To My Father's Middle-Daughter,
Thank you so much for disturbing my peace the other day, it's always such a pleasure to hear from you and be ragged to a point of vexation that fires hours-long rotations of drill stem biting deeper into my already fragile core and sending up viscous and acidic mud returns showing colours of loathing, anger, bitterness and delicious homicidal phantasies. I can spud that hole just fine on my own and don't need a resurrected sisterhood gumming up the works and causing a blow-out. Consider yourself cut, capped, and cemented in the anulous cavity of some drilled and abandoned piping routed to my pay zone.
You got daddy issues; I have daddy issues; we all six of us kids have daddy issues and for good, bad, and ugly, all bear the taint of his struggles and choices and I'm sorry for all the harms and grief he left behind but have long since dropped the share of his load stowed in my baggage and you too, need to ease the load laid upon you.
Do you love our father so much as to follow in his wake and die of regret and cheap hooch? Or, is it self-destruction birthed of what he became, what he did, how he died which drives you to drink yourself to death between chanel surfing and hooking up with f*ck-buddies who treat you like a door mat?
And, you've got Big Sister issues too, my teenage life choices grievously wounding and affecting your growth and development in a less than positive way. You need to let that shit go too, sis; there's nearly forty years between now and when I spun Blondie LPs on the turntable and then one day walked out the door and went solo. Let's laugh and share good réminiscences of those innocent days of childhood instead of you trippin' on me for never returning home again. It is what it was.
It's not like I left you you all by your lonesome and then did the cha-cha through the White Pass of Life. You grew up in a nice house in a nice neighborhood with four other siblings and a set of parents; I grew up waiting tables at a trucker joint in Lloyd, so, hey, f*ck your need for explanation and apology for what I did at the age of 16 and I'm not doing pennance in pilgrimage to the land of my birth to act in your Life with Sister scence.
Do you actually read and comprehend anything I tell you or do you only check your phone the morning after for drunk texts and just scroll on by?
So, like besides PTSD and a nice selection of comorbidites, I have dogs, cats, and have spent the last dozen plus years working in the Patch and living bush life out here. I'm having a hard enough time reintegrating and assimilating on my own turf, how you figure a bunny like me is going to stay off the Crazy Train by moving to Gotham, man?
The critters and I have travelled some hard miles on nasty-ass roads together to get here, and here is where we'll stay and rebuild. If I go down, I'm going Viking style, sister of mine, and have already begun torching funeral pyres of unresolved issues, relationships, conflicts, questions, and quests, and while fire continues to snap, crackle, pop and incinerate that waste, I'm going to make like Malcolm and cause some noise and fight to right a Sister's wrongs and right now you ain't fit to dance, Baby Girl, you got your head on all wrong still. Crank some Rehab and dry the f*ck out, that blurred vision of yours is likely caused by viewing life through the thick bottom end of a deep rose coloured happy ever after glass.
Controlling demons can be a hard-fought life-long battle but one has only two options: victory or death.
Don a pair of Spartan undies and read again of Edmund Dantes or Netflix some "Apocalypse Now", whatever it takes to kindle some spirit and realign and reframe your vision and then we can talk again but am currently feeling neither obliged or willing to ride shotgun on that trip, this right here, right now, is where I get off the highway. Roger that?
