For The Love Of Music and Writing For My Life

So I'm writing.  I'm writing and I'm writing, and not worried about it making any sense until it all ends up fitting together.
Today I sat down at the computer and my thoughts returned to the dream I had last night.  I dreamed of my father, a rare occurrence.  I'd have to say it was inevitable because I've been thinking about him so much lately, especially since I've revisited Meat Loaf's Bat Out Of Hell.  Anyone who knows my immediate family knows that my parents passed on a mind-boggling love of music to my brother and me.
It's because of them that Hammie and I will call each other at random times to say, "Hey have you heard of...?"  Or "You gotta listen to this song."  I truly believe that the love of music was one of the things that kept our parents together for so long.  I mean, if it weren't for The Beatles, I wouldn't be here - when my father picked my mother up for their first date, he noticed her record collection and they stayed in all night talking and listening to music.  They were married maybe a year later, and I was the result of the honeymoon in Bermuda.
When my brother turned 11, my parents gave him a Fender Stratocaster that he still plays.  When I was 8, they encouraged me to pick up an instrument and it was then that I started playing the violin.  Not to mention being taught to use the voices we were blessed with - both my brother and I were chorus members throughout our entire school careers, with a couple rounds of All State Choir stints thrown in.  People still talk about my brother, my father and me doing trios in church.
Hammie now plays with Pop's band and it's like my father is standing there holding that Gibson guitar.  I haven't touched the violin since high school, but it still sits in my room and once I scrape together the money to get it back up to par - violins are finicky instruments, susceptible to the elements and neglect - I will make it sing again.
So I sat down to write today and I was going to start with the dream.  But it hit me - I am not ready to write about my father yet.  I don't think I even addressed his death in my personal journal; if I did it was more of a statement and I stopped writing for a while.  No one wants to relive the tragedy of losing a parent so sudden and unexpectedly.  One day I will be strong enough, but I feel like it needs to be soon.  It's not a matter of enough time passing (it's been about two and a half years,) but a matter of whether or not my head and my heart are ready.
Writing about my father will be like opening a giant can of worms.  You can't focus on the good things alone when writing for your life.  This can sits in front of me, waiting, beckoning for me to open it.  It's only a matter of time.  

Talk About A Wake Up Call

Define irony.

Right after this post was published, someone very close to me, someone who I choose to not share my sexual exploits with, discovered way too much for her own good.

My beloved Mama read a few pages of my journal.
Yes, I keep an actual journal.  That I write in with an actual pen.  That has actual pages.  I have since my senior year of high school and it's the only form of therapy I can afford right now.
She confronted me the other morning, one of the mornings I had happened to stumble through the front door around 5 am, after engaging in yet another night of risky behavior.
At first I was angry.  Very, very angry.  My mother has never, ever, been a snoop.  But honestly?  I can't blame her.  It's one of the downsides to still living at home.  She's there when I leave at night and if I end up not coming home, she deserves a phone call.

Let me run down the list of things I'm okay with my mother knowing:

• I drink alot.
• I dated guys 10+ years older than me.
• The man I was with for five years and I were, in fact, having sex (she's not stupid.)
• That occasionally I do sleep with a guy that I'm into

And a list of things I am not okay with her knowing:

• It's usually different guys (too late.)
• I was involved in the BDSM scene for a while.
• I drink alot more than I let on.
• I am, in fact, in someone else's bed, naked, when I don't come home (too late.)

She said to me that she knows I don't tell her everything in order to protect her.  But I cannot imagine the heartbreak she was going through sitting on my bed reading those pages, thinking that her daughter does not respect herself or her body in the least.  To see my mother, who does not cry, break down in tears right in front of me, was a knife in my heart.  The fact that she came over to me, put her arms around me, and said, through her tears, that she cannot fathom what it must be like to not have a father to look up to or lean on, twisted that knife hard.

Maybe I do need to do some soul searching.  Clean up my act, per se.  Maybe I need to realize that I can't fucking do it on my own.  And that my addictive personality will catch up with me one day.

Then the Neighbors Would Start to Trickle Over

When I hear the beginning guitar strains of Rocky Raccoon, I'm transported back to when I was very young, and all was well and good within my family.  At least that's what it looked like to outsiders. 

My father had been in a band called New Beginnings from before I was born until I was about 10.  He was very close with the guys, my mother was close with all of their wives, and my brother and I grew up tagging along with my dad to band practice and playing, (read:  getting in trouble,) with the children of various band members.  Every summer we'd have a "New Beginnings" cook-out, even long after they stopped playing as a band.  They were all very talented musicians, and after the food had been put away, the sun would start to go down, out would come the instruments and the jam session would begin.  An acoustic guitar or two, one snare drum, an acoustic bass, no mics, a tambourine, and Danny's trumpet (they could cover Chicago tunes like it was no one's business.)

When I learned that the Beatles' music had been released to purchase on iTunes, this was the first song I added to my cart.  (Yes, every album they ever made is upstairs, boxed up in the closet of the spare bedroom, but I don't know where the record player is and I don't have the energy to convert vinyl to digital.) 

I hear the opening notes and Paul McCartney's storyteller voice start - "Well somewhere in the Black Mine hilltop of South Dakota there lived a young boy named Rocky Raccoon..."


I immediately picture my father sitting on the back deck, plucking at his guitar, surrounded by old band buddies and all of our families. I was too young to ever pay attention to the words or grasp the irony of the story being told within the song. But I would sing along nonetheless.

"But Daniel was hot, and he drew first and shot..."

I picture him, not the adulterer, not the alcoholic, but my daddy, the man who still calls me Angel, the man who would take my brother and I on Saturday morning errands in his little red truck, blasting Styx or Boston while doing his over-exaggerated version of air-drumming on the steering wheel, doing his best McCartney impression, forgetting the words, (no pun intended, really,) chuckling his way through the song, because I swear Doc, it's only a scratch.

I hold onto this song and the memories I've attached to it so tight.  It's the only thing I've got left.

"Gideon checked out, and he left him no doubt, to help with good Rocky's revival..."

I'm Back!

I'm going to get back into updating this thing. Stupid Tumblr has to be awesome and take up most of the time I spend on the damn computer. Oh yeah, and then there's life, too.

Currently,

-Ma and I are still in the house. It's still rocky and a little uncertain, but we're still here, and I believe in my heart she's not going anywhere. I will fuck someone's day up if they try to make her. Seriously. I will fuck their day UP.

-I've severed my ties with my father, for the most part. I see him at family functions, but I've moved on from trying to sustain a relationship. I was given the responsibility of closing down the shop over the summer when he started his new job. The last straw was having a contractor try to rip me a new asshole because of my father's actions. Nothing like telling a guy you don't even know that what your father does is no longer any of your business, you don't give a shit, and to please fuck off with tears rolling down your face. After that episode I calmly but firmly told my father that I was walking away from the business, that I don't care what he does in his spare time, I don't care anymore if he's drinking, and I did not appreciate getting bitched at as a result of his actions. That was that and I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

-As for the other toxic man in my life, the infamous Buzzard, all ties have been severed with him as well and Holy fuck it's like I can breathe again! We haven't spoken since the 4th of July. To this day I don't know why, but I do know that I am SO much better off.
But I do love the fact that I'm still fucking one of his friends, unbeknownst to Buzzard of course, and his cousin and I are talking again.

-Work is going really well and I am kicking serious ass.

-I have found a wonderful friend in Andy, my road dog, my sidekick, my partner-in-crime. And Tyler. The three of us are the ultimate, most entertaining Shit Show of Wilmington.

-My nephew is growing up SO fast! He just turned a year old and he's walking and talking and seriously? The most beautiful baby. Ever. No doubt about it.

-Yeah, I still sleep around like it's my job, (sometimes I wish it were because I'd be making serious loot and maybe actually pay off my student loans before I die,) but it's all in good fun.

So hopefully I can manage to keep this blog fresh, as I've been tweaking my writing style, and for anyone who actually does take the time to read it, thanks. I hope you continue to enjoy.

Love,
Dane

Heavy Things, Part 5

So I've started attending Al-Anon meetings at the suggestion of Buzzard and his friend. I've been utterly strung out lately over the situation my father has left my mother and I in, and it's mostly due to his alcoholism. I don't care if people know I go to these meetings. I'm almost positive I fucking need them. I need to come to terms with the fact that I can't be a Daddy's Girl no more. I've got a long, tough road ahead of me.

I had a very candid conversation with a close friend today.

Me: Okay, so I came to a very strange realization last night. The only time I don't fret over Buzzard is when he fucks me on a regular basis. Strange or what?
Him: No, not strange.
Me: It has baffled me. We fucked last night after the meeting. It was the first time since New Year's Eve. And I'm not working it over in my head.
Him: I think you feel abandoned when he doesn't fuck you. I hope I am not overstepping my bounds when I say you have clearly felt abandoned by your father.
Me: You're not overstepping at all. I value your thoughts and opinions so much. And you're probably right.
Him: It seems likely that is why you seek approval from unavailable men. I hope you know I say this because I care about you.
Me: I know. I want you to be able to share this kind of stuff with me. Those of us on the inside can't always see it. It's like, I want validation from Buzzard until I find someone who can give it to me unabated, unhindered, and unabashedly.
Him: When was the last time you were attracted to a man that was available?
Me: Fuck, talk about a much needed slap in the face, ha ha.

Him: I think in your subconcious you think that if Buzzard finally gives you everything you want you will have won the battle to save your father. You also protect yourself from the vulnerability of a real relationship by occupying yourself with men you cannot fully have, ever.
Me: But if Buzzard were to ever do that, how would that save my father? Even though I know that Buzzard does not want another baby? I agree with protecting my vulnerability, but I guess I've got even more soul searching to do.
Him: It wouldn't, that is the futility of it, but our brains play tricks on us that way.
Me: I really thought I was immune to Daddy Issues. It makes me very angry. I have this fucked up notion that I'm supposed to be some form of Superwoman.
Him: Really? You though you were immune? Your situation is a classic case of Daddy Issues. I learned a long time ago that I cannot change the fucked up shit that happened to me, most importantly I acknowledge how it shapes me and try to change the self destructive parts.

This dear friend of mine is right. And it gives me more motivation to keep attending these meetings to get to try and get to the core of who I am, not to try and fix my father, because he is beyond saving.

Can't Be A Daddy's Girl No More

I've been putting off writing this post for a while. Because it hurts. Every little girl is supposed to be able to depend on her daddy; he is supposed to be the one man in her life that will never let her down. But mine has. My father has broken my heart over and over again, as well as several others.

Everything used to be okay. Growing up my family was "normal." Or at least I thought it was. It wasn't until I was out of college and back home that I learned my father had had an affair with my mother's best friend. And apparently on the day of my father's 40th surprise birthday party, my mother found a letter tucked in the front door jamb. I was eleven, my brother was nine.

Throughout my high school years I had begun to suspect my father of running around, and my suspicion became heightened after he was arrested for his first DUI, right after my 16th birthday. That was when his alcohol problem spilled out into the open. Pop was more of a passive drunk, though. He would drink, then work the room with his charismatic self, go upstairs and pass out. Never got a hangover, never raised his voice or his hand to any of us. It was when he got behind the wheel of a car that he became dangerous.


After his first DUI, he made an attempt to quit drinking. But I'm almost positive the affairs didn't stop. Over the years I would confront him, and that was not an easy task, being a teenager and calling my own father out. And every time, he denied it. But I wasn't stupid, and neither was my mother.

My parents' marriage quickly deteriorated after the skeletons started coming out of the closet. I still can't believe my mother let my father stay after she found out about the first affair. As soon as my brother left for college, both him and I urged her to leave him. But she was scared, and I understand now why women stay in abusive relationships. It's out of fear of the unknown. The emotional and mental torment my father poured onto my mother trickled down to my brother and I, and we've become bitter towards him for it. We used to defend my father in a sense, to members of Ma's family.

"If you're going to talk shit on him, don't do it in front of me. He's always going to be my father, because his blood runs through my veins too whether you like it or not."

But now it doesn't really matter. My father has left my mother a crumbled mess. She's had to hold herself up for twenty-five years, leaving me with questions floating around in my head like, "Was he ever really a husband? Was ever really a father?

And the answer to those questions is no. There's so much more to the story, but ultimately the reason Ma and I have to sell the house is because of him. The reason I have yet to have a healthy relationship with another man is because of him. He was able to walk away and get off scot-free. He has a mother to live with, whereas both of Ma's parents have passed away.

He lives in his own world, his own personal hell which he created for himself, and his guilt consumes him. But that doesn't do anyone whose life he's destroyed any good. I may have been a daddy's girl when I was little, but I can't be a daddy's girl no more.