Abusive Relationships

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February 8, 2013

What’s In A Name?

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Blogging, Death of a sibling, Gaslighting, Wine, Writing | Tags: Blog, Blogging, Breaking Up, Death of a sibling, Depression, Gaslighting, Journal, Journaling, mental-health, Writers Resources, Writing |
[19] Comments

A journal by any other word would be as true. Or would it? What if you called it a blog?

Blogging is odd. When I first started, I had no idea what it was about. I wrote and wrote and wrote. The only person who read my posts was Mack, the guy I was seeing at the time. I was a bit censored. More than a bit, I guess. I was writing for an audience of one. And I was hardly honest about what I really felt. In fact, I’ve got a rant called How I Really Feel saved in my drafts. If the posts about my mother made you uncomfortable, this one would really raise an eyebrow. So I blogged to Mack. It was like an on-line journal. But a journal I knew he’d snoop into and read. He was still reading it in October, when my dad died. But somewhere along the way, after I broke it off, I stopped censoring. And I wrote to myself. I didn’t read other blogs. I wasn’t really sure how to find them. I didn’t use tags or categories or widgets. I didn’t know what they were.

I just wrote.

Until one day, I got curious about categories and tags. I read a WP help page about what they were. I still didn’t get the point, but I began tagging my posts. And then it happened. I got a like. And a follow. And a comment. By total strangers. How had they found my blog? I’m kind of smart, and so it occurred to me, it must have been a tag or a category. So I kept tagging and categorizing. Then I found the topic search page, typed in “gaslighting,” and there was my post. So that’s how they found me. I began to read other posts, and follow other writers. (There is an incredible amount of talent out there.) I watched my follows increase. My little bar on my stats slowly went up and up. The day my brother died, last April, I had the most hits ever. It held the top spot for months. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

But I kept writing.

It got more difficult as more people followed. I worried about conveying things poorly, sounding cold, or crazy, or mean, or wimpy. Or worst of all, broken. I was more careful. I attempted to lighten things up on occasion. To stop treating my blog like a private diary. I started trying to entertain. Or if not to entertain, to just take it a little easy.

I don’t want to take it easy. I want to write whatever I need to write. No matter if I sound crazy or mean or selfish or angry. Or broken. I might lose readers. People might grow weary. Or they might feel resonance and secretly nod their heads. Either way, my goal is to let whatever thing rolling around in my head that needs out, out. Another thing I’ve learned by blogging: there are so many kind, nonjudgmental, crazy-normal people in the blogosphere. I’m just amazed at the commonalities and the kind support. I wish I’d found this world years ago, when I was a teen. But then it didn’t exist. All I had to keep me grounded then was my paper journal. I’ve got a box full of them in the spare closet. Filled with years and years of uncensored writing. Now there’s some crazy for you: teenage angst. And depression. Through my 20s. Packed up in one big box.

Keeping me anchored and steady.

Be it a journal, or a blog.

February 7, 2013

Blame

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Abusive Relationships, Addiction, Alcoholism, Codependency, Death of a sibling, Healing, Health, Manipulation | Tags: Abusive Relationships, Addiction, Alcohol, Alcohol Rehab, Alcoholics Anonymous, Alcoholism, Codependency, Cutting, Death of a sibling, Eating Disorders, Health, Manipulation, mental-health, Mother |
[29] Comments

Still no break in my mother’s silence. I guess if we’ve learned anything, it’s that she didn’t need to talk with me every night as she claimed, after all. I’m feeling a bit down. I lost my father. And now I’ve lost my mother. Even if she does decide to speak to me, I’ve pulled back the curtain and see she’s just a mean selfish controlling bully.

I wonder why I never looked closely at my mother. I spent all my time in therapy talking about my father. Because of the drinking.

When I was growing up, you always did what my mother told you to do. Always. She never gave you the option to decline. If I told her I didn’t want to do something, she’d say, “Too bad.” And that would be that. Regardless of my preferences. Regardless of whether I had a good or compelling reason. My mother controlled all things. And if you pissed her off, she’d tell my father when he returned from a business trip how bad we were (usually the boys), and he’d proceed to smack the crap out of them, and at times, me. My mother knew he would do this. And still, she told him every time.

We all attempted to gain control or escape in our own ways. My brothers learned to escape with drugs and alcohol. My sister would hide her food in her napkin and flush it down the toilet. Or say she was going outside and would finish whatever she was eating out there. Instead, she threw her food on the roof. Looking back, I’d guess she was anorexic. She was very thin and from time to time was anemic. I, in contrast, ate too much and would throw it up. Truth be told, I’d throw up even if I didn’t eat too much. And then there was the cutting. I didn’t know cutting was a thing. I just knew I sometimes did it. I’d forgotten all about it until I read a heart-wrenching post last night.

She’s still that way, my mother. To this day. It has never occurred to her that her children, now adult children, are permitted to tell her no. My brothers, even in their 50s, did what she told them to do. She treated them like children. And they capitulated. My late brother blamed my mother for his fiancé’s death. He said it was her fault because she “made” him go to our niece’s wedding. His fiancé fell at the wedding and hit her head. She went into a coma and died months later. I don’t agree with my brother’s laying the blame at my mother’s feet. The story is merely an illustration of how my mother took away their power. She treated grown men like children, and they behaved like children. They felt powerless. And powerless over alcohol.

I hope my brother, who is in the early days of his sobriety, has a plan for dealing with our mother. I hope he finds the strength to stand up to her. To tell her no and to not back down. I have this massive fear that she will derail him. If he didn’t have to work with her every day, it would be much more manageable.

I sent him a text message on Monday, his first day back at work after finishing the intensive outpatient portion of the rehab.

“Do you have a plan for dealing with Mom?”

“Yes, stay away from her.”

I texted him again today.

“How’s it going?”

“Good. Thanks.”

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.

It seems, like my late brother, I too blame my mother. I blame her for so many things. Things I’m afraid to say out loud. Or write. But I will at some point. I need to let them out. I’m hoping if I do, they’ll float away like feathers on the wind. And I might find some peace.

January 30, 2013

Might I be human, after all?

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Alzheimer's, Antidepressants, Cats, Death of a sibling, Elderly Parents, Forgiveness, Love, Stages of Grief | Tags: Alzheimer's, Cats, Death and Grief, Death of a sibling, Dementia, Forgiveness, Grief, Grief Loss and Bereavement, Health, Love, Stages of Grief |
[15] Comments

I was thinking about grief the other day. Thinking my grief over my brother’s and father’s deaths last year didn’t last long. The crying wasn’t overwhelmingly intense. Or at least it wasn’t more than a handful of times. I wondered what’s wrong with me. Why aren’t I more broken by the events of last year? Am I cold? Heartless? Unfeeling? Are the antidepressants numbing normal emotion?

And then I read a blog post tonight: Daddy’s Little Girl, and I posted a response. As I wrote, the deep, gaping cavity in my chest that I’d been clenching closed these past months broke open, the grief spilling out. Maybe I’ve been too consumed by my mother’s neediness to have enough stillness to access my grief. (She hasn’t called since she hung up on me a week ago.) Here are the words I wrote that broke through:

When I was growing up, I hated him more than I loved him. When I hit my 30s and 40s, the hate faded bit by bit (as did the abuse) and the love grew. When he was dying in hospice in October and it was just the two of us alone every night, all I felt was love.

Speaking of love, Sophie the stray cat had disappeared for an entire week. I kept telling myself she was fine; she’d found her way home. Last night when I pulled into the driveway after work, she was out front waiting for me. I couldn’t believe it. No more skulking in the shadows, luring her out with a trail of Greenies. There she was, waiting. I thought perhaps it was because she’d gone hungry over the week she’d disappeared. But tonight was even one better. When I got home, she wasn’t waiting. But when I went outside and called her, she appeared! We then made our way through the steps she has established for us over the past six weeks:

Eat tuna that I spoon onto the saucer for her from the can, bite by bite.
Stretch (downward facing cat, and then each leg straight out behind her, one at a time).
Bathe, taking meticulous care each whisker is back in place.
Meow once or twice as she walks back over to me. (She has a very high-pitched squeaky meow, much like her sibling to be, Sally.)
A minimum of five minutes of intense petting, paying particular attention to her head, cheeks, and under her chin, while all the while she purrs quite audibly.

Sophie appears to be well on her way to becoming an inside cat. Will it take another six weeks? Stay tuned.

Blanket of Grief (peace4me521.wordpress.com)
The Grief Beast (melissadaltonbradford.wordpress.com)

August 5, 2012

I don’t know what normal is.

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Abusive Relationships, Better-than-nothing, Commitment, Drama, Liar, Love, Marriage, Mindfucking, Relationships | Tags: Abusive Relationships, Depression, Liar, Love, Marriage, Relationships, Starting Over |
[16] Comments

I wrote a post yesterday about getting back on the dating horse. But I’m not so sure I want to. Life is peaceful now. There is no daily drama. I’m not constantly irritated and frustrated. I’m content. In contrast, a little over a year ago, I wrote this:

It’s May 22, 2011. Mack and I have spent my birthday weekend at the beach. His asshole side made an appearance last night, and I did not indulge him. We were singing in the car on the way to getting my oozy chocolate birthday dessert. I thought we were having a good time with it, when suddenly he snapped at me. He said this is his profession and he doesn’t indulge mere amateurs by singing with them whilst driving in a car. He said at first it was fun, but then he found me obnoxious. By this time we were at the restaurant. He got out of the car in a huff, like he had been put upon and was totally justified in being a prick. I got out of the car after some deliberation, and told him I didn’t want to go into the restaurant. He said, “Fine!” We got in the car and as he exited the parking lot, he gunned the engine a little. I told him I’d drive, if he was going to drive like an idiot. Again, “Fine!” So we switched seats and I drove us home. When we got home, he got out of the car and went for a walk on the beach. I wanted to. But since he announced it first, I simply went to bed. He came back a short time later and slammed around in the kitchen, loudly and angrily, making sure he made his ire known. I dozed in and out, and eventually he came into the bedroom, demanding that I wake up. “Why, so you can yell at me some more?” He left me alone after that. Later he came back to bed, and said, “Great, I sleep this way in two beds now.” Realizing what he’d said, he added, “At least I used to.” So, either he still sleeps in bed with Corrine, or he threw it out there erroneously, trying to make a point in the midst of his anger.

He gave up sleeping and went out in the living room to work on my computer. And read about Galveston. He came to bed a couple of hours later. I slept in my clothes.

I arose before he did, and found a note in the kitchen that he’d fixed my laptop. And the coffee was ready, just flip the switch. But there was no apology. At least not an overt one. He got up shortly after I did. I was still in the midst of my first cup. I was out on the deck, typing on my laptop. He asked if my computer was working. I nodded my head that it was. Shortly thereafter I went inside to refill my coffee.

He said, “So what happens now?”

“I’m drinking coffee, enjoying the morning on the deck.” I paused. Refilled my cup. “Unless you want to yell at me some more and tell me how obnoxious I am.”

“Not really.”

I went back out on the deck with my refilled cup and began writing. I imagined him inside. Pouting.

Last night I didn’t like him at all. I knew we were done. I found him unattractive, and I didn’t want him to touch me. This morning, standing there in the middle of the room, he looked young. Vulnerable. Cute. Maybe it’s not over. Maybe you deal with someone being a complete asshole from time to time.

From time to time, I read back over things I wrote back then, and I wonder what in the hell I was thinking.

That kind of assholeishness isn’t normal in a relationship, is it? Is this the way people behave and it’s just swept under the rug and forgotten? I really do not know. Which is how I kept talking myself into staying.

I had no role models growing up for this sort of thing. My role models taught me that you’re honest, you don’t steal, you don’t lie, and you don’t cheat people. You get a good education and you work hard. I was taught the value of a dollar. I was taught that reading books is magical.

But I wasn’t taught that you treat your partner with kindness and respect. My father treated my mother horribly. He ridiculed her constantly. He told her she was fat. He made fun of her when she ate. He’d say things like, “Just keep eating, Joanna, just keep eating!” She never said a word. But I’d defend her. Some of the worst fights I ever had with my father began when I defended my mother. And those fights were always my fault–because I antagonized him.

I once pressed my mother to explain why she never fought back. She said it was much easier to simply ignore him. I asked her how she could possibly ignore the daily onslaughts, the horrible ridicule. She said she’d just learned to tune him out.

And I was tuning out Mack’s bad behavior. Only it didn’t work for me like it worked for my mother. And so I broke free of him. And once I was free, once I could let go of everything I’d bottled up for a year, I fell into a depression.

And now, here I am, feeling better, and wondering: Do I get involved in another relationship? How do I know he won’t be another Mack? How will I know if he’s a kind, respectful man, and not a man simply on his best behavior for a few months? If he treats me poorly, when do I run? At the first instance? The second? And how poorly does he have to treat me for it to not be normal? I need a role model. Or a book. Is there a book out there that gives examples of what’s acceptable and what isn’t in a relationship?

Is there a book out there telling me what’s normal, and what’s not?

June 23, 2012

Loving a Pedophile

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Abusive Relationships, Incest, Marriage, Sexual Abuse | Tags: Abusive Relationships, Domestic Abuse, Incest, Marriage, mental-health, Sandusky, Sexual Abuse |
[19] Comments

I haven’t had a television since Memorial Day. I got rid of my old Sony, and haven’t gotten around to getting a flat-screen replacement. Last night I knew the Sandusky verdict was imminent. It had to be. The man was guilty, and the jury wouldn’t take long. So I turned to Twitter. I typed in Sandusky. My screen flooded with tweets:

The attorney general is at the courthouse.

The lawyers are there now.

Photos posted of Sandusky leaving his home.

Coach is wearing an unfortunate jacket. (That asshat on Fox news keeps referring to Sandusky as “coach.” This sickens me. It’s the coach bit that gave him access to those boys. So stop calling him “coach,” Shep.)

Sandusky is at the courthouse.

The verdict will not be tweeted until all 48 counts are read and court is adjourned.

Surely he’ll be convicted. Surely the jury won’t OJ us. (Yes, OJ is now a verb.)

Surely he’s given up Penn State for the state pen.

Even his own lawyer says he thinks he’ll be convicted. And then the judge calls him into chambers and issues a gag order.

The verdict is coming out five months to the day after Paterno’s death from cancer.

His adopted son Matt was molested, too.

Dottie testified on his behalf. (Oh, I will get back to Dottie.)

The verdict will be read in twenty minutes. Then fifteen.

Then I flip over to live video of the crowd in front of the courthouse. And back to Twitter.

Any minute now.

GUILTY OF 45 OF 48 COUNTS.

Sandusky is being led away to the jail house in handcuffs.

He stood with one hand casually in his left pocket as the verdict was read.

One victim wept.

Sandusky was stoic.

He knew it was coming.

But what about Dottie? What did she know and when did she know it? Public opinion weighs heavily in favor of her knowing what her husband did, was doing, to those boys. How could she not know? It happened in her house. Her basement. Not just once, but dozens of times over a period of years, decades, even. So how could she not know? The wives know. On some level they know. Which means they fucking know.

Case in point. When I was ten or so, we went to visit my grandparents at their house on Lake Huron. The man who lived next door, a Greek, lived there with his wife. I recall their grandchildren often visited when I was there. And he had St. Bernard puppies. He also made homemade wine. My dad loved his wine. So one day, he sent me next door to pick up a bottle of Mr. Greek’s homemade wine. I ran off next door to get the bottle, and he invited me in. He then offered me a taste of the wine. Recall I’m ten. But I tasted the wine anyway. It was sickly sweet. And then he came close. Close enough that I could feel his breath on my cheek. And he started rubbing me on my chest. And breathing on me. As I wriggled away, I saw his wife peering at us from around the corner. She never said a word. She didn’t try to stop him. She just stood and watched. And stayed silent. I escaped his grasp and ran. I ran back to my grandparents’ house and said nothing about what had happened. It felt wrong. But she watched and said nothing. Maybe I was crazy. Maybe I imagined it. I couldn’t tell. No one would believe me. He just rubbed my chest. The wife didn’t stop him. So I kept my mouth shut. Even when my dad made fun of me for running off without the wine because I was seemingly too bashful to go next door and get it.

The wife, having seen everything, stayed silent.

Was she complicit? Was Dottie Sandusky complicit? Was my sister complicit?

My sister?, you say. Yes, my sister is married to a pedophile. When I was 15, her husband, who was then 29, made a pass at me when he was teaching me how to drive out in the country. He kissed me. A full on wet mouth tongue kiss. It was sickening. And I never told a soul for 20 years. My sister knew, though. Or at least she knew something was wrong. She told him he was spending too much time with me, and it needed to stop. He said he was just teaching me how to drive, because my father was largely absent. He was right. I was vulnerable. I thrived on his attention. Who knows what I would have done had he gone farther. But with me, he didn’t go farther. He saved that for his daughter, my niece. How do I know this? She lived with me briefly when she was in her early twenties. And she told me then what her father had done to her. She told me he molested her from the time she was 6 until she was 16 and finally told a school counselor. He was never prosecuted. And my sister stayed with him. She, to this day, has stayed married to him. She didn’t need him to support her. She worked and made a good salary. She could have supported her two daughters just fine. But she kept his secret and never told anyone, and stayed with him. My niece felt betrayed. She felt her mother had chosen her pedophile father over her. And she was right. This was so confusing for my niece that she still let him walk her down the aisle at her wedding. She let her pedophile father give her away. And my sister watched, beaming with pride. When their second daughter married a year later, I didn’t go to the wedding. I couldn’t watch him pretending to be the doting father, again.

How do these women stay with these men? How do they defend them? How do they ignore the horrific things they’ve done? I asked my sister how she slept in the same bed with a man who molested their daughter. She had no answer other than, “Because I love him.”

She loves him. And Dottie loves Jerry. Ain’t love grand?

I wonder if my sister watched the news of the trial, of the conviction. I wonder if she sat in the same room with her pedophile husband and watched a man get sentenced to life in prison for the same crimes her husband has committed. I wonder if she felt any guilt or remorse for selling her daughter out. Like Dottie Sandusky did with those poor boys.

I did feel his conviction was a bit of a consolation. At least one of these monsters will pay for his crimes. I just wish the women would stand up for the children. And not for the perpetrators.

June 16, 2012

I didn’t feel a thing.

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Breakup, Getting Unstuck, Healing, Letting Go, Living Life, Manipulation, Moving On, Relationships, Starting Over | Tags: Abusive Relationships, Breaking Up, Getting Over Him, Love, Relationships, Starting Over |
[13] Comments

I received an email from Mack the other day telling me he’d sent me the final payment. But instead of just telling me he’d sent the final payment, he continued with a long drawn-out emotional message about various and sundry things; things I don’t feel compelled to spend typing strokes on here. He did say we have no need to contact one another again. Ever. So I guess that means he’ll stop trying to hook me with emotional emails. Oh wait. Maybe not. What was the next thing in my inbox? You got it: another email from Mack. This one included a song he recorded. Apparently about me. I’m not sure though, because I didn’t listen to it.

So how did this final spate of emails make me feel?

I didn’t feel sad. I didn’t feel angry. I didn’t feel regret. I did feel a slight bit of irritation, but not enough to color my day. And I felt relief.

Dare I say it?

June 3, 2012

The Thing That Wouldn’t Leave

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Abusive Relationships, Breakup, Healing, Letting Go, Love, Manipulation, Moving On, Relationships, Starting Over | Tags: Abusive Relationships, Breaking Up, Getting Over Him, Love, Manipulation, Relationships, Starting Over |
[11] Comments

Remember the old John Belushi SNL skit, where Belushi ensconced himself in the home of Jane Curtain and Bill Murray and wouldn’t leave? It came to mind this morning in thinking about my latest email from Mack. Yes, Mack still sends me notes from time to time. For months I didn’t reply, but when he sent sympathy notes about my brother, I felt I couldn’t ignore those, and so I thanked him. Since then, I’ve been responding to his emails. In his last note, he told me he’d finish paying off his financial debt to me next month, and we can then finally go our separate ways.

My initial reaction, if only in my head:

We went our separate ways eight months ago. Or at least I did.

But then I started thinking about it. Mack’s been writing me notes since I ended things back in September. He never stopped. In early December, I stopped responding. But receiving his notes, whether I replied or not, kept him in my head. Which I’m guessing was the point. He wrote a song about me once, which included the line: “If I can’t be the love of your life, I hope I’ll still be on your mind.” And here we are, eight months after I ended the relationship, and yes, he’s still on my mind.

The last note he wrote to me, I let him get under my skin. I responded, expressing my ire. I could have kicked myself the next day for writing back. But it’s got me thinking: When at long last he stops writing to me and sending me monthly payments, will it be like a breakup all over again? Of course on a much smaller scale. But will it cause me pain?

What does it take for a goodbye to be final? What does it look like to be fully split? When there’s no longer any form of communication? When they stop getting under your skin? When you stop loving them? When you stop wanting them? When you stop wishing things could have been different? When you stop wishing they were the man you fell in love with?

When have you truly moved on?

May 6, 2012

The Power of Vodka

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Abilify, Abusive Relationships, Alcoholism, Antidepressants, Death and Grief, Death of a sibling, Deplin, Depression, Sexual Abuse, Therapy, Wellbutrin | Tags: Abusive Relationships, Alcoholism, Antidepressants, Death and Grief, Death of a sibling, Depression, Domestic Abuse, Incest, Manipulation, Marriage, mental-health, Sexual Abuse, women |
[15] Comments

I’ve been on antidepressants and back in therapy for a little over four months. It’s difficult to remember how tired and apathetic I was. How disinterested. But slowly over the past four months, I’ve begun to emerge from the pit I had dug for myself. Not entirely, though.

You see, the pit has a certain allure. It’s an easy place in which to live. I get to feel numb. Feeling numb is great when you’ve got more shit to deal with than you’d like. Seriously. Who wants to deal with a sister who stayed married to her pedophile husband after he molested their daughter? The whole world seems out of kilter when you’re faced with that shit. Deep dark holes are where it’s at.

But I’m not hunkered down in the hole any more. And the pedophile is still here. He was at my brother’s memorial last weekend. He consoled my mother. I fantasize about choking him. I think I’m making progress, emotionally.

Now that my mother has acknowledged that he’s still wasting space on this earth, he’s exhibiting a sense of entitlement. The man glared at me across the aisle when I turned around to look for my brother, Seth. I kid you not. He glared at me. He glared at me for having the audacity to say out loud what he is. A man who sexually molested his daughter. For years. How dare I tell my mother and brothers what he’d done? You’re supposed to keep that kind of behavior a secret, don’t you know. So he glared at me at my brother’s memorial and made no effort to keep his distance from me. Yes, he’s feeling emboldened. I wanted grab him by the hair and shove his face into the holy water, holding him under until he begged for mercy. And then dunk him again, just to be sure I’d made my point. Yep, the medication and therapy are working.

If he had molested someone elses daughter, he’d be in prison. Not hanging out in churches.

But if I’m shining a light, I may as well shine it on my sister, too. If it wasn’t for her, the man wouldn’t be around any more. What kind of woman stays married to a man who molests their daughter? What kind of mental gymnastics must she perform each day to keep her head from exploding? What does she tell herself? What could she possibly say to justify his behavior, and hers?

My sister is a horrible person. No way around that. And the co-dependent cycle continues with my nieces hiding their father’s secret, as if his shame were theirs. I really don’t get it. I don’t understand how she could stay with him. Does she have her own holy water fantasies? Does she imagine beheading him and putting his head on a spike in the forest for the crows to pluck out his eyeballs? Or does she block it all out with the contents of her plastic travel cup that she carries with her wherever she goes?

I’m guessing she finds her redemption at the bottom of a travel cup.

April 27, 2012

Tomorrow

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Blogging, Death and Grief, Death of a sibling, Sexual Abuse | Tags: Blogging, Death and Grief, Death of a sibling, Incest, Sexual Abuse |
[6] Comments

Tomorrow is my brother’s memorial. I’ll leave at 6:45 a.m. to make it in time for the 10:00 a.m. service. By 11:00 a.m. it will be over. Hopefully my brother-in-law won’t show. If he does, I shall ignore him. If he comes near me, I shall tell him to back off. But I shalt not call him a fucking pedophile. At least not where anyone can hear me. Maybe he’ll be struck dead when he enters the Catholic church where the service will be held. I’ve often thought these past few days, too bad it wasn’t him. Lest you think my ire is a little over-the-top, know that he is indeed a pedophile and he molested my niece. He should be in prison getting up close and personal with his cellmate; not attending my dead brother’s memorial service. But I don’t want to think about him. I want to focus on my brother, which is what tomorrow is all about. Not the pedophile. But if he touches me, I’ll hock up a lugie and spit on him.

Odd how the thought of going home turns me into a child.

In other news, I got a wireless keyboard for my iPad. This thing is terrific. Now I can blog to my heart’s desire while in Italy. I’ll try to refrain from posting too much food porn. And wine porn.

Holy hell, am I full of anxiety about tomorrow. I’d be feeling less anxious if I knew the brother-in-law won’t be there. Good thing I broke it off with Mack. I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t have controlled himself should he cross paths with the prick. I find that a bit ironic.

Rather than ruminating on my three-hour-drive, I’m going to listen to my Italian language CDs. I still haven’t learned bathroom. Or water. Oh wait, it’s Pellegrino.

April 24, 2012

Italian for Beginners

Posted by Unconfirmed Bachelorette under Death and Grief, Death of a sibling, Grief, Grieving, Sexual Abuse, Travel | Tags: Death and Grief, Death of a sibling, Grief, Grieving, Incest, ipad, Sexual Abuse, Travel, vacation |
[2] Comments

This weekend I was scheduled to go to my firm partnership retreat. Hundreds of lawyers bonding and on their best behavior. I’m actually sorry I’ll be missing it. Evidence of a sick mind, if ever there was. Instead, I’ll be traveling to a Texas city to attend my brother’s memorial. Will my pedophile brother-in-law be in attendance? Stay tuned.

In more upbeat news, I’ve been learning a little Italian for my upcoming trip. Today I learned the very important phrase: Del vino, per favore. I’d say, I’m all set.

Because typing on this iPad is so tedious, I’m cutting this one short.

Arrivederci.

Unconfirmed Bachelorette