Tag Archives: personal

There’s a dog in my life

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There’s a dog in my life who came by way of his own trauma. Thurman is a Maltese who spent the first 7 years of his life in a cage breeding. His hair fell out from neglect, and when the owners took him to the vet the vet took Thurman from them and placed him in rescue. When I heard that story I remember thinking I wish I had a vet who would have told my parents you’re unfit I’m taking this child from you because that’s essentially what happened to Thurman. 

Thurman languished in foster care because his hair took some time to grow back, and he was extremely aloof. He’s not the kind of dog that cuddles or licks people. We took one look at him, and we told his foster mom, “Oh we understand his situation, we’re happy to have him.” And true to form, he ignored us for months. He would just eat, potty, and sleep and give us sideways suspicious glances. It was cool to see him discover blankets and sheets and comfort. Though he didn’t like us seeing him bask in comfort. If Thurman saw us glancing at him while he rubbbed his face in the blanket he would stop and I swear he would look a little embarrassed. 

If you pet him too long, or heaven forbid, if Letty hugs him too long, he takes off. And forget having him cuddle with you or even nestle into you. That was just not something in the cards for him, until it was. We got him December 2019, right before COVID. For all those years he never came to me or snuggled with me until that Saturday last month when the first memories fell out of my brain. 

That Saturday night I was on the couch crying when Thurman got up from his corner of the couch, climbed on top of me, and then just settled into me like it was something he did every night. I was so in my own hellspace that I hardly noticed it. In fact, my wife brought my attention to it by her own reaction, “The dog, baby! He knows you need comfort. Look at that!” In my own fuzzy universe I finally truly felt Thurman on me. And you would think my reaction would be something like, “Oh Thurman, I love you, too.” Instead, I remember thinking to myself, “Really, Thurman, now I’m going to remember this moment together with one of the worst moments of my life.” 

And sure enough this morning I found him cuddled up next to me on the bed, and I had a moment of joy followed by sadness that just sticks and doesn’t let go, and I think it’s going to be that way for a long time.

Maybe sometimes it’s better not to know

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I now know what I didn’t know last Saturday before noon. I know so much more, and yet I know I probably know only a small window, but that small window is plenty to hurt the heart. I came to this dissociation journey with parts first, and just hazy memories that really didn’t compute for me how they led to the parts I have. When the question would come up if I am a survivor, I would say, “I guess?” in that not so sure, questiony, wishy washy answer that would annoy me because it’s not like me to be wishy washy with answers.

And the memories keep coming like a flood, a freight train. So much crying and so much pretending. Pretending because I have to work. Thank god for remote work. Thank god for parts. I’ll cry, and then my part that loves to work will emerge like magic for a meeting. Then, when it’s done, we’ll cry for a spell. I’m thankful that I’m not called upon all too often for a sudden or unplanned need for an on-camera meeting. Usually, if something comes up, I just get a Teams message. I can read a Team message through tears. Sure, I welcome work distractions while my brain is flooded with images. For a spot of time, I can pretend I don’t have images in my head, and I can work on something someone needs from me.

On a good day, my work part will completely take over, and I’ll feel like I can do anything because this part is, quite frankly, awesomely confident and unflappable. I have a new therapist, and he called me this week on one of those good days. He caught on right away that a different part was talking to him on the phone. He said, “Hmmm, who am I speaking with?” The next day he said to me, “She’s so articulate!” I said, “Yes, I wish she was here all the time.”

I’ll get a respite from the memories, and I’ll mistakenly think it’s over. And I’ll feel almost like myself again. But, it’s a trick. They come back. I asked my wife, “Do you think it’s over? That’s it?” She just looked at me with so much love, and I don’t remember what she said, but I know it was an answer I didn’t want to hear. And, yes, later that same day the memories were back, like they never left.

I thought, wrongly, that I knew all there was to know about that place and time. After all, I knew what I knew, and nothing more.

The earliest defining moment

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Today at work we were asked to talk about our most defining moment. We ran out of time, which meant that everyone was not able to present, including me. But it got me thinking for the remainder of the day. I was grateful for the reprieve because I’m not sure how much I would share. Hours later, it’s still on my mind, probably because I’ve not given it this much thought in a long while.

My first defining moment was the loss of my father in my life. And it was a long goodbye with him in and out of my life for at least a couple of years before he was out of my life for good. His entanglements with alcohol and crime made a few unwelcome appearances in my childhood before it was exit stage left for decades. However, in his absence he lived very vividly in my imagination and dreams. I dreamed of him coming back and rescuing me from my life with my mother and stepfather. I dreamed of him taking me to the library again, and going fishing together. I would day dream that he would suddenly show up at my high school graduation. All of this dreaming and imagining kept me from seeing the actual situation with my father-that he was not this person anymore. I unconsciously built walls in my awareness to not fully know how bad it was with my father. He had been the only safe parent for me, and then, even he became unsafe. I could not know this for decades. I think my heart could not handle it until I had my own sense of safety, and that would not come for decades.

When I was still living at home, some of my aunts and uncles would talk about my father occasionally, usually by mention of his latest stint in jail. I would immediately leave these conversations. I did not want to know anything about my father that had to do with any criminality. At the time, I could not have articulated why this was. Now I am aware that I did not have the wherewithal to know back then.

In my thirties I heard from my father when he was hospitalized and he thought he was near death. We talked on the phone for a long time, and that conversation was a dream come true. I had always imagined we would talk as adults and find similarities and we did! I learned he studied labor issues in third world Latin American countries in grad school in the 1970s. He learned I worked in labor and employment matters. We learned we both loved poetry and creative writing. I immediately started dreaming of being pen pals with my father, and visiting him in Texas every year if he made it out of the hospital. But he was still in active addiction. He didn’t find recovery once he left that hospital. And just like when I was a child, he proved to be unreliable. We would make plans to talk. but I would call him and he was already drunk. I thought the solution was to call him in the morning, but I still found him drunk in the early a.m.

I had to accept that my father was still an active alcoholic. I had to accept that the father I knew and had as a child was gone. That person was not coming back for any extended period of time. He could show up for a few minutes in a conversation, but that was it. I had to accept that my father was never going to be there for me because he cannot even be there for himself. Most importantly, I had to learn that I could love him from afar. I could love the memories of him and who he was for me at one time. But seeking it out was not going to bring it back. I had to bury that dream for good. The most important lesson I’ve learned from my father is acceptance. I have had to learn to accept the bad with the good in my life. I finally accept that it is not healthy for me engage with my father in any way, and I accept that it is likely we won’t ever speak again. I don’t love it, but I accept it. I recognize, finally, that there is nothing I can do to change him.