January 29, 2004 - 1:25 p.m.

Well it's day two of my little experiment and I must say, I still don't regret this. Which is odd because I'm such a private person. I plan to totally and completely be truthful with myself. I'm searching for the something that's missing in my life: myself. I lost myself a long time ago and I'm determined to find the real me. I don't think anyone really knows me, not my mom or husband or my friends. And I take total responsibility for that. I just don't trust anyone. There's so much about me that no one knows. I know to really understand me I'd have to start from the beginning. I believe firmly that everything that happens to you (good or bad) throughout your life totally effects you, whether you realize it or not.

My very first memory is of my father screaming in pain and I remember there was blood, lots of blood everywhere. My father worked on oil wells and late one night he had an accident on one and ended up hanging by a rope, hanging on for his life until someone helped him. I remember pulling up the oil well with my mother and seeing my dad run up to the car just screaming and screaming for my mom to help him. He had blood all over his arms and chest. It was so scary, I was around two or three years old then. My father ended up losing quite a few fingers and half of some other fingers. I think in the end he only had like two or three full fingers left. I just remember from then on thinking that life was cruel, it could deal you some bad hands.

But if you believe in karma (or just that everyone gets what they deserve), quite frankly, my dad had it coming. He did alot of bad things.

My dad was a normal guy who grew up to fast in a big town. He had a good family life (at least that's what I'm told). My grandma was very much the 'church-going' lady. His parents were married and in love. But one day, when my dad was sixteen he walked into a bar and saw the unthinkable. His father with another woman. As legend has it, that's when my dad snapped. And I can understand that. For someone who had had this 'perfect' life and then BAM, all of a sudden everything changes in the matter of a few seconds. From then on he became this crazy hell raiser. He got into drugs and alcohol and never got clean.

He married my mom years later, I think he was twenty-two and my mom was twenty. She got married one year, had me the next and was divorced the next. But she took him back. Why I don't know, but she did. My father was very much the 'absent father' (so yes, I have daddy issues). He was around when he wanted to be and gone when he didn't want to be. And when he would come home for about two or three days at a time he would usually greet my mother by beating the shit out of her. I remember thinking at a very early age that my dad might kill my mother. Which to me is just sick, why a four year old could comprehend that astounds me. I remember he would come home and just break everything. We were so fucking poor and he would come home and break everything we had, whatever was in his path. I would just hide cowering in my room, listening to my mom scream and plead with him to stop. I can still hear the screams, her begging. That's something that will never leave me, never. He was so drugged up and drunk it was sad. But he never hit me, never. Which is strange. I remember he would come home and tear the house down and then would ask me if I wanted to go and rent a movie. Sick, just sick.

But when I was eight my father was murdered. Someone shot him in the head and then stuck him in his truck in the woods and set the truck on fire. A few days later a hunter found him, it was around Thanksgiving. I didn't cry when I found out and I didn't cry at his funeral. I just remember being in shock. But also, I remember thinking "He can't hurt me anymore, he can't hurt my mom anymore." It's strange, the peace that came over me.

I don't know who killed him, I just know how. I've always thought that he owed someone a lot of money (possibly a drug dealer) or he pissed someone off and they killed him. Who knows.

It wasn't until eleven years after he had been dead that I visited his grave. I wasn't ready for it before that. I had been fighting alot of demons concerning my father and his death. But I did it. And if I'm being honest, I must admit I didn't know where his grave was. I knew about what area but when I got to the cemetary it took me a while to find it. It was a hot summer day, dry Texas weather. But when I found it I just freaked out. I was screaming through my tears. Even though he had done so many bad things to me, he was still my father. All my life I just wanted a father, someone to call daddy. But it wasn't in the cards for me, thus is life. You don't always get what you want. That moment was alot to take in. It hit me that my father was dead. Dead. I saw his tombstone. Death is harsh, it means that the person won't be coming back.

But since then I've come to terms with it. I'm still dealing with the typical abandonment issues and I probably will be my whole life. Why wasn't I enough to quit the drugs and alcohol abuse? Why wasn't I enough reason to quit all of that and lead a straight life? Some people just can't control themselves though. I realize that it's not my fault, the decisions he made. But that's that, that's my life. But in the end, I guess it just made me stronger. That's what the therapists and books tell me.


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