.........SO IT'S BEEN A YEAR.

This week will one year since my father died. Dropped dead.
Now what makes this intriguing and pardon my callousness, he was the second individual to drop dead in his apartment. His second wife was the first.

Now for a little back story. My father was a raging alcoholic with a predilection for red meat, cheap beer,  Marborol Reds and gambling (I could go on). He smoked like a chimney and he drank like a champion. This was a man who has always lived beyond his means. Now this has taught me a lesson in which I would carry throughout my life, perhaps ill discuss that one later.

It's clear that you absorb the things you are exposed to in your early years ..... your behaviors and character mirror your  teacher. You are the pupil. It isn't until you are of the age of cognizance that your inner self melds with your teachings. You are aware. You must make your own decisions while your disciplinarians keep a watchful eye.

I have very few pleasant childhood memories regarding this man. As a small child I idolized this (at the time it seemed) tall, handsome, dark(er) skinned powerful and interesting man. Are you aware enough at a young age to know the difference between fact, reality and what you choose to see yourself? Are we spiritually aware? Are we flying on the wings of ignorance? Hell! I just wanted toys and to dance around the house in my tutu. Simple.

This brings us to the years of custody battle. Tumultuous and frightening.
When two people are fighting over you (and sibling) it puts all sorts of crazy things into your head.......
There were many years of supervised visits, required therapies and let us not forget the constant conversations about my feelings. Sure I was confused, frustrated and there was the manipulation (that's a story in and of itself.) I am fairly certain that my biggest concern at the time (I was about 6) was choosing between watching the Smurfs or Transformers. Having to decide what leotard to wear underneath my clothes to school (there was a well formed obsession here.) If you only knew.....

Something interesting recently happened and perhaps common place for a gal like myself.
A total stranger of a Norwegian man walks up to me and whispered into my ear. He he told me that he was ''going home to blow his brains out with his shotgun''. I kindly replied ''That sounds like a bad day.''
This reminded me of the time my father took me hunting. It had something to do with a slain deers head flopped over the windshield while blood swished back and forth as the broken window wipers fought the rain...... and blood.

It wasn't until I become a young adult that some reality started creeping, sinking in. I only felt confusion and anger towards (I'm fairly certain at the time I didn't know why) my life situation and emotions I had no control over. I wouldn't relive it again, not for several million dollars.

I never thought about my father once I reached Jr. high school. I slowly phased him out of my life (little did I know it was the reverse.) Figures.
Flash backwards to the above mention childhood years. Parents move to different States, distance becomes an issue (35 min drive.) In retrospect I had thought it was a matter of inconvenience for them only as an adult realizing (to my father) I had become objectified. Fair enough, this shaped some monumental decisions I would make later in life.

From what Ive gathered with what little socialization I had with other children, flying kites, doing puzzles, riding your Purple 'Aloha Huffy' bicycle and having sleepovers was what little girls did..... right?
When in my fathers company I did typical little girl stuff like...... taken to the movie theater to see Hellraiser, Nightmare on Elm Street, some arcade games (it was like his little version of gambling.)
Candy for dinner, antique hunting and scary stories before bed.

My older sister is the picture perfect example of well adjusted. Beautiful, talented, successful and well adjusted in every arena of her life. Perhaps being cut off from our father much earlier than myself plays some small role in her light hardheartedness. I'll never really know.

I remember two (of many) occasions where I was terrified to the bone of lightening and the ocean waves. My fathers cure for my chickenheartedness was both he and I standing in the middle of a field in the midst of a thunderstorm and then there was little me perched on his shoulders standing approx 6 feet deep in the ocean waves, for which seemed like an eternity.  Ill spare the details of learning how to swim.... and nearly drowning.

I have been told more times than I could possibly count that I look like my father, I have a temper like my father, I am humorous like my father (huh?) and lastly in so many words am free spirited like my father.

THE NIGHT I RECEIVED THE PHONE CALL
 ''Your father is dead."
 ''Uh ok... uh.... what the hell are you supposed to do in this situation?''
 '' Ill call my sister and let her know...''

So this is just before moving to Europe from the US, inconvenient and complicated this is.
I've heard it all.... '' even though he wasn't around... he is still your father.'' ''he loved you.''
''he didn't know any better.'' etc. etc. infinity.

My father had become excommunicated by myself and his entire estranged family.
A man who burned bridges seemingly without a match. Talk about survival skills.
And so entering the home of the man I haven't seen in over a decade not only to kick out his long term lover/caretaker, find homes for his tag sale treasures (in the trash) and the eviction of all the taxidermy.
Growing up our home looked like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. No embellishment. We had scythes and what looked like torture devices (antique farm shit) at the time. He was very morbid, very strange indeed.

Life father like daughter.

I could write a book on the horrors of my childhood.
People like to say ''it wasn't that bad....''
What people?
People who aren't me.


On that night I celebrated with an entire bottle of expensive champagne.
On that night I felt free. Filled with only memories of amazing horror classics,
Heavy Metal, Classic Rock and a poor mans decadence.

I entered the mortuary and asked to see the (nearly 'past due date') body.
It was interesting because the black body bag was partially covered in a handmade quilt.

What did I see?
Years lost. Anger, discord, fear, loneliness and helplessness, ad nauseum....

Me? I felt light as a feather.