was also the year I stopped my best friend from killing herself. And the year I half-heartedly attempted suicide, and the year I was hospitalized to prevent me from whole-heartedly attempting suicide.

At eighteen, I learned how to trust a boy and fell in love. By nineteen, bipolar disorder had turned him into someone different - emotionally abusive, cruel at times. I tried to help him and almost destroyed myself in the process. I closed up again.

I've starved myself. I've binged and purged. I've cut and I've burned. I've deliberately refused to take care of myself and I've been creative about it.

There are still pieces of me I want to destroy. But somewhere, in that tangled mess of memories and emotions and things I've never managed to deal with, there are some pieces of me worth saving.

This is the story of a girl trying to put her pieces back together.