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By mmichelle, 2010/03/08 09:52

1. IT’S MY SABURO‘S 8th B-DAY!!!  WOOOOOOO!

2. All these water signs got me ready to Chris Brown smack the shit outta somebody!  UGH!

3. No Columbus related article, but at least I got my deadline met.

4. There are times when I want to ring the STBE’s neck.  Fortunately, today is not one of those days and he’s actually making sense.

5. Mad it took the entire week to get the house back under control. *sigh*

6. Despite the BS it has been wonderful to be back with the E-Triad and the Apple Seed.  Wish Taro could have been here to chill with us.

7. Gonna hop the early bus.  Time for me to be back home.

8. I wish the driver could leave this lady and her crying ass kid at the Pilot station in Findlay.

9. Get here early and of course The Lion’s late.

10. Dude… why are you talking to me and harassing everything with a vagina that walks up out the station?

11. Dude… I do not care if you’re from Cali.  Go thaaaat waaaaay.

12. YES!  Saved by The Lion.

13. Snuggle, snuggle, cuddle, hug… *contended sigh*

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*NOTE: The Baker’s Dozen was developed from a meme for a Vox Group by JustSayKB.  The object is, come up with 12 thoughts/quotes/link/whatever and one photo (it can be one that you take personally or a Net find) that best describes your weekend.  I’ve expanded it to 13 to represent a true baker’s dozen, but that’s just cause I’m anal about stuff like that. *lol*

Blessed Be…

M. Michelle, who’s strong because she knows her limit, and will not let ANYONE make her feel bad for that.

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By mmichelle, 2010/03/01 14:18

1. *clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka*

2. There goes article number six.  WOOT WOOT!

3. M. Michele George = Good Peoples

4. I HIT THE FIVE DOLLAR MARK OVER AT EXAMINER DOT COM!!!  WOOOOOOOO!

5. Wow.  It’s been a year since I moved here… And I still really like him.  That’s what’s up.

6. I’m truly enjoying this writing experience and so appreciative of my readers. *muah* You guys rock!

7. I’m sorta hype about going home but I’m sooooooooo gonna miss him. *tear*

8. I HIT THE FIVE DOLLAR MARK OVER AT EXAMINER DOT COM!!!  WOOOOOOOO!

9. Damn… It’s like that?  Over a difference of opinion?  That’s fucked up but…*kanye shrug*

10. I made it on time for the bus on my first try!  WOOT WOOT!

11. Why is Border Control up on the Greyhound?

12. Why is this chick rolling up a Blunt in the seat next to me after Border Patrol was up on the Greyhound?

13. MOMMA’S HOME!!! Time to get some things straight.*cracks whip*

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*NOTE: The Baker’s Dozen was developed from a meme for a Vox Group by JustSayKB.  The object is, come up with 12 thoughts/quotes/link/whatever and one photo (it can be one that you take personally or a Net find) that best describes your weekend.  I’ve expanded it to 13 to represent a true baker’s dozen, but that’s just cause I’m anal about stuff like that. *lol*

Blessed Be…

M. Michelle, who is gonna miss The Lion but is excited to be spending a weekend with the Apple Seed and the E-Triad.

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By mmichelle, 2010/02/28 09:38

I have been living separately from my children for a little under a year now, a decision I made in an effort to build a financially independent life for myself (and them) after over a decade of being a SAHM.  From my perspective it will be easier to establish myself solo instead of “dragging” them along from place to place without a sure destination to land, and so I allowed them to stay home where things are a bit more stable.  This was not an easy choice, mind you.  In almost twenty years this has been the longest I have ever been away from my children, and if you know me you know how incomplete that makes me feel.  But I did what I thought was best for them in this moment and I’m good with that.

For the entire time that I have been here in Columbus I have received an abundance of not so subtle messages pegging me as a bad mother for not being in residence with my children.  I’ve been told I was selfish, weak, dumb, negligent, unfit… Any derogatory term you can think of, I’ve been it.  I’ve pretty much taken it all in stride because 1. none of the people throwing shade have lifted one finger to help in anyway and 2. no one has to be good with my decisions except for me and the people those decisions directly affect.  Another thing that keeps me from taking these ill opinions to heart is the fact that my children are not with strangers or random family members.  They are with the man they’ve known as Daddy since July 1998.  It seems people tend to overlook that fact when throwing their assholes opinions my way, but I make no small effort to remind them.

What I find odd is, the majority of ill-willers on this issue are men, and the majority of men who have the most to say are fathers who live separately from their own children.  Pot calling the kettle black much?  While I do understand the difference between the roles mothers and fathers play in the life of a child, I can not understand why it’s acceptable for fathers to be absentee while mothers remain physically responsibility no matter what.  Although many of us speak and feel compassion for fathers who are separated from their children due to the break up a relationship, it’s a foregone conclusion that a mother’s constant presence in a child’s life is far more important so the man’s absence is just the way of things.  Oh, he gets his weeks or weekends with the children and may have some legal say in certain decisions, but that’s pretty much the extent of his accepted obligation.  It seems to be the rule that a father’s constant involvement with his child(ren) only matters if he is still connected intimately to and/or is living with that child’s mother.  If he’s not, his life is his own while the mother’s life is her child’s 24/7.  What the hellphuck is wrong with this reality?  After years of listening to people speaking about the importance of fatherhood, and fathers lamenting about having their rights taken from them, one would think a woman choosing to turn the tables in favour of full-time fathers would be applauded.  Guess that’s why I don’t get paid for thinking.

I don’t get it.  If the STBE had been the one who left the home barely a eyelash would flutter.  He’d have his designated visitation times, pay his child support and that would be that.  There’s no question that a child deserves to be raised by both parents, but if one has to suffice who says it has to be the mother?  What, other than our acceptance of antiquated gender roles, makes a mother more necessary than a father?  What, other than our prejudiced notions, determines a mother as primary care giver paramount to a father in that role?  Because there has never been a physical bond linking father to child?  Because the legal system grants mother’s sole custody more often than they do fathers?  Because its been drilled into our heads that when it comes to children it’s always momma’s baby and daddy’s maybe because that’s the way it has always been? I call bullshit. Not because it suits my present situation, but because primary caregiver is not a gender specific role and we need to stop treating it as such.

My decision to mother from a distance is not unique.  Thirty percent of mothers all over the country have voluntarily decided to  grant the fathers of their children temporary or permanent custody, whether it’s so they can pursue a better education, get on their feet financially, or because they feel the father is a more stable choice for the child(ren).  These mothers remain connected to their children the very same way a father would if he did not live in the home, and oftentimes pay child support just the same. What is wrong with that?  It’s not as if the mothers are placing their babies on church steps or in wicker baskets and sending them afloat along the Nile.  They are simply mothering from a distance and trusting their co-parent, which is what they’re supposed to do.

It has taken some getting used to on both our ends but I am blessed with a co-parent who was willing to step up to the plate as a full-time father.  Instead of degrading me like most men would do — accusing me of not loving my children or abandoning them to live the footloose and fancy free life — the STBE was very supportive and encouraging.  In truth, he actually volunteered himself for the job of single parent so that I could do what I needed to do without disrupting the children’s lives.  Because that is what matters most, the children having as stable a life as possible, whether that life is provided by mommy as is traditional or daddy who is just as important no matter what “the norm” says.

Blessed Be…

M. Michelle

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By mmichelle, 2010/02/27 09:18

On Sunday, February 6th at 16:24, I butted my last cigarette into the ashtray and called it quits.  I was done with the desert dry throat mornings, the getting winded from moderate walks, the every other day loss of what could be  part of a modest fortune if I let it pile up.  After twenty-five years it was time for me to finally break the chains of my toxic love/hate affair with cigarettes and start what was to be a beautiful friendship with “clean” air and healthier living.  I had my gum, I had my convictions, I had the drive and the desire to be done for good.  What I didn’t have was the strength to buck up to Day Four and tell it where to go with Google Map directions.

It was really weird.  My first official 24 hours smoke free I barely even knew I was quitting.  There was no snapping at the stupid people on TV for doing stupid people on TV stuff, there was no side eying The Lion for a joke I may have taken the wrong way, and while there were cravings they weren’t the physical sort that would make me think about putting my first born on eBay for just one hit.  The urges to smoke were mild and linked to routine; missing having a cigarette in my hand or burning away in the ashtray next to me as I worked.  I chewed my gum, drank my water and steered clear of nicotine’s BFF… coffee.  It was grand, it was glorious and I was convinced I could make it through to the other side.

After 48 hours smoke free and it was like I was born again.  I began side stepping those situational urges by changing activity or simply ignoring them.  Just because I was sitting here writing didn’t mean I needed a cigarette to keep me company.  Sheeba the Stepcat fit the companion bill just fine.  I wasn’t attacked by the dreaded appetite monster and had even conquered a bout with stress and enjoying a beer without a cigarette as the equation.  My daughter and Net friends keep me pumped with how proud they were through IMs and texts, and I was keeping track of how often I popped a Nicorette square which was about every one to two hours.  I had absolutely no cravings for a cigarette at this point so I was even more sure I could do this.

After 72 hours I was on a roll!  I wasn’t bothered by images of people smoking on TV and no longer got an attitude when quitting smoking commercials were broadcast (they always made me want to light up in an act of defiance).  My lung capacity had increased, not by much but enough to be noticeable, and I my sense of taste was sharper than I could ever remember it.  I hadn’t experienced any of the physical side effects like gas and bloating (I was also taking the Activia Challenge too, so that might have helped), migraines, increased phlegm or a smoker’s cough so I counted myself lucky.  Still no physical cravings, or none that would make me give them a second thought.  I was at the point where if I’d done this cold turkey my body would be relatively nicotine free, but I dared not try this without something to ease me into the process.  And the gum seemed to work, so I was pleased.

I have no idea what type of voodoo Day Four possesses, but when it came time to face it the progress I’d made the three previous days was no match for it.  Out of the blue physical cravings hit me like tsunami waves.  I began to actually want a cigarette, and my brain began bargaining with itself that it could handle one, just one, and go back on the wagon again.  There was pain all over, in my chest, my stomach and my joints.  I was anxious and easily distracted and irritable as hell.  At midnight on day five I lost the fight and bought a pack of cigarettes because I only wanted one, and entrusted the rest to The Lion.  That first cigarette was nasty as all get out, tasting like the smell of freshly laid asphalt on a summer’s day.  I didn’t want it, but I smoked the entire thing so I didn’t waste money.  The second one, a few hours later, was just as nasty, but I stomached it.  By the third cigarette that next day, when I was left alone to regulate my use on my own, I knew I was done for without hope of redemption so I just gave in and refused to fight anymore.

I’ve been back on the wagon now for about three weeks and hating every minute of it.  I made another earnest attempt last Friday to quit again, but lasted only five hours.  The desire to quit has not left me.  I’m tired of the habit and its sadistic hold over me.  I’m tired of investing money I can’t afford to spend on a product that hastens my eventual death every single day.  I’m tired of not being in control and tired of smoking being a big stinking contradiction to me wanting to live a healthy life.  And I’m just plain tired.  No, literally, I’m tired just about every single moment because this habit saps my energy despite my daily vitamin intake.  Well since I know the gum works I already have my aid, but what I need to get better at is preparing for those “day four” moments when the “intangible” rewards of quitting aren’t as strong as the tangible urges that cause me to light up.  It’s coming.  I can feel it in my bones!

Many have expressed disappointment over my relapse, but I’m not holding any regrets.  Nicotine is one of the most addictive substances known to man, quite possibly the strongest, so it’s going to take more than a few pieces of gum and the will to stop smoking to kick the habit.  Relapsing is a part of the game, and I accept it, but find comfort in knowing each effort to quit boosts my resolve for the next time I make the attempt.  Maybe the next time I try I’ll make it a week, or a month or even for ever after.  I’m hopeful I’ll make it and won’t allow this one setback to keep me from the main goal.  To be smoke free… Eventually.

Blessed Be…

M. Michelle

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By mmichelle, 2010/02/25 13:51

Society seems to delight in erasing the humanity from people simply because they possess a certain amount of fame… Unless you’re the member of a hard core rock band, Superhead or Steve O.  In addition to this, society also seems to take great pains in declaring that making a living by carrying a tune, swinging a bat, dunking a ball or playing a character in a production automatically elevates a person to the g_d-like status of moral compass, no matter what their life was like before becoming a household name.  And when those media darlings fall from grace because they made fellatio a marketing plan, blinked out and dotted both their songstress girlfriends eyes, or took the job of sinking balls into multiple holes off the green and into their real life, it seems society delights in tearing celebrities down for proving they never stopped being human in the first place.  Seems kinda bass ackward to me, since I don’t think any actor, singer or sports figure got into their respective professions to be the example of upstanding living.  They just wanted to carry a tune, swing a bat, dunk a ball or play a role.

Much ado has been made about Tiger Wood’s serial infidelities since the moment we all speculated the cause for Elin’s outburst that fate filled night.  Some have expressed outrage while others have shrugged it off indifferently.  I’m sure you already know I was the captain of Team Don’t Giva F*ck, but didn’t look down on anyone else who might have been negatively affected by Tiger’s actions… even if it made no sense to me.  Beyond the trivial (read: bits that could be used for joking purposes) I had very little interest in the details of what happened because I don’t know that man, Biblically or even remotely, so what he does has no bearing on my day to day.  But when I learned he was making a public apology to appease his fans and certain fans felt he owed it to them, I was literally sad to count myself  a part of the human species.

While it is idealistic for us to want our favourite celebrities to exist on a higher plateau than us common folk, realistically it’s just not sound.  They cry, they hurt, they have days when they don’t feel so fresh just like the rest of us, and the only difference is they have more eyes watching their every more than most of us can ever imagine.  Since we take pride in telling people we are who we are and don’t have to justify it with any mother’s son (or daughter, as it were) then what gives us the right to dictate how celebrities should live their lives off stage, off court or off the green?  What makes us the authority they owe apologies to, considering our fanship is a choice we take up on our very own.  Isn’t that being a bit pretentious?  A celebrity’s job is to entertain not provide an example of how to conduct a righteous life, and that is all they are accountable for doing.  I’ve read many a blog, tweet or other social networking communication sounding the rally cry that because “we pay their checks” we are owed a certain amount of control over celebrity lives, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.  We pay to be entertained, plain and simple, and whatever happens in a celebrity’s life outside of that scope has absosmurfly nothing to do with us, no matter how “connected” to them we might feel.

I think we have an illogical tendency of projecting our desires for stronger moral fiber on celebrities simply because we want to believe there’s someone out in the world who can live according to the statutes of “right” and “wrong”.  It gives us hope that even if we can’t toe the line 100% of the time someone can, and knowing we’re not all crazed savages with deranged thoughts or urges makes life easier to digest.  I think we unjustly make celebrities bear the weight of living above humanity’s capacity so that we don’t have to sacrifice our own carnal vulnerability crutch, or have someone to blame when their undesirable actions remind us of just how human we all are.

So Tiger cheated on his wife.  Who really gives a damn.  Your next door neighbour is probably doing the same thing but I doubt you’re demanding he apologizes to you and the freeworld or that he checks into a sex addiction clinic.  When all is said and done, Tiger is a damn good golfer and will remain a damn good golfer despite his inability make his penis obey the vows his heart and mind took.  Those of you who are clamouring at his virtual door with torches and pitchforks need to remember it’s his golfing expertise that made him a celebrity and earned your fandom (although I doubt half of you have ever watched him actually play outside of SportsCenter highlights), not his faithfulness to his wife.  This goes for any other celebrity who does anything even close to something Pookie around the corner would do.  If it’s not a crappy record, unsportsman-like conduct during an exhibition or a scene that should have remained on the cutting room floor, then it really has nothing to do with why you liked the person in the first place.

And in conclusion, stop making g_ds of mortals then being mad at them because they don’t live up to your expectations of morality.  None of us is perfect, whether we have two zeros in our bank accounts or a couple dozen.  Stop making it seem as if fame carries more accountability than being a regular Joe with a nine to five and without an entourage.  All things being equal, we all stumble, we all fall, we all have bad hair days, and none escape that fate of humanity.  No matter how desperately you want your favourite celeb to be without sin.

Just my buck fiddy…

M. Michelle

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By mmichelle,

A couple weeks ago when I wrote about the whole “Facebook Status Bra Colour for Cancer” thing that drove the Internet bananas, my beloved Mama Sue shared it with her friends via Networked Blogs‘ Facebook app.  Through Sue’s sharing I was blessed with a comment from a reader who would have otherwise not known my Blog existed.  Although it wasn’t necessarily on the Blog itself I was still delighted because in case you haven’t noticed… I don’t get very many comments around these parts.

** Big ups to simplyRik and Daddy Kel **

Her comment read as such:

“I think the writer took herself and the social networking “phenomenon du jour” way too seriously and passed out a large dose of judgment in the process. On a site where hours are spent in Farm Town and Mafia Wars and other time eating activities, I would hardly classify 30 seconds of individual time devoted to posting a color as a “fad” or “foolishness.” It simply was a happening with at least one positive outcome- increased traffic directed to the Susan Komen site. Be it Breast Cancer Awareness month or not, calling that outcome foolishness is hardly appropriate nor the author’s analysis thoughtful. I think my dear friends and family who have been struck by this horrific disease would concur and for that reason I am proud I posted ‘white’.”

Being the double fire sign that I am (Sagittarius and Aries stand up! *lol*) when I first read the comment I got a little bit heated.  Not simply because she accused me of taking myself too seriously, which I am well aware I do from time to time, but because she obviously took my words a little too personally and missed the point I was trying to make. One of my biggest pet peeves is being misunderstood, especially when I try so hard to be clear.  That particular entry was more about people blindly following trends without knowing the full story behind them more than it was about the bra colour status thing.  I’m quite sure I expressed that in the post, along with a nod to the positive actions that were inspired by the meme.  How did she miss that?  My secondary point was the fact that if the purpose of the meme was to support a cause, why was the Net so quiet when called to bring awareness to other causes?  How did she miss that?  And my rant wasn’t even about the meme itself, because there are tons and tons that go on around me that I manage to ignore everyday.  It was the fact that an honest to goodness cause was used to further a “joke”, and regardless of the good outcome that came from it, it just didn’t sit right with me so I spoke on it.  No harm in that, right?  Well seems I’m not the only one guilty of taking myself too seriously, eh?

Anywho, I fought my initial reaction to the commenter’s response because I realize she does not know me and just like me she has a right to express her opinion.  But one part still bothered me.  The fact that this woman only half-read what was presented to her yet still felt compelled to pass a judgment about what she perceived was a judgment.  Anyone who’s known or read me long enough knows hypocrisy and I go together like oil and water, so I was struck dumb by this woman’s audacious reply.  Quite possibly she reacted defensively because she felt I was personally condemning anyone who took part in the festivities under the impression of to do what they thought was a good work.  Perhaps she responded with such a condescending air because she was not aware that the author of the entry would be seeing her comment first hand, since she didn’t bother to leave the comment here on the site where the entry originated.  These are only speculations of course, since I have no clue who the woman is and am not connected to her.  But what I do know is, if you’re going to take the time to comment on the opinionated commentary someone decides to place on their Blog, do yourself a favour and make sure you fully understand what’s written before poising your fingers to type.  Don’t respond from a defensive stance, especially when you know the author isn’t speaking about you specifically, because you run the risk of missing some vital information that could help you fully understand the point of the entry.  And please, for the love of all things intellectually debatable, if you do make the mistake of commenting out of emotional ignorance, do so in a place where the author has no way of bringing your reply center stage and pointing out just how pointless it is.

I’m not foolish enough to believe everyone is going to agree with everything I post commentary on.  The world is filled with differing opinions, which is one of the things that makes it great.  I value opposing opinion to my entries just as much as, if not more than, I do those who agree, because they may shed light on something I was unaware of when formulating my initial perspective. But if you’re going to take the position of disagreeing with something I’ve written, then let your reply be intelligently presented with “facts” to back up your position and make sure you’ve actually read what it is I have to say thoroughly.  I may not change my mind, but at least I can respect what you’ve had to say.

Thanks for the comment.

M. Michelle

Comments (1)

By mmichelle, 2010/02/22 16:26

1. Three articles in for Examiner.com.  I’m thinking this freelance journalist thing could actually work.

2. Uh… I really need to pay more attention to Textbroker.com.

3. I so hate that fact that his computer died. *pout*

4. I will not overwhelm myself with writing… I will not overwhelm myself with writing…

5. He has a photoshoot and I have an event to attend.  How we gonna do this with one vehicle?

6. I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date!

7. Why every time I need to be somewhere er’body and their momma is up in the Kroger.

8. Damn… It’s darker than Wesley Snipes up in here.

9. Okay, okay… So “Good Hair” wasn’t bad as I thought it was going to be.  At least the half I was able to catch.

10. Feels good to be among like minds.  The Nappturally Me! Meetup group ROCKS!!!

11. Konigirl is good peoples. *respectful nod*

12. I’m still hyper from being outside.  I’m typo’ing like crazy.

13. I love weekends like this.

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*NOTE: The Baker’s Dozen was developed from a meme for a Vox Group by JustSayKB.  The object is, come up with 12 thoughts/quotes/link/whatever and one photo (it can be one that you take personally or a Net find) that best describes your weekend.  I’ve expanded it to 13 to represent a true baker’s dozen, but that’s just cause I’m anal about stuff like that. *lol*

Blessed Be…

M. Michelle, who is really happy to actually know people in Columbus now.

Comments (1)

By mmichelle, 2010/02/21 15:40

All my life I wanted to be a writer.  Okay, so maybe not all my life since my “what I want to be when I grow up goals” have spanned everywhere from teacher to doctor to lawyer and then back again.  My mother constantly suggested the vocation when I was growing up but as with all children, doing what your mother says is usually the thing you fight the most.  I think I was in my early twenties when I took my inclination to write seriously, and began working on my first novel (which is now completed and sitting in my hard drive collecting virtual dust) in 1999.  By the age of 30 I was the author of five chapbooks (all of which are currently out of print) and dabbling in small press publishing.  But as enjoyable as it was creating collections of stories and poems, what I’ve really wished to aspire to was to become a journalist.

It is my love for journalism that has inspired my many Blog attempts, and turned my writing focus from presenting humourous accounts of my day to day life to musing on world issues in an editorial type fashion.  It is also the reason why I have decided to finish what I started educationally, so that I can hopefully live my dream of writing for a major publication in my near future.  But as I work to (finally) establish myself as a credible journalist, it has occurred to me that the art itself is slowly dying a pain filled death.  With the advent of citizen reporting and the Blog Boom of the 00’s, it seems everyone is writing and the ethics and standards of the craft are being tossed to the wind.  In the race to be “first on the scene” and grab the most readers, it seems the dedication to accuracy, presentation (from a classical English standpoint) and compassionate reporting has taken a back seat to sensationalism and flash.  Gone are are the days of the gumshoe on the beat, chasing down a story to be reported firsthand and doing everything possible to make sure their sources are credible.  In turn, the demand for these things from the perspective of readers seems to be dwindling the more saturated the market becomes.  So what is to become of my dream and the time I put into making it a reality?

I was talking with Ife Blount of Ifelicious.com via Twitter about this the other day, lamenting with her about what now passes for newsworthy accounting in our country.  In the day and age where The National Enquirer’s Pulitzer application is taken seriously, one has to wonder why I’d even strive to make it in an industry where life affirming topics take a back seat to celebrity gossip and over-dramatized repeats of gloom and doom.  Ife’s in the game on several different levels and can attest to this personally, having seen her entertainment pieces received more hits than her entries on women’s and African-American issues.  It’s almost enough for you to want to throw up your hands and walk away from the quill and parchment.  But for those of us who love the craft, there’s always hope that if we hang in here long enough and give our all to our expressions, sooner or later it will bear fruit.  As Ife puts it:

“I’m following my passion and I have this naive belief that people will eventually catch on.”

I am of the same mind frame.  Like in “Field of Dreams” I’m intent to believe that if I write it, they will come.  As long as I am holding up my end of the bargain — being a channel and following my ambitions — I know the Universe will do the rest.  It can be a frustrating endeavour, but I’m committed and confident it will work out in the end.  That’s what matters most.

Blessed Be…

M. Michelle

Comments (0)

By mmichelle, 2010/02/20 13:30

It’s been 36 years.  Well honestly, it’s been 32 that I can consciously remember since recollections of my life stop at around age four.  I never recall memories of you living with us, although your presence was ever present in my life one way or the other.  Either momma was mad cause you weren’t around or I was mad because even when you were around you weren’t.  I remember conversations with friends who counted me lucky that I at least knew who you were  and could see you every now and again.  That at least you tried.  Better to have a piece of man, right?  I remember innocent acceptance; never really questioning why there were two different houses, different sets of children, numerous other women.  I remember believing this was the way of things; weekends reserved without my consent and sometimes you’d show, show times you wouldn’t.  As far as I knew this is what men did — treat you like their option while expecting to be a priority — and not knowing any different I was resigned to just take it all in.  You were the adult and I was the child so…

The resentment began to bud at about nine.  Never seeing your face at school programs that were important to me.  Sharing the weekends that were  withheld for time with you with your various girlfriends and their children.  Wondering why I never heard from you during the week when you never lived more than twenty miles from my childhood home at any given time.  I internalized my indignation, thinking it was something about me that kept you away even though in my heart of hearts I knew that wasn’t true.  I’d done nothing more than been a child; the little girl you said you wanted and named before she was conceived.  I wanted to be mad with you externally, but seeing how you reacted to my mother’s expression of anger I didn’t want to risk you leaving me too.  Instead, I opted to hurt myself as a way of hurting you, even though I wasn’t conscious of my actions at the time.  That desire to hurt was usurped by a desire to replace when I became old enough to foster my own relationships.  Funny thing is, I kept choosing “you” over and over again by choosing men who were emotionally reserved; men whose attention, affection and respect I felt I had to “earn”.

I don’t know why I’m bothering to rehash this for you again.  You’re no stranger to the story since you’ve played a major part in it since its inception.  Maybe because I’m trying to hold on to the fantasy that maybe you are the way you are because you are ignorant of certain details.  Maybe I’m still hiding behind the ideal that one of these time you’ll experience one of those dramatic silver screen type breakthroughs and realize your fault in our relationship’s breech.  Most likely, it’s because I don’t want to accept the fact that you truly just don’t give a damn and I’m not as important to you as parental protocol (or my perception of it) says I should be. I’m sure that’s not the case as it would take an extremely hardhearted person not to care for their own child.  I know you love me, by some measure of the definition, and for that I can say that I’m grateful and thankful.  In that same vein, I love you as well, but as I look back over our relationship I have come to the painful realization that I have always loved you more.

Ten years ago we had a discussion where I expressed my disappointments in the type of father you had been.  In that very same discussion you detailed your misconceptions of your role and what you thought I needed.  I assumed that at that point we’d reached a middle ground of understanding of what I needed and what you’d try to be.  Since we could not rewind time I was content to start constructing a relationship with you from that moment — a 26 year old woman and her 47 year old father.  Unfortunately, despite our meeting of the minds on that humid summer afternoon, our rapport remained one-sided; me chasing you while you remained stubbornly fixed.

I’ve accepted this uneven exchange because I didn’t want to be deemed a bad daughter.  The societal rule is, no matter what your parents do they deserve your love, reverence and utmost consideration simply because they “gave you life.”  I’ve always found this rule odd since parentage is as much a “random coincidence” as any other mystery of life, but I still adhered to it because certain “habits” are hard to break.  Looking at our relationship a bit more logically now, I’ve come to the point where I am tired of respecting you as my parent while getting the shaft as your child. I’m tired of making allowances for “how you are” while I’m perpetually denied what I need from our connection.  I can no longer continue to give while you greedily receive and refuse to return the favour.

I am not a person of hypocritical values. I try my very best to let my actions match my words across the board with very little exception.  But when I consider the idea that I would not accept the same continual disregard from any other man in my life that I accept from you, I could not help but see myself as anything else but a hypocrite.  Although you make a big deal about me being your “grown child”, the fact is I am still your offspring and there are still things I expect, and deserve from our relationship.  I expect emotional support, encouragement and a feeling that I am just as important to you as you are to me.  I deserve as much as your child and as a woman, and I refuse to settle for anything less any longer.

To make a long story short, Dad, because history has shown you are not going to change, this “letter” is simply a statement of my release of my expectation that you change as well as the burden I feel to keep up our relationship on my own.  Part of the lesson of growing up is learning that you must accept people how they are, as they are.  I’ve done that with you.  I have made every attempt to be reasonable, considering the fact that like me you are dealing with your own deep issues, trying to reconcile the type of father you wanted to be with the type of father you’d grown up with.  But at the same time, I have had to be mindful that in order to make my life a fulfilling existence, I must set certain standards for what I will and won’t allow myself to give energy to.  Chasing you will have to be one of those things that no longer receives my energy.

Because I love you, I wish you nothing but the best for the rest of your days.  I pray you rebound from your recent health issues, and I pray that some day very soon you’ll see fit to meet me halfway so that we can cultivate some sort of mutually beneficial relationship.  But for right now, for my emotional well-being and sanity, I have got to walk away.  Hopefully one day you’ll fully understand.

Love Always,

Angela Michelle

Comments (0)

By mmichelle, 2010/02/15 08:26

1. NBA All-Star Game and the Olympics Opening Ceremony on the same night?  What genius thought this up?

2. This is most definitely the weakest dunk contest EVER!

3. OOOOOOOOOOOO’ Caaaaaaaaaanadaaaaaaaaaaa… My Home and Native Laaaaaaaaaand…

4. Me thinks NBC is being a bit asshole-ish with only granting cameos to Team USA.  There are other countries competing, ya know.

5. OHWOOOOOOOW!  Did ya’ll see the whales and the spouting from the floor and and the skiiers and the K.D. Lang?

6. Why shouldn’t you totally rely on modern technology?  The Olympic Winter Game Torch Debacle, that’s why.

7. For the record… You can not compare Vancouver’s opening ceremony to Beijing’s.  Two different countries, two different industries, two different Olympic Games.  Vancouver did what it could with what it had and what it had was spectacular on its own merit.

8. When and why the hell did they start including “O’ Canada” in the All-Star opening?

9. Is it just me or does the All-Star game seem to lose its zeal every year?

10. OHMYDAMN!!!  Who the hell dressed Turtle Boy?  Told him not to mess around with that old lady.

11. OHMYDAMN!!!  What’s wrong with Alicia’s voice?  Did she have too much to drink the night before or did Swizz give her throat cooties?

12. Yeah, the East won.  Woo, woo, woo.  Not like it was a real game or it means anything.

13. I am never watching a major television event without Twitter ever again!  ”The breastplate of righteousness.”  ”How to sleep with a married man.”  ”Bosh is an Avatar.” I.  Can’t.  Breeeeeeeeeeathe! *lol*

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*NOTE: The Baker’s Dozen was developed from a meme for a Vox Group by JustSayKB.  The object is, come up with 12 thoughts/quotes/link/whatever and one photo (it can be one that you take personally or a Net find) that best describes your weekend.  I’ve expanded it to 13 to represent a true baker’s dozen, but that’s just cause I’m anal about stuff like that. *lol*

Blessed Be…

M. Michelle, who really, really, really misses Canada and can’t wait for curling to start.