Wanting, Grieving, Accepting, Changing

I’m sad and restless and want someone to fuck. I’ve sexualized my feelings for so long that I equate sorrow with finger-banging. Unfortunately, I’m breaking old patterns and will not be looking for my next prisoner for my lust or a shirt to discreetly wipe my snot on. Nope. Nope. Nope. Instead, I’ll write. I’ll sit with my pain. I will breath in and out. I’ll blow my nose into a Kleenex. It’s not the same as having an orgasm, but such is life…meaning, life sucks. 

This past week has been a whirlwind for me. I’ve grieved over my mother. But have I grieved over my father?

It seems wrong to grieve over a parent who still lives. It’s easier to cry over a dead mom. That makes sense. My mother died when I was a baby. I never got to know her. I never knew what kind of mother she was going to be. She was a myth. A legend. A prophecy. She was and is whatever I make her out to be. 

But my father? 

I did get to know him. I lived with him for 19 years. I talked to my dad everyday on the phone for years afterwards. It wasn’t till 6 years ago that I stopped taking his calls. My brother doesn’t understand why all of a sudden I shifted. Why then? Why was everything fine up until then? 

And you know what it was? The moment I realized I wanted to be a mother. That’s when. For the first time I saw my dad from a parent’s point of view. He didn’t protect me. He didn’t look out for me. He didn’t care for me like he should have. I found out what kind of parent he actually was. What he had done was criminal. He was going to continue to hurt me unless I disconnected. 

It’s a different type of pain, grieving over an estranged parent rather than a deceased one. In a way, it’s a deeper wound because it’s mixed with anger, disappointment, false hope and guilt. Am I overreacting? Should I just settle for what I’ve got? Am I a bad person? Family is everything, right? Maybe he’ll change? Sure, he will! 

I think the hardest thing about grieving over my father is how much at home I feel right now.  I was conceived in grief. I marinated in my mother’s womb in grief. I lived in grief: my mother’s murder, my grandmother’s death at 15, my dad’s neglect and abuse. You’d think I would be a pro at grief. But it’s still hard. No matter how familial it feels. 

So yes. I want to cry. I want to cum. I want my hair pulled. I want to be attended to. I want to be fed pizza. I want to be spanked with that pizza. I want to be listened to. I want to be cared for. I want my father to love me. I want. I want. I want. 

Wanting, grieving, accepting, changing…

Such is life…

(Writing this helped. So thanks for reading).