This Southern Faggot's Blog


bio-family blahs
June 20, 2009, 1:45 am
Filed under: my head hurts., People to remember, Things to notice | Tags: , , ,

(This isn’t put together very well, sorry about that)

I went over to my parents house for the first time in a few weeks yesterday and it was very strange. I started to remember and think about a lot of things that I hadn’t thought about in a long time. I don’t really remember many of the things, but I walked into my room and it hit me like wave. I spent a lot of time looking through photo books and reminiscing about all the places I used to hide porn.

As a kid I always felt like my mom was always there for me and I always felt a lot closer to her than my dad, but as I have grown older and heard stories from my aunt, I realize that this wasn’t the case at all. I never really felt close to my dad, because he was always just in the background. I always thought that he was doing his own little projects and my mom was the one who actually took care of me, but it turns out that the projects he was working on, was actually raising me while my mom took the credit. My mother would do simple things, like talk to me and ask me about my day, but she never did much more than that.I can’t help but to feel like my dad sacrificed his relationship with me, so that I could always have food, or clothes, or whatever. I don’t know why he was so set on keeping my mothers image good in my mind, but I wish he had not done that.

For my entire life, I had always had to tell people that my mom went to bed really early. I didn’t know why, I just thought it was something that she did, but now that I am older I realize that for my entire life, she has been a raging alcoholic. I always just thought that drinking boxed wine through out the entire day was just what people generally did. I always thought that going out for a new box every 2 days was just a fun trip we made to the drive though liquor store. I always got free gum or candy, so I was clearly fine with the trip. What made her start drinking so much? Was it something about our family? Was it something that happened that I don’t know about? Was it me? Was it just life?

I left my parents regretting certain parts of my childhood, which i never thought I would, specifically my relationships with my mother and father. I just wish that things had been the opposite. Now my mom is a complete wreck and I have to hear my dad talk about how one day he is just going to find her on the floor. I hate it. I hate her so much. I can’t help but to only see her living any longer as a complete burden on my father and my family. The only time she leaves the house, or gets out of the bed for that matter, is to drive to the liquor store. I am dreading her funeral, because I really don’t think I am going to be able to cry. I feel like I should, but I just don’t think I will be able to see it as an occasion to be sad about. I can be sad that I feel like their was something I could have done to not make her like this and I can be sad that her life turned out the way it did, but I really don’t think I will be able to be sad about her not existing anymore. I don’t know what my dad will do. Will he get a new house? Will he cry? Will he be happy? Will he find someone else? Maybe he will be able to find the person my mom used to be; a fun, hippy surfer who ‘lived on the edge’ and dated rock stars. Maybe he will date a dude, which would not surprise me at all. Maybe nothing will change and he will still love our dog more than anything and go biking riding all the time and always have a big goofy smile on his face (which I completely inherited). I hope so. I hope that when she dies not a lot changes with him, because that means that he was not letting her hold him back.

I just wish that our family had fallen together in a different way. I wish that I could have seen my dad working for me in the background, holding down the fort (or whatever) and making sure that I was not neglected when my mother passed out at 5PM every night.

I love you dad. You will probably never know how much I actually do, which kills me.

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