The Blame Game

I don't blame my dad for leaving when I was two years old. Marriages fall apart. I blame him for the gaps between years that we never saw or spoke to him. I blame him for the lies my mother had to tell to protect us from the ugliness that tangled their marriage. I blame him for the nights I cried myself to sleep wondering why he wasn't there when I wanted to talk to him and be a part of his life. I blame him for not choosing us.
He has remarried three different times since and never had anymore children. He has step-children that have consumed his life since I was 10. His first marriage, Elizabeth LeBeach, or as known by mom, Elizabeth LeBitch, was the epitome of an evil step mother. I was only three, but I remember her well. She had long black hair, was young - twenty I think - with long red fingernails.
It was her idea to have my father give up parental rights,though I cannot deny responsibility for the final say so to my dad.
I was four. My mom had remarried and he came to my step-dad and asked him to adopt us. We legally took our new last name shortly after.
I remember the next few years. I can clearly see his truck parked out front of our two story brick house with a pale yellow balcony. I remember running down the front walk of our home and jumping into his arms. I don't remember LeBitch in those years. By that time, he divorced her, and in turn she took everything: his big yellow jeep, the house on the lake, and even his dog, Sambo.
I was 10 and in the hospital. I had been admitted for tests because of headaches I would often get. As I lay in the hospital bed, my mom was sitting in the chair next to me. I saw my dad come in. Behind him was a woman I had never seen. Initially, it was a flashback to LeBitch because all I could focus on was the long black hair. My mom jolted up and stood ready for a confrontation, but quickly realized it was not the woman that had thrown all of our toys away or would call in the middle of the night to harass my mother. Instead, this was Debbie.
She was my favorite. She was kind and soft spoken, and cared for us like we were her own. She had a daughter, Ashley, that was four years younger than us.
My mom and step-dad moved us to Florida not long after so he did not call or see us much.
We spent the next four years sporadically keeping in touch and visiting him in Mississippi during a few summers. During those summers we would stay for weeks. He worked at Meridian Aviation, managing the Linemen. It was a small, private airport that stood adjacent to the larger, Meridian Airport.
Some days we would spend the day with him at work, hanging out in the Pilot's lounge, but mostly we would spend our time with Debbie and Ashley. We rode horses a lot. He had four: Sundance, Willie, Sport, and Bandit.
Debbie rode Willie, a blond Palomino, and we would take turns riding Sundance, a mellow brown Quarter that had an affinity for Mountain Dew. Sport was a young buck who spooked easily, a lesson I learned while on a ride that ended with three cracked ribs.
I was 14 when they divorced. I missed her terribly and still kept in touch, though I have not seen or spoken to her in over 8 years.
He married Barbara when I was 15. She has three children, Jennifer, Amy, and Chris. They still remain married, but our time with him faded as he became more and more consumed with his new life.
I have three children of my own now. Allison and Marshall haven't seen him for almost seven years, and Cameron has never met him. He now has grandchildren through Barbara's children.
Recently, Barbara's youngest child, Chris took my dad's last name as a gesture of appreciation to him for being the father he never had. Chris has a son, who now shares my dad's last name as well. A legacy to the bloodline he will never physically share.
I am angry and hurt. I am angry because we were never given the choice to choose our name. I am hurt because I feel erased. I feel forgotten. I feel like an outsider to his life.
I have fewer memories and more regret. Of all the things I regret most, are the gaps in my memory. The spans of time left dangling between the years we saw or spoke to him. I was too young to remember much of it; the pieces of those years float in my memory like foam on the waves of the ocean. They come together, but quickly disperse before making a discernible form. I want to keep them because that is all I have been given.
He has been making an attempt to reconnect the bonds he let deteriorate between us, and I want that. I want to be a part of his life, but it feels superficial. It feels like trying to reconnect with a stranger. A stranger who's eyes and nose I have. A stranger who's sense of humor I have. A stranger who's blood runs through my veins. A stranger that I call Daddy.

What is Your Return Policy?

So the saying goes, "Treat each day as if it were a gift", or something along those lines. Whoever spoke that did not have the package that I had the displeasure of unwrapping today.
I'm mentally exhausted from my job. It's not a career - it's a job; something I have to do to bring home the bacon and keep our heads above water. I answer the calls of patients that need/ want every kind of narcotic and medication known to man. I am so drained I cannot even muster a decent blog. Just a rant. That's all this is. Nothing more.
It's like every low emotion swirling in my head: anger, apathy, distaste, sadness, and a slow depression creeping back into the into the corner of my mind, like a fog hovering thick and low, whiting out the sun's rays. Okay, well maybe that was a little too deep, but you've had those days when you just want to hit the reset button - or eject the disc and start a new game altogether because you can't get past that one pesky Level.
It's not entirely my job... that is only half the battle Monday through Friday. It's coming home. I love my family. That I know more than anything. It's the demands put on me as a wife and mother. It's the constant worry that Kurt is in a bad mood because of his constant pain. It's the worry that I will have to pick up the emotional pieces that are left of my 14 year old daughter because, well...let's face it - she's 14. It's worry that my 13 year old son did well in school today and completed his homework. It's worry that my 6 year old has expanded his vocabulary with yet another colorful expression picked up by his older brother. It's the worry of being on guard and ready to Ref another argument between the 14 and 13 year old.
This is my life between 6:00am and 10:00pm - each day - everyday.
I know what my gift is every day before opening it. It's like getting socks for Christmas - and not the cute, fuzzy soft ones - the socks in the value pack from Wal-Mart, with the cheap price tag displayed boldly in the upper right corner. You take it politely and say "Thank you", because after all, it is a gift, and it's the thought that counts, but in your mind you're thinking, "This is what I get? After all I have done - this all you could come up with?"
Of course this is no body's fault - it never will be. This is just where I am for right now.
I love my children. I love their laughter and squeals filling the home - even if it is followed by a 'CRASH' and a "OooooOoooOooOo you're gonna be in big trouble when Mom sees what you did!" I love that Kurt is getting better each day - even the bad days, and can be home with the kids after school and be a bigger part of their lives.
It's just moments like this where I sit quietly as I soak in the chaos swirling around me. The moments when you have the same song stuck in your head and can't get rid of it. The moment when you open that gift, hoping it is something exciting and new, but instead only a package of generic white socks. You smile- a weak, empty smile and say 'Thank you' then pray the store allows returns.