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Be warned… this post has definite potential to be a downer. Debbie Downer – that’s what Tom calls us when we start having one of our pity parties.

#1: I can’t tell. Lovely, huh? It’s one of those things that I don’t talk about it with my newfound need to filter things. But trust me, it sucks.

#2: My father is a bullheaded, anti-social egomaniac who is very hurtful and self-absorbed. I’m not angry anymore (yep, the previous sentence was me not being angry), but yesterday, holy hell, I was spewing. Now I just feel resigned. It is what it is. The following paragraphs were written yesterday immediately after the offending conversation. I’ve cleaned up the language just because it was pretty wretched.

I just talked to my father on the phone and was witness to one of his “stream of consciousness” monologues that I try really hard to avoid. Don’t remember all of it, but the bits & pieces that I retained went something like this:

your mama’s gone. she’s not coming back. the shock’s over. we all just gotta deal with it. i’m your daddy. and we, all three of you girls, gotta have a daddy/daughter relationship. i mean, we just gotta make the best of it. but it’s not gonna be like it was with your mama. cuz your mama, she’s gone. and she’s not coming back. and now… well, i’m not gonna say it because it’s too rough. no, i am gonna say it to make a point. now you don’t take this the wrong way, alright? but i’m 54 years old and to heck with ya’ll. oh, now i’ve made you mad. see, i knew you would take it the wrong way. i didn’t mean it like you took it, i mean if one of ya’ll died, i would be sad. it would be harder than when your mama died… well, maybe not harder, but just as hard. now, sarah, don’t get mad – you’re taking this the wrong way, just like I knew you would.

Oh, I’m sorry, Daddy. I guess I just thought that there’s really only one way to take “I’m 54 years old, and to heck with ya’ll.” But I guess I was wrong. There must be some nice, loving, FATHERLY way to take that sentence that I’m not aware of. Please. Enlighten me. Just exactly HOW SHOULD I TAKE THAT? Please. Could you please fill me in.

I’m not angry or mad. Well, maybe a little. But mostly, I’m just hurt. I thought I would be done letting his words hurt me by now. But just when you think you’re all toughened up, that the callouses are built up in all the right places, he finds that little tender, exposed spot and sticks the knife right in.

My response to him? First, silence. Then, “Daddy, I’m not mad. Honestly, I’ve gotta say that I’m not even really that surprised or shocked to hear you say that. You’re right. We all just need to move on. It is what it is.”

It is what it is. Comments like the one he made yesterday really isn’t shocking to me… his actions say “to heck with ya’ll” everyday. I guess just hearing it put right out there sucked though. Conversations like that, trying to wade through the muddled mess that is his brain, brings the pain of Mama’s death back to the surface. We really are orphans in every way that matters. Well, except one, which came to light yesterday…

#3: I’ve been rejected as Susanna’s cosigner because I’m not her PARENT. She cried and told them that her reasonable rational parent is dead, and the one who’s left won’t help her. But they’re not budging… it’s gotta be her “parent” or she’s not getting the money. How f-ed up is this? She lives with Bobby and me. She uses our utilities, lives in our house, hangs out on our sofa, and parks in our driveway every day. Yet I’m not QUALIFIED to sign for her? If we were actual orphans instead of just “almost-orphans,” I’d be able to sign for her. Because I’d be her legal guardian instead of every way except legal. Now, I can’t and Daddy won’t and so what happens now?

It’s so frustrating. So overwhelmingly discouraging. Feels like one step forward, three steps back. I haven’t changed out of my pajamas all day. Pathetic. And all I feel like doing is eating cream cheese frosting. Luckily I don’t have any, so I’m just writing and downing my damn 64 oz. of water instead.

Oh, and you wanna hear the kicker? Daddy’s talking about remarrying. Yes, my father is verbally preparing us for his replacement of my irreplaceable mother. Seriously? WTF.

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