I am supposed to be attempting to write my story… Writing at all is somewhat of a challenge as of late. And I’m not sure if I’m bowing to the hardness of it or letting myself take a breather, but either way- writing is scarce, so- my bad or something.
Anywho. You poor people, my lovely friends, might have to trudge through some boring terrible writing while I try to get some of this out. Again- my bad. And thanks in advance for the grace I’m sure you’ll offer.
Seems best to start at the beginning…
I was born too early and too small, a preemie with underdeveloped lungs. And so I spent some time in a NICU incubator, and wore cabbage patch doll clothes. That’s what I’m told anyway. Don’t remember much about my infancy. I do believe I was a handful from the get go, lots of trouble and not very cute honestly.
But I think… I think… that my parents loved me the best they knew how. My very early childhood memories are full of smiles and I very much remember feeling doted on by aunts, uncles and grandparents galore.
Most of my first memories are of my dad, so that’s what you’ll get today. My mom was around, teaching me to read and making baby sisters… maybe you’ll hear about her another day. But it’s like my tiny heart knew my dad wouldn’t be around much, so it just captured and held onto all it could.
He was lanky, beanpole-ish, dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. He was made up of all the things an 80’s urban-cowboy should be: Wranglers, trucker caps and pearl snap shirts, a fishing pole (and the constant stink of freshly cleaned fish), a gold Trans-Am, Dwight Yokum tapes, a mustache, and a can of beer.
Really he wasn’t around much and most of my memories of him are faded, he smiled a lot it seemed, and hardly talked.
“Just jump.” -The first (and some of the only) words I remember my dad ever saying to me. I was three years old, on a swing in our backyard, and he said it as he turned to walk inside, (beer in hand of course). I was terrified; the ground looked a mile away from my feet and my heart was racing. But he was gone, and I was left with two choices, stay outside alone as the sky grew dark, or jump.
Swinging is sort of a theme in my life it seems. And I would more than love to say this memory didn’t shape me, but alas… I spent twenty-seven years thinking my feet were a mile off the ground.
My dad took off around my fourth birthday. He came in and out of my life for a while, mostly out. For the best I think- He was a terrible alcoholic and none of his steady girlfriends ever liked me. His loss, though. And I mean that sincerely. I’m pretty fantastic, and so are my sisters.
I honestly haven’t spent much time contemplating the how’s or why’s of his actions. My life got super complicated around kindergarten; there simply wasn’t time for judging him. And now… well… there still isn’t time for it, or reason really…
Anywho. Until next time…