It's been a long weekend, with nothing of any great note to report. I spent most of the day blowing off all of the stuff I needed to 
do. I got as far as buying cat food, and said, "Screw it". So, I did what I usually do when I'm shirking responsibility - I went and edited photos.
Photography is a hobby of mine. I take pictures
of everyday things - trains and water towers seem to be a recurring theme. These are all from my last trip up to Jersey. I spent an obscene amount of time riding Amtrak from Fort Lauderdale to Penn Station, taking photos out the window. This was almost a year ago, and I only recently got around to editing the photos.
It was kind of a rough trip.
I had to go to Jersey to see my lawyer. About four and a half years ago, I was a passenger in a car accident. Long story short, after three surgeries, seven months of physical therapy, and discovering that I am allergic to nearly every narcotic painkiller known to man, I now have two four-inch long plates and 16 screws holding my left arm together.
Anyway, I had to go deal with more legal nonsense - namely, a visit to a doctor for the insurance company. I am absolutely terrified of doctors. I have good reason. The first doctor I dealt with for my arm completely screwed up. First, he gave me a synthetic bone graft, which didn't take. Then, he put in plates that were too small. Basically, the screws he installed were coming unscrewed(they had nothing to hold on to since the bone graft didn't take), and my arm was gradually falling apart again. I told him it still hurt and that I couldn't lift anything. His solution - more painkillers. Lots of fun. Finally, I told him I was getting a second opinion. His response - "I wouldn't do that if I were you". It sounded like a threat. This guy is supposed to be a doctor. He's supposed to be a healer. Instead, he more or less threatens me.
Anyway, I went and got my second opinion, and sure enough, my arm was about to fall apart. The new doctor went and took marrow from my hip, and installed all new hardware. He did a beautiful job sewing me back up, too - I have a six inch long scar on my arm, which is barely noticeable(it's also since been covered with a tattoo). My arm is never going to be quite the same - I lost much of the range of motion in my arm. I can only turn it about 30 degrees at the wrist, where it used to be a full 180. You can feel the plates through the skin, which can be lots of fun for creeping people out, but I can't say it does much for my self-esteem.
Besides that, going to Jersey meant staying with Mama and - I don't know what to call him at this point. He would be considered my stepfather, but the term "father" is one I have never found a use for. He's my mother's husband, in the legal sense of the word, but he's never been much of a husband, either. He's just the asshole my mom has been married to for the past 21 years. They married when I was five. My biological father left when I was too young to remember. All my life, they refused to give me any sort of information about him. I don't care to know the man, but there are things that I would like to know - medical history, my ethnic background...and if he had any other children. The one thing I ever heard about him was that he had been married five or six times after Mama, so in all likelihood, I have half-siblings I will never know about.
The guy my mom is married to...I never understood why. For as long as I can remember, he has looked down upon women as lesser beings...less than human, I suppose. This was especially the case for me - not only was I female, but I was not his biological child. I was never seen as more than his personal servant, at best, "Daddy's little tax deduction". Mama worked all the time, and I was left to clean the house, prepare his meals, take care of my half brother(his son), and summarily got my ass kicked if I showed any thought of my own, if I ever wanted or needed anything...I was nothing in his eyes, and I still am.
We aren't speaking at the moment, and haven't for quite some time. Once I grew up and moved out, the only time I ever heard from him was when he wanted money. Leeching off of Mama just isn't enough for him. I miss Mama dearly. Every single day since I last talked to her, I've wanted to call her to tell her how much I love her, and to beg and plead for her to get a divorce. I've wanted to tell her that for as long as I can remember. I just don't know how.
do. I got as far as buying cat food, and said, "Screw it". So, I did what I usually do when I'm shirking responsibility - I went and edited photos.Photography is a hobby of mine. I take pictures
of everyday things - trains and water towers seem to be a recurring theme. These are all from my last trip up to Jersey. I spent an obscene amount of time riding Amtrak from Fort Lauderdale to Penn Station, taking photos out the window. This was almost a year ago, and I only recently got around to editing the photos.It was kind of a rough trip.
I had to go to Jersey to see my lawyer. About four and a half years ago, I was a passenger in a car accident. Long story short, after three surgeries, seven months of physical therapy, and discovering that I am allergic to nearly every narcotic painkiller known to man, I now have two four-inch long plates and 16 screws holding my left arm together.
Anyway, I had to go deal with more legal nonsense - namely, a visit to a doctor for the insurance company. I am absolutely terrified of doctors. I have good reason. The first doctor I dealt with for my arm completely screwed up. First, he gave me a synthetic bone graft, which didn't take. Then, he put in plates that were too small. Basically, the screws he installed were coming unscrewed(they had nothing to hold on to since the bone graft didn't take), and my arm was gradually falling apart again. I told him it still hurt and that I couldn't lift anything. His solution - more painkillers. Lots of fun. Finally, I told him I was getting a second opinion. His response - "I wouldn't do that if I were you". It sounded like a threat. This guy is supposed to be a doctor. He's supposed to be a healer. Instead, he more or less threatens me.
Anyway, I went and got my second opinion, and sure enough, my arm was about to fall apart. The new doctor went and took marrow from my hip, and installed all new hardware. He did a beautiful job sewing me back up, too - I have a six inch long scar on my arm, which is barely noticeable(it's also since been covered with a tattoo). My arm is never going to be quite the same - I lost much of the range of motion in my arm. I can only turn it about 30 degrees at the wrist, where it used to be a full 180. You can feel the plates through the skin, which can be lots of fun for creeping people out, but I can't say it does much for my self-esteem.
Besides that, going to Jersey meant staying with Mama and - I don't know what to call him at this point. He would be considered my stepfather, but the term "father" is one I have never found a use for. He's my mother's husband, in the legal sense of the word, but he's never been much of a husband, either. He's just the asshole my mom has been married to for the past 21 years. They married when I was five. My biological father left when I was too young to remember. All my life, they refused to give me any sort of information about him. I don't care to know the man, but there are things that I would like to know - medical history, my ethnic background...and if he had any other children. The one thing I ever heard about him was that he had been married five or six times after Mama, so in all likelihood, I have half-siblings I will never know about.
The guy my mom is married to...I never understood why. For as long as I can remember, he has looked down upon women as lesser beings...less than human, I suppose. This was especially the case for me - not only was I female, but I was not his biological child. I was never seen as more than his personal servant, at best, "Daddy's little tax deduction". Mama worked all the time, and I was left to clean the house, prepare his meals, take care of my half brother(his son), and summarily got my ass kicked if I showed any thought of my own, if I ever wanted or needed anything...I was nothing in his eyes, and I still am.
We aren't speaking at the moment, and haven't for quite some time. Once I grew up and moved out, the only time I ever heard from him was when he wanted money. Leeching off of Mama just isn't enough for him. I miss Mama dearly. Every single day since I last talked to her, I've wanted to call her to tell her how much I love her, and to beg and plead for her to get a divorce. I've wanted to tell her that for as long as I can remember. I just don't know how.
1 comment:
Sooner rather that later, one would hope, mama will come around and realize that she's wasted enough of her time trying to fix something that not only can't be fixed, but doesn't want to be fixed. I'm sure that she wonders what the fuck she's doing every fucking day wondering about where she would be if she weren't married to Jack and how different things could have been. I just hope for her (and more importantly) your sake that she's still got enough fight in her to make that choice. God knows how much she and Jack have put you through, but the one consolation that you have is that you don't have to deal with them on a day-to-day basis anymore.
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