Dear Dad (Thoughts on building a relationship with my dad in adulthood.)

Dear Dad,

I called you last week to vent about picking up my sons medication. You calmly talked me down from the cliff of despair. Being who you are I don’t know how you do it. Talk calmly to me when I feel like a mess of a human being. I’m not always a mess dad, but I feel like one sometimes because I’m learning to be a parent. Even though its water under the bridge I get sad sometimes because you are being more of a dad now than when I needed you the most.

I still get sad on Father’s Day when women share stories of times their fathers spent with them. Not that you didn’t spend the odd time with me. We had Taco Bell and the Monkey Forrest. We had the weird shop of your friends who sold interesting things like taro cards and a homey smell of sandalwood. There were times of listening to music which created my love for Rob Zombie and Smashing Pumpkins. The moments we had spent together were fine because it helped shape my interest. Some Fathers go fishing and camping trips but ours was outings. I think the main part of hearing stories of fathers who would do anything for their daughters is that it’s not our relationship. I don’t know if it ever will be. That’s ok though because in the last couple of years you have gained my respect.

Sometimes I struggle with your fear of my special needs child. You don’t say it out loud however some slight comments make me worried. Yes, your grandson has Autism and Juvenile Arthritis. Is it terrifying? Absolutely, I’m terrified of it too. My terrified is different because I feel like a failure when it comes to helping my child with disabilities. That’s why I try to call you because possibly, you would be able to treat me like a normal person. You see, when you’re a special needs parent your either treated like a superhero or your treated with apologies. What people forget to treat a special needs parent is with empathy and understanding that we love our kids but sometimes it’s a blurred line with doctors, medications, therapist, and school. I value you Dad, for putting words to my feelings, and I know I complain a fair bit when I get frustrated about the whole situation. Please don’t be scared of your grandson and please see the little boy that he is. He’s neurotypical and complex, but he is loving and intelligent. Creative and filled with brilliant ideas far beyond his time. You have only met him twice and you have not met your other grandson; but I think if you give them a chance to know them, you would see the parts of you in there too.

I know I was complicated much like my son, and that was terrifying for you. You were not ready for me when I was born. I get that because I had my oldest at nineteen and you were in your twenties. Here’s the thing even though I wasn’t ready I still try to be there for my kids. You did get better with my sisters and you learned to be a dad to them. I remember somebody once asked me how mad I felt that you learned to be a dad to someone else. Feeling mad is not how I would describe it. I do feel pride for you because you still grew as a person. You keep growing and I see the changes you have made in the last ten years. In ten years I have seen you as a lost person, and now I see you as a strong human being. Hearing you say that you found a new job or did something exciting makes me feel like you are finally where you need to be.

What I really want to say to you and I struggle to say it sometimes, I’m happier now knowing you than when I knew you as a kid. I’m not angry at you anymore because the dad I get now is a good dad who is trying. Giving a second chance wasn’t easy to do but I’m happy I didn’t walk away from you and we still found a way to communicate. Please don’t give up on me because I don’t want to give up on you.

I love you Dad,

Ali Johnson

There is no manual in abuse

my grandfather was sick I got the call last Monday. I thought things would be ok and hope for the best. The sinking feeling in my stomach was call him. The other side of me struggled to bring myself too it.

I called today: I rang the familiar number that never changes. The pit in my stomach grew larger and the wave of unrefined anger rushed out. I hate calling that number and I would hate it even more if she answered. Reminding myself it’s only for my grandfather and I did not have to speak with the demon. His voice answered, and then he didn’t understand whose voice it was. I felt the pang of guilt for walking away when I did. Not only did I leave her I left him behind too. I still feel it was the right thing to do.

We tried small chit-chat about his health. You could cut the tension with a knife it was awkward. I’m still angry as he is still angry. There’s no upside to this pent-up anger. There’s no manual to abusive childhoods and how you supposed to feel. He asked me about my kids and I tried to give small answers. I protect my children at all cost and I feel deep down the devil should never know them. She had us as kids and what she did was unforgivable. I vowed to never let them go through that. I wish I could share the love of my kids with him but there’s one person who stops that.

The line came up asking why I never call. I said I wish to not speak to Laurie. Sickening to even give her name. In the cliché of flying monkey conversation he said if you are mad at her then you might as well be mad at me too.” In the manual of abuse this means I will stand blind to your abuser and not acknowledge what she did. How can someone stand behind what she did? She drugged, lied, hurt, and destroyed the minds of innocent children. She created monsters in their heads. The manual doesn’t cover that abuse wounds never heal properly. They only grow larger and deeper.

He then asked about my dad and my other grandparents with spite. I was so internally angry because my other family are trying. This long battle between them should be put to rest. My grandfather stated he leaves him alone, and they leave him alone and that’s the way he likes it. There is an unspoken dialogue hanging in the air about a battle no one won. The devil tried so hard to destroy their spirit and lie about the truth. She tried to brainwash a child into hating people. It didn’t work and the dirt on everyone’s knees never came clean.

There is no manual to how I feel right now. There’s no book that can teach me the zen of blocking it out. I walked away long ago and I never looked back. Calling in today was not an olive branch. I froze when I really wanted to say my peace. The anger I feel is fire and I really want to douse it with water. There’s no manual, no rules, no truth to it all. I cannot understand how one path in life could be damming when everything else falls in place.

Written by Ali Johnson

The Spirited Child and Her Chrysalis

I was a spirited child when I was younger and it was slowly taken away by somebody who wanted control. My childhood was stolen same as my mind and my body. Looking back I think little pieces were broken off until I was small inside. I will never understand how so many people could do what they did and still sleep at night feeling no pain. Laying restless often I don’t wish pain on them, but sometimes I wish they felt the way I feel in the darkness and the fuzz of the past.

I loved colours, I loved stories, I absolutely loved animals, and I loved smells. My favourite smell was electricity in the air right before a storm. Feeling the small buzz on the skin I could always tell when it would rain down and the calmness it left in the soul. I loved the lady bugs and their bright red shell on their tiny immaculate bodies. My mind was great but it was also drugged into mindlessness. You couldn’t tell on the surface but I felt it. I felt everything and I felt small much like the lady bug.

Photo by Egor Kamelev on Pexels.com

A bee is a small insect with fuzzy bodies. They are busy but effective little creatures. The sound they make is exquisite. I was six years old when I imagined being a tiny honey bee flying away to a hive to produce something new. Watching the bees collect pollen from flower to flower care free but with so much to do. I was six years old when my mom came back and got in a fight for a reason I don’t remember. Six year old me was being watched by a man named Derrick we called him uncle. Tiny honey bee is what I wanted to be in the basement being watched by a monster named Derrick. I left in my mind to smell the dandelions the honey bee and I loved so much. Six year old me would soon be put on several drugs from Derricks mother, my foster grandmother.

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The cricket is a musical instrument. It rubs its legs together to make a chirping sound. If you sit still in a field, you can hear the cricket orchestra sing loudly with pride. For a tiny bug it has a mighty strong song. I would think of crickets while my grandmother would lie about my intelligence to the doctor that never asked if it was true. Fielding the cricket song as she claimed I was angry and out of control. I danced to crickets in my head as children called my Ritalin; I was but the blue pill being put into my body, my mind was not mine to have. Three pills each for ADHD, FASD, and psychosis. I heard crickets when the test proved that only one of these were accurate. I have ADHD but the lied continued to be carried out by a mentally sick woman. There’s a tinge of sadness to the cricket’s song: partly due to it being so quiet on its own. It’s a lonely song to play when people don’t listen fully to the orchestra of the cricket.

Photo by Johnny Mckane on Pexels.com

Most people are afraid of spiders when really they are surprising creatures. Some are harmless while others carry a deadly poison. No spider web has the same web, however like humans the spider comes in all forms, and designs their creations. I admire the spider because the black widow represents the deadly creature of abusive parents like my mother and grandmother. One bite and it’s fatal for the prey. If you get a daddy long legs, you will have an innocent spider who only eats mosquitoes. They look scary, but they have a romantic notion to protect the home they inhabit. When my grandmother chose to take my siblings and me away for a while, I would find daddy long legs and watch it climb high on the walls. She hid us from our grandfather and any one looking for us kids. The black widow didn’t care how much poison she spread, only if she could spread it on her terms. The dadddy long legs undaunted by the black widow climbed high to live another day.

photo by Robsatski

Bugs are amazing creatures. They hold incredible senses beyond what someone sees and hears. I wished as a child to be a bug and be able to live life with purpose. Much like a bug somebody bigger could come around and squish you like it didn’t matter. I felt squished and the people who did it just kept going. How can a tiny creature with offerings of greatness and intrigue be killed by a thoughtless act and have it continue with no consequence? If I had a time machine I would watch the bugs with tiny me and show her she was just as strong as the bugs she seen in her mind. I would lead her to the chrysalis and tell her butterflies are the change of spirit she should love one day.

Photo by Alina Vilchenko on Pexels.com

Written by Ali Johnson

I’m The Least Sexy (Blogs of Motherhood)

My husband recently said that hes been trying to romance me and i’m not reciprocating it. Its a fair statement on his part but I wish he would understand why I’m not in the mood. It’s not his fault but at the same time I wish he would see I’m at my least sexy I’ve ever been.

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This conversation of being romantic threw me mentally. I used to be a sex craved monster. I loved it every single inch of my body and my thrilling adventures exploring. The appeal the cat and mouse chase all of it I thrived in being sexy. Then came along mother hood. I love being a mom, however I’m not thriving in wanting any human contact at the end of the night. I replaced my need to have nightly booty calls with just needing space and my cats. Mother hood has fried my brains and made any touch of the skin after nine pm feel like needles.

Mother hood photo

I used to go five rounds a night followed with a morning of breakfast in my underwear. Now my morning consist of me wearing day old sweat pants or black leggings and a bra of five years ago. I used to stand at my counter pre kid era and eat with grace by plating my new recipe, until recent my plating consist of whatever quick breakfast my kids like. Some days I don’t get to eat until supper time. My conversations with my husband before kids had substance. we could hold a conversation and it meant something to me and to him. We had time for sexy conversations not conversations about if today will be the day our three year old will poop on the potty. I feel like our conversations are either about work or about kids. The sexy substance of wooing my partner have been far and few between. Even our text messages are consisting of doctors appointments for our child with disabilities or mile stones for our toddler. Most of them are now are we going to the in laws for dinner. Then during the day; now that i’m back to being a stay at home mom I am having kid conversations all day. I’m talked about at nine in the evening because I have talked about trucks and Pokemon.

Photo by Dustin Tray on Pexels.com How my mind feels when my husband says lets talk at night.

I’m mentally and physically exhausted from being a stay at home mom. If i’m not being a referee of two boys, i’m negotiating the use of a toilet. I’m not sexy when I have peanut butter hand prints crawling up my pants. My sexy is depleted in this gross mom bun on top of my head with my hours old coffee mug firmly gripped in my hand. My thoughts to my husband are that I’m not sexy because I just clogged the toilet twice and changed kitty litter while singing the potty song. Everything is mess or tears or just chaotic energy. Then by supper is the witching hour our kids go insane. Bonkers completely bat shit crazy. If I’m lucky and your home on time I might get fifteen minutes to breath before we do supper and bedtime. I’m not mentally all there for my partner during this time. I feel like I tap out and just want some space.

It’s not his fault and I know it’s my fault to not put the time into romance. It’s hard to be that sexy woman I once was. He once was my soul and my time. Then we had two boys who have needs beyond the bed sheets of privacy. My dignity went out the door the minute I pushed out those sweet little boys. I cant look downstairs and the parts of me that used to have the most fun. Looking at my body I want to cry, I don’t understand how my husband can find it sexy. It’s wrinkly in the tummy from our last, my boobs sag, and I don’t look like the woman he once caressed for hours on end. As many times as I try to feel like a goddess I feel depleted. I don’t know who I am right now and I cant out think how any one would want me.

Trying to come to terms with how I look

It’s not easy being a mom and a partner. I’m battling with more than my husband knows. In my mind I’m not attractive. I feel gross and mentally I feel loopy. I’m not me, the me that is attractive is someone who likes themselves enough to give a piece of it out. I want to give the time to my partner because he deserves it. The human contact we all need. He deserves to be shown how much I love and appreciate him. I wish I could get out of this mom funk and out of my own brain to give him what he wants. It could be so easy yet it seems so far out of reach. Right now I’m at the least sexy I’ve ever been.

Written by Ali Johnson