Dinner Doggies

Welcome to a Secret Subject Swap. This week 7 brave bloggers picked a secret subject for someone else and were assigned a secret subject to interpret in their own style. Today we are all simultaneously divulging our topics and submitting our posts.

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I didn't have the best childhood. It wasn't easy by any means. There were a lot of drugs, a lot of alcohol, a lot of abuse. We were fairly poor, always struggling, and I had so much anger for so long, so much resentment, that I didn't get to have a "normal" childhood. I didn't get innocence and sleepovers and the warmth of those memories. I couldn't even remember a lot of things beyond a few fuzzy and painful events I'd rather not have retained to be honest. There are entire years that seem missing.

Lots of people have decided for me that those memories are repressed and that I need repressed memory therapy--that 80s craze that took the U.S. by storm right alongside Satanic Panic--but all that has been debunked multiple times over. The truth of the matter is that my brain was in flight or fight mode so often, things often didn't stick. When those parts of your brain are activated to help you process a situation and make quick decisions, memory suffers. Self preservation processes take precedence over making it a memory.

Unless I was actually smiling and enjoying myself away from my parents, I don't remember much, and I'm okay with that. I don't have to remember to be whole. I don't need those memories to work through my shit. I've done so without them. And--MOSTLY--gotten over the resentment.

But boy do I remember the things that got me through. Toys, a few shows, movies, games...anything that helped keep me grounded or let me soar.

One of my best escapes was books because we were in such a rural area that cable was never an option, and we only had a super small collection of movies (most that we did watch were rented). I read a book a day at least more often than not...sometimes while hiding out in my closet or outside under a tree picking ants off my socks. I read to leave home, to be free, to live a better, easier, funnier, whackier, warmer life built by someone else's words in my own imagination. Or sometimes my own words. I started writing my own stories in grade school-- ghost stories scarier than my own life obviously with some cuddly cute cats thrown in the mix. I often went for the dark side. If it was weird or scary, I wanted to read it. I started Dean Koontz (who I never much liked) and Stephen King by 6th grade. There were entire worlds of spooky shit built in my head because it gave me something to be afraid of that I had chosen. It wasn't a ranting and raving high person who was supposed to love me and take care of me making my heart race in fear; it was a make-believe monster not a real one. I had control over it. I could put the book down. I could turn the lights on or hide under the covers or fling the book across the room. I wasn't beholden to that fear the way I had to be at home. The devil you know...

None of those make for good dinner guests though. Stephen King characters? Nah. I mean, I guess some people have a Pennywise fetish since Bill Skarsgard played IT, but that ain't me. We ain't having that man over for dinner and hoping things get freaky...well. freakier.  I have my likes but uh...we're just gonna move on.

One of my favorite set of memories is playing "airplane" with my little brother. We'd drag out these cheap little sleeping bags we had into the middle of his bedroom floor, open them completely, and spread them out. We'd have "seats" set up like they were on the aisles of the plane, and and put some of our toys in to fill up the plane. Then one of us would fly and one would be on the plane ride. We'd go anywhere in the world we wanted certainly away from home and the pain we had there. And our in-flight movie would always be Scooby Doo Meets the Boo Brothers.

By no means was this particular movie relegated to just fake flights. We had it on VHS and literally wore it out. There was one scene in particular where Scooby fell out of Shaggy's jeep (it was just Shaggy, Scooby, and Scrappy in this one not the whole gang and mystery machine) into a puddle and jumps up chewing his nails and freaking out (and makes a noise very much like my Dane now makes when he gets a scare) and we'd howl in giggles until we hurt and rewind it to do it again. It was just our thing. And to be honest, it's still something I run to when I need a pick me up, when I'm really sick, or when I need to decompress. It's been a favorite for nearly all my life.

My great Dane and Scooby would eat and drool and be very much like Scooby-Dum, Scooby's cousin, and Scooby when they had a reunion--two goofballs being absolutely clumsy and full of love. And okay maybe a little bit dumb too but I do have to say great danes are really smart dogs despite how often they trip over their own feet and look like they're completely clueless. Scrappy would probably join in the fun but try to be the Boss like it always is with smaller dogs and giant ones. The new, tiny dog we have now that I wrote about last month is absolutely the Boss of this house.

But since me and Shaggy go way back, I imagine we'd get a little high (y'all know Shaggy be smoking weed), snack, and listen to some of my vinyl records while he was super awkward. I say that like I wouldn't be. I'm always super awkward.

Sounds like a perfect evening. And very possible we wouldn't even have to have a monster-free night given my company. There's always some rich guy in a Creeper mask waiting to steal a fortune right?

Oh how much that applies.

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Here are links to all the sites now featuring Secret Subject Swap posts.  Sit back, grab a cup, and check them all out. See you there:

Baking In A Tornado                  https://www.bakinginatornado.com/2020/03/remember-when-secret-subject-swap.html

Spatulas on Parade                    https://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com

Wandering Web Designer             https://wanderingwebdesigner.com/blog

Part-time Working Hockey Mom    https://thethreegerbers.blogspot.com/2020/03/secret-subject-swap-ireland.html

A ‘lil HooHaa                             https://hoohaa.com/?p=14739

Southern Belle Charm                     https://www.southernbellecharm.com

Sunday Confession: Dear X Love

Today’s Sunday Confession is about Dear X Love. It was open for our interpretation which means it is not necessarily an open letter to an X. Mine is not. It’s a letter to my childhood self. I’m not that same girl anymore. It’s an ex-me. A former me. Even though I never really succeeded in loving myself during that time in my life, I tried to, so I think this is still fitting.


Dear child-me,

You’re beautiful.

No one ever tells you that, but I know from experience that you need to hear it. All the times your daddy has called you “fatty,” “Crisco,” and “lardass” have already made you start hating the way you look even as a young girl, and let me be the one to tell you that none of those names are true. You’re not a fatty or a lardass, Jenniy. You’re a normally developing girl. Nothing is wrong with your weight or the way you look, but there is most definitely something wrong with a parent who will constantly put down his own child to the point where she wonders if he even knows her real name. You wonder that don’t you--whether he has any idea that your name is something other than Crisco? I don’t know why I’m asking. I already know the answer to that question. There’s something wrong with a man who sees you walking through the house, a normal 10 year old girl, and drunkenly sings: Fatty, fatty two by four. Can’t get through the bathroom door before erupting into maniacal cackles. There’s something wrong with grandparents who tell you to eat then tell you to diet. There’s something wrong with a family who tears you down at every turn without ever building you up. They’re the ones who are fucked up. It’s not you. You’re not the one with a personality disorder. You’re not the one who lives for emotional denigration. It’s not you; it’s them. That’s a promise.

As you get older, everyone will tell you that it’s not what you look like anyway and that it’s about what’s on the inside. But, you know, we know, that’s not entirely true. It’s good to be beautiful on the inside and important, but the hard truth is that what you look like does matter to people. You’ll learn that along the way. People do care. People do make a big deal about it. And, people will miss out on getting to know you because of your appearance. I just want you to understand that it’s not because you’re ugly or repulsive. You’re you and you express you in ways people don’t understand. They’re not getting past the way you express yourself to notice that you are, in fact, actually a pretty girl both inside and out. People aren’t getting passed how you choose to look to investigate more about what’s under the makeup and running through your mind.

In the end, though, people will see it, and they’ll tell you all the time, but after so many years of bullshit, you won’t be able to take the compliments to heart. How’s that for fucking irony?

It’ll get better eventually. I promise. That’s where we’re at right now…the getting better part. It’s not easy, but it’s worth the work. We’re worth the work, and that’s why this needed to be said.

It’s not about how much you weigh, what dress size you wear, or even your actual physical features. You can be beautiful at any size, and you will find things about yourself that you love and hate….just like anyone else.

I just want you to know that you’re brave. You’re stronger than you realize. You’re tough, and you’re too smart for your own good (if that’s even possible). People are going to hurt you over and over again--not in relationships as that is to be expected, but your friends and family will (especially family). You know that all too well already, but you don’t deserve any of it. You didn’t do anything to make this happen. You’re not to blame.

And, I want you to know this above all else:

You’re going to be just fine.

Love,

j

Sunday Confession: I'm a Little Stormy

In March of 2006, I received a call I was in no way prepared for. My father called to tell me he had been diagnosed with cancer.

At the time, I really didn’t have much of a relationship with the man, and I had no idea what I was supposed to feel. There was dread, sure. But, there was also a numbness that had always been a part of the way I thought and felt about him. My father, you see, was not exactly what anyone would consider a great father. The man’s nickname was Stormy and stormy-tempered he was. That might have been, in part, due to the alcohol and drug use, but it was also just part of who he was. I know this because I have a short fuse myself that I constantly have to keep check on. It's hereditary. My brother's the same way.

In the weeks that followed that first phone call, we all learned that it was renal cell carcinoma; that there was a softball size tumor on one kidney; that it had already metastasized to other organs including the brain; and that without treatment, he might live two weeks while with treatment, he would have maybe six months.

Over the course of that 6 months, we spent some time together. I let him play with my son, his grandson, and I tried to find some forgiveness…to reconcile before the cancer won in the battle for his life.

I tried to forgive the times he called me lardass, dummy, and Crisco when I was an intelligent, normal-sized child.

I tried to forgive the nights I was scared for him to come home, the nights I was so quiet so maybe he would forget I existed and leave me alone.

I wanted to forgive him for not being able to let go of the drugs and the drinking so his children could have some semblance of a normal life.

I needed to forgive him for all the hurt, physical and mental, that he caused to me, my mom, and my brother.

But, it just didn’t happen. Even in the end, when he was too sick to talk anymore and he grabbed the phone to kiss it when I called because he couldn’t tell me anymore that he loved me, I still could not make that reconciliation happen in my heart. Even after it was over—after he was buried on my birthday that year, September 26, 2006, almost 6 months to the day after his diagnosis—I still couldn’t let go.

At the time, I had been reading Lisey’s Story by Stephen King. It was a story I could really relate to because of the theme of child abuse and how the character in the novel would travel to another world to escape that abuse. Because it was King, the kid actually traveled to some other realm, but for me, my escape was books. I would read to get away…a different book every day. I thought it was fitting to get the cover of that novel tattooed on my arm as my badge of courage for making it through such a shitty, scary situation, but even that didn’t help get me closure despite the fact that I included the cross from that cover for my father.

There was nothing I could do to force it. That’s what I didn’t realize. I was trying to make myself okay with everything that happened to make my childhood something out of a Lifetime movie, and I couldn’t. I pushed it to the backburner for awhile and moved on or thought I moved on at least. It was then, during that period, that I really began to find myself and figure myself out. It was then that I embarked on a musical evolution and began to find music that brought me peace once again after a bit of a hiatus. Music—music I like anyway--is my Xanax, Prosac, Zoloft. It elevates my moods. Harmonizes my emotions. Frees my spirit. It makes me more social, gives me goosebumps, and clears my mind of all the clutter of the day. Somewhere along my evolutionary road, I began to realize that Dad taught me all that. I can picture him clearly singing along to Don Henley's (from The Eagles) The Heart of the Matter. "I've been trying to get down to the heart of the matter. But my will gets weak and my thoughts seem to scatter. But I think it's about forgiveness. Forgiveness. Even if, even if you don't love me anymore." He'd turn it up on that part when he'd have company over and tell them to listen to that shit closely. It's a decent sad-old-bastard song. I can still sing along to most of it even now. It wasn’t just that one, though. It was so many songs, so many sounds and genres and bands. He loved, breathed, needed, lived for music.

He introduced me to some greats. Janis, Jimi, the Allman Brothers, the Stones, Zeppelin, Cream, Derek & the Dominoes, The Doobie Brothers, Charlie Daniels, Hank Williams, Waylon Jennings and more, more, more. Dad knew his shit, and it makes me smile to think back to him laughing, smiling, even tearing up over songs. I got my love of sharing music from him, too. I don't remember much about growing up....side effect of the childhood I had...but I do remember him making people listen to the different songs he loved and keying them in on the best parts while they had their drinks and whatever else may have been on the menu that day.

The realization that Dad taught me how to love music and really open myself up to it led me further. I got a lot from the old man; I’d just never been able to see it before. He gave me my openness, quick intelligence (he was a human calculator, no lie), my ability to speak my mind without fear, and my rebellious, non-conformist attitude—you should see pics of him in the 70s. All in all, so much of what I love about myself came from the person who also put me through hell growing up. Eventually, I saw the balance in things. He wouldn’t win a Father of the Year award, but he helped shaped me into the person I am today and in his own way, as evidenced by the kisses on the phone if nothing else, he did love me.

Dad,

I would be much less of a woman if it weren't for you teaching me how much music could mean...how much it could move you and connect you to others. Thank you. It is about forgiveness, isn't it? I love you, you crazy sonofabitch.

always,

j