I just said goodbye to my daughter as she left on a road trip from CA to TN to take her lifelong childhood BSF (that’s teen for Best Sister Friend) to college. Cass doesn’t start college until mid-September. So we get a month with her before she leaves us. Before she leaves her childhood behind and she leaves me.
So here I am crying again.
I’m definitely in my midlife crisis phase of life. It started with tattoos when I turned 45. I chose tattoos over another shrink. I don’t want to talk about my trauma anymore or tell my life story to another therapist so they know where I’m coming from. So they know what I’m carrying. It’s always the same advice. Find gratitude everyday. Find five things you are grateful for each day. Understand that your parents are flawed, as we all are. Broken. Forgive that. Let go of the anger. Scream if you have to. God damn, punch a wall if you have to. (Just once, though. Then fix the hole.) Feel the pain and release it. Write a letter and burn it. Write a letter and send it. I’m in the burn phase. No contact. My door is closed.
You’ll notice you haven’t heard much about my father. He’s dead. He died of Covid, before he was able to be vaccinated. He had fucked up his body through drugs and alcohol and had multi-system failures that were exacerbated by the virus. I doubt he would have gotten the vaccine anyway. Nothing I can do about that now. Part of me wants to believe he would have, if I asked him to. For me. Cuz he owed me.
I’m not ready to write about him. That one is deep. I have lived most of my life being hurt and angry that he was too weak to fight for me and be the dad I needed. Being ashamed of his life choices. Now that he is dead and I didn’t get to say goodbye or tell him I finally understand how hard it was to…
I’m not ready.
So I finally started getting tattoos at age 45. In my mind I have always been a tattooed chick. A badass bitch with a sleeve. I just didn’t know what I wanted for my whole life. Then I decided to just get whatever the fuck I wanted.
Everyone asks if it hurts. Yeah, it fickkng hurts. But it’s tolerable. Bearable. Worth it. Each one has meaning to me. It’s sort of like my life story, on display. And it’s a work in progress, just like me.
My first tattoo was a contortionist, all twisted up, traditional style. It says “Don’t Get It Twisted.” it’s badass and was done by a guy named Luis. Me and my BSFs used to always say that to each other. It’s a way to say don’t mistake what I say or do for whatever you think it might be. It’s what I decide it is, I define it. Don’t doubt me and don’t discount me, cuz I’m a badass bitch. For reals.
So don’t get it twisted. I cry a lot but I’m not weak. I just feel things.
I just don’t want to talk about it in real life. And I only want to feel it in small doses. So that’s it for today. That’s all I got. Putting it back on the shelf for another day…