Dear Hearts,
I am hurt. Deeply and profoundly hurt. And sad.
God knows that I have been through enough therapy to know about “validated” emotions. Whether the emotion is justified or not, a person still feels that emotion.
I am hurt. Betrayed. Sad. Mad. So mother-fucking-sweet-mother-of-fuck tired. Mostly, I just feel bad.
I may have no reason to feel this way. But, I still feel it. It’s real for me. It’s my Truth. And I could be over-reacting, overly-sensitive, melodramatic…(Aunt Faerie I know that is not a parallel sentence).
I don’t want to go home to G-Pa tonight. I will when it’s time to make his dinner—he’ll eat something light because of the pie. . .I don’t even want to go meet him at The Café with Dr. Swede for pie today. I want to go somewhere else for a while. I want to hand him to Aunt Faerie tomorrrow, lock myself in my room, and say “you deal with him.” I need a break.
Maybe I am being selfish and none of these feelings are even legitimate, but since it’s my blog, I can write what I want.
G-Pa is still somewhat confused after his UTI, although he is getting better. I realize his whole routine was upset twice: Aunt Faerie went on a vacation she deserved and then he was in the hospital.
When I came home last Wednesday night with my, quite frankly bloody tattoo, G-Pa said it was a work of art. Well, the Body Snatchers threw the real G-Pa back.
On the way to G-Pa’s urologist (leaving half an hour early for an appointment that is five minutes away is necessary)---
That sounds like some Absurdist play: “On the way to G-Pa’s urologist.”
There is this face he can make. He doesn’t do it often. But it’s like when Nan could just look at me and make me cry. He crinkles his face together in disgust—like he just stepped in shit. Or saw a woman without proper stockings.
Do you know that my mother actually used to not wear jeans when she would come out here in the summer, because he doesn’t approve of jeans. She was like my age then.
It’s a look that not only conveys disgust, but also superiority. The SLIGHTLY over-cooked pizza got The Look last Friday. I let it go—he had a bad UTI, he was confused.
On the way to urologist, he turned to me in the car (as I was driving five miles below the speed limit) and said, “I wish you would cover up that tattoo, Linnea. I am ashamed to be seen with you.” I felt a stab in my gut. Like, I really felt it. I pulled up my cardigan and then I thought for a moment.
Oh, and his tone of voice totally matches his face. It’s like a pure-bred Pointer talking to a mutt-sized chihuahua.
(I am not meeting G-Pa and Dr. Swede for pie. I got my own. I am just gonna go straight to Aunt Faerie’s and enjoy her roof covered [from rain] deck and get a hug. Aunt Faerie is being magnanimous enough to offer to cook for G-Pa and I. Maybe she is afraid G-Pa hasn’t had anything healthy to eat after he gave her my raving over-heating-pizza review.)
I digress. I am so tired I could cry. I was actually falling asleep at the desk this morning and saying things out loud that made no sense---I have to be mother fucking tired to do that.
So G-Pa and I going to the urologist. I thought for a moment.
No. No. I am not going to cover my tattoo. I am 40 years old and tired of being told what to do and how to do to please people. I tried that. Where the fuck did that get me?
Before, we went into the doctor’s office, I had him look at me (so deaf).
“I love you and I respect you, but I am not going to cover my tattoo. My bosses at work approve of it. No one else is going to think badly of it. You’re the only one who will be ashamed. I love you.”
He was pissed. I could test fucking tell. He turned down pie—which might have been because he went for pie the day before with Dr. Swede. Or, there are actually two posters in the doctors’ exam room showing pictures of the “Worst” and “Best” food to eat. Pie, ice cream, cookies, butter…all the worst. The man uses bacteria attracting Brita filters because city water cause Alzheimer’s. He is worried about eating pizza and pie. And he doesn’t need cholesterol medication because Aunt Faerie cooks so healthy.
Well, G-Pa…what about the chips you eat from morning till night? Or the sugar-laden Gatorade? Or canned peaches in heavy syrup? YOU ARE TOO FUCKING OLD TO GET ALZHEIMER’S! At very much almost 97—cholesterol, sugar, my e-cigarettes are not going to kill you. So I went to therapy, made him soup for dinner—it was all good.
Then.
He sat down to write a letter. I knew he was writing to Mom about me. I did stop him from going to the post office at 8.30 p.m., because I didn’t think it was necessary for him to drive. He actually gave it to me to mail in the morning.
I opened it. You have to understand his letter writing history. He gets a burr in his saddle and then writes nasty letters to people. Aunt Faerie and I mitigate that a much as possible. I thought the letter is either about me—or the charges he had threatened to bring against the hospital staff for an incident that did not happen. I did not want the nurses to get any hassle from hospital administration. They were good to us.
I won’t bury the lead:
“Daughter
I am disturbed by Linnea’s tatoo the way se expose it too the public. When we went to the doctor today I asked her to cover up but she did not. I was so embarrased to have a granddaughter like that to mar up her body It was just drunken sailors that that had tatoos. Please ask her to cover up in public. If she does not, I can’t take it and will have to ask her to leave. A person cannot live the New York way in P’Town.
Papa”
I know he wasn’t cognitively sound when he wrote this letter. But that shit fucking hurt. Where the fuck does my “New York” lifestyle come from? Where? I lived in the fucking boonies with a troll as a neighbor, no cell service, and no convinces for at least 10 or more miles. Mar my body? He should fucking see what I do with my epilator on my legs and bikini line.
Ask me to leave? What?
I can’t even express…my whole life is just getting settled here and then I have to uproot again and leave Burning Bed...
Aunt Faerie—I know what you would have done and what I think I know what you’d tell me to do.
But. No. I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup when I was married. There are so many PTSD triggers in that letter I can’t count…
Mom and Dad stood behind me.
Mom got him to back down on the phone the next day. By the next day he couldn’t really remember writing or mailing the letter and he did not bring up my leaving.
I love him. I respect him. But I am so fucking enraged at him.
I responded with a letter of my own this morning and left it on a military-themed puzzle I ordered for him.
“Dear Papa,
First, I love and respect you. I am so very grateful to be living here in The Holy City with you.
I know that the last week has been tough because of your bladder infection and being in the hospital. But, you are getting better!
You asked me to cover my tattoo when I am in public with you because you are ashamed.
I am sorry you are ashamed. But, I will not cover my tattoo.
I thought about getting this tattoo for a very long time. Tattoos have come a long way in the last 80 years. I chose to get a wolf above my heart to remind myself to never give up. They are considered works of art. 70% of the women I work with have tattoos. The majority of my generation has tattoos—it’s like wearing jeans. My supervisor at work loves my tattoo. She took a picture of it—because she wants the same one. There is no shame in tattoos anymore.
Since my divorce things in my life have not been right. I wanted to give up a lot. I did give up when I tried to kill myself over two years ago. I don’t say that to make you feel sorry for me. But to let you know that I gave up on life. The time I have spent here in Princeton with you and Aunt Faerie has made a huge difference. Especially, since I have permanently moved here. I still struggle with depression and of course, my shaking episodes. My panic attacks. But, I am not giving up.
This is Act II of my life. This is my second chance. I want to make a life for myself here, in The Holy City, with you and Aunt Faerie. I love our drives, pie days, time with Dr. Swede, and McDonald’s coffee. I am grateful to be here for you when you need help. You deserve that. You took care of people your whole life—now it’s time for us to help you. Not that you need much of it!
Every time I look down at my tattoo I am reminded that I have a Norseman/Kennedy heart—a wolf heart. A wolf never gives up. He fights to the death. He leaves it all of the field. I think that description fits a Norseman and a Kennedy too.
You may never understand, but my tattoo GIVES me strength. I will not give up. I will fight and live this life fully. The feathers symbolize the 12 Apostles and the Bible quote: Isaiah 40:31 “But they that wait up one the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”
Whenever I look at or see my tattoo I remind myself of all the fire I have come through, but that I made it out on the other side—in The Holy City. I did not get my tattoo to show off or be popular. I got it above my heart as a reminder to myself.
You don’t have to be ashamed of being seen with a granddaughter with a tattoo. I have gotten so many compliments on it in the last week. There is nothing to be ashamed of.
Throughout my whole life and my marriage, I did what I was told. I followed all the rules and did all the right things and I still ended up having a nervous breakdown. I have to live my life for me, not other people. My ex-husband told me how to wear my hair, that I couldn’t wear make-up, what TV shows I couldn’t watch. T did the same thing. I AM NOT COMPARING YOU TO ARTHUR OR T. Nan told me what to do as I grew up and I did what I was told. Bully bosses told me what to do.
When I turned 40 years-old, I promised myself that I was not going to just do what I was told anymore.
I am proud of my tattoo and it means so much to me. It is a covenant with God that I will not give up.
I do not want to make you angry or disrespect you. But, I will stand firm on this. I will not cover up my tattoo. I hope you can accept and love me anyway.
Ever Faithful,
Kate
(Then in my own handwriting)
I LOVE YOU
You don’t have to like it. That’s your right. I’m just asking for [you] to accept my tattoo as part of me.”
The day is almost done at Burning Bed. I know even know what I need to do to feel any sense of restoration. Next week is eye doctor, check engine light, work, license, residency, vet…
I just want to the carousel to stop or even slow down a little.
I “please” G-Pa in so many ways: driving 10-15 miles below the speed limit…it’s not about tit for tat…
But, Goddamnit. See me and love me as is.
I don’t want to live with you out of pity. Like the reject daughter that the family “has to put up with.” I don’t want to worry about being told to get out. G-Pa, if you want me out, then do it now. Not two months from now. I will not live under an ultimatum. I will not be “the good granddaughter” just so I have a place to live.
Just remember that my decision or your decision for me to leave would impact a whole lot more than you think.
G-Pa, you are almost 97. Yes, you are not going to change your ways—but, you are gonna hafta accept this one if you want me here. I won’t live here on the condition of worrying about getting trouble. I lived most of life that way. And it earned me two nut-house stays
Gram, I wish you were alive. I wish you were here. If you were here, I probably wouldn’t be…I wish my life, as in-authentic as it was, had never shattered like that marble ashtray. I hear him from bed at night and in the morning calling with absolute desperation in his voice…
“God, send someone! God, I need you! I need someone! I need help! God, I need someone! I need help.”
Love is not about liking every part of a person—it’s about “fierce indifference” to the parts of that person that you don’t like.
A lot of the time I do what I told. But, I don’t want to live according to someone else’s whims. Again. Even my saying that I want to live is a miracle. I am not trying to be a rebel. Just me.
Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless
In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Ailbhe; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.
Grateful For:
Café pie
Chilled coffee
Aunt Faerie back
Health
Family
Awesome church supper brownie
Cigarettes
Aunt Faerie’s deck
Sleep
Faith
PS: Thank you so much, Bertha—the founder of Burning Bed--for seeing my tattoo, telling me you loved it and after I told you what it meant, saying that I ought to show it off more. Thank you for the hug and kiss on the cheek
PPS: I may need to just feel sad and hurt for a while. I'm hit. By many things.
PPPS: Senior Priest. You should be old enough to know how to put a communion wafer in my mouth without your thumb going with it. Eww. New Priest--you passed your first vetting process. He talked about God love, Grace, and plan. Happiness, Fulfillment, and Peace. I didn't have to go "middle fingers up, put them hands high"
Philippians 4:6King James Version (KJV)
6 Be careful [anxious] for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God.
If G-Pa has physically hit me in his confusion, (which happens frequently in that mental state) I wouldn't hold that against him. As long as he didn't break my $10,000 nose that caused me so much pain and from a deviated septum and blocked sinus. Then I'd be pissed. But, I could easily forgive being smacked. But, the words...that hurts more. I pray to God to let me make peace with all of this with G-Pa--assuming it's over. Words cut like a knife...mightier than a sword.
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