Fuck you

You fucking ruined me and I fucking hate you for it.

It’s supposed to be getting easier. It’s not. It only gets worse and fucking worse because I realize over and fucking over just how much you fucking ruined me. Every fucking day of my life I realize another way that you fucking destroyed me. Every moment that I walk around feeling 100% like I don’t belong ANYWHERE is because of you. Every time I overreact to someone telling me something is because of you. Every time I have to convince myself to say something to ANYONE that could hurt them or cause them distress it’s because of you.

You pretty much raised me to think that anything that’s ever happened to me is my fault. Either I did something wrong or I didn’t do it well enough or soon enough or fast enough. Everything. Every fucking moment there was something wrong. Nothing could just be good. Everything was always “Good, but…”

I’m afraid of the fucking world and I’m afraid of myself and it’s completely your fucking fault and you fucking won because there’s nothing that I can do about it. Therapy is great. Supposedly sometimes I’m better.

But I get NO fucking closure. None. And I’m so fucking mad at you for that.

Just writing this post is agonizing.

You fucked me up so good that even four years later, I am still afraid of offending or otherwise upsetting you.

I am eternally terrified of failure and it’s your fucking fault and I hate you so much for it.

You used to tell me to stop acting like I was afraid for the other shoe to drop when you were the one who fucking dropped the first one.

My life is one giant fucking gaslit lie. You managed to ruin me so much that I still believe and feel like everything that has every happened to me is my own fault. Fucking everything.

You fucking ruined me and I hate you so fucking much for it. I can’t even throw your fucking jar off of a cliff or in the ocean or down the toilet because thanks to you the idea of doing anything with your remains makes me feel guilty. Thanks to you I feel permanently required to keep your “legacy” alive and if I don’t? My fault. I fucked up.

I moved halfway across the fucking country to get away from you and you still managed to guilt me into coming back east despite the fact that you never ONCE visited me in Arizona. Not a single fucking time.

You were “obligated” to go see my cousins Bat Mitzvahs. Both of them. In California.

But not your own fucking daughter? Do you know how fucking worthless that still makes me feel? You fucking abandoned me. Fuck you for that, too.

I’m fucking middle-aged. I honestly didn’t even fucking know if that would happen or not because you managed to beat me down that fucking much. The fact that I lived this long is just some sort of dumb luck because I still didn’t do anything right.

You fucking ruined me and I hate you for it.

The only way I can be not afraid of pretty much everything is to lie to myself. You fucked me up so bad that you’re DEAD and I’m still completely fucking terrified of you.

Because of being terrified of upsetting you I’m afraid of pretty much everything now. Anything something goes wrong you are there in my mind telling me I deserved it. I either made bad decisions or I just didn’t try hard enough.

Because of being terrified of upsetting you I am terrified of upsetting EVERY OTHER FUCKING PERSON IN MY LIFE.

You fucking ruined me and I hate you so fucking much for it. I will never have more than a full day of feeling “good” because you’re there telling me what’s going to go wrong anyway.

You fucked me up so fucking bad that I’m terrified anytime anything goes really right because you’re telling me I don’t deserve it and it’s going to just go away like everything else and then I can’t enjoy anything because I’m terrified of losing it.

You made me hate my father.

You made me hate my brother.

You made me hate you. This is your fucking fault and I will NEVER fucking forgive you for it.

Another Year, Yay

This is the 3rd birthday you haven’t had since you died. This day pisses me off almost as much as the anniversary of when you died. We should be making plans for when you and Larry will drive up to eat to celebrate. I should be annoyed that I have to lose half a day for a breakfast.

All you had to do was stop fucking smoking.

I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you.

Salty About Stories

Husband and I were talking today about getting casts removed. The first thing I think of, of course, is your story of the guy who invented the special saw:

The guy who invented the saw that can remove a cast but not cut skin was friends with my grandparents (mother’s parents). One day he came over and demonstrated on a pillow and freaked Eleanor the hell out.

There is no doubt whatsoever that there is much more to that story. But…it’s probably gone. I have one relative to ask for details but I don’t expect a lot. That hasn’t worked much anymore.

I hate it. I hate that you worked so hard to separate us from the rest of the family that no one is around for me to ask. Countless stories, a few recipes, and the like.

It pisses me off. I don’t feel comfortable going to get what recipes are on paper/in books because you left your life partner just as fucking broken as you left me. I don’t speak to him that often because I’m still trying to help myself through the bullshit you caused, I don’t have the spoons to help with his, so it would literally feel like I was only talking to him for the recipes.

Also, the photos. You lost the key to the cabinet with the photos a few years before you even got sick. Apparently at some point after, you and/or your partner figured out that he could remove part of the back to get to the photos.

But you fucking left them in there. It was open. Put them in a fucking box. Send them to your daughter.

You brought me the fucking samovar which I was over the fucking moon for, but never the photos?! Why not?

Like, how am I supposed to know what stupid shit you did for what reasons? Do you have any fucking clue how bad you fucked up me? How about my brother?! you were actually MORE cruel to him?! I can’t even begin to address how angry I am at how you treated him. I had no idea. You and your partner purposefully set my brother and I against one another. Like some fucked up game. Let’s piss them both off, stick them in a house together for two weeks, then let it end with them being angry at one another for like twenty fucking years.

The list of bullshit I have to deal with because of you could take up an entire novel. And in your fucked up brain, that’s a good thing. It would be about you and that’s what’s important.

It was always, ALWAYS about you.

I’m not sure I have enough years left in me to fully forgive you. I just don’t. I wish I could just forget about you, it would be a hell of a lot easier.

Sorry, but you’re going to have to share this blog now.

I recently lost a really dear friend of mine. It has hit me in such a hard way, and I am finding myself needing another outlet for grieving. This is an appropriate outlet.

Jason, I am just so fucking mad at you. Just so angry. Because I am unable to handle being this fucking sad. I just can’t deal. I never even met you in person. But you have taken up what seems like a permanent residence deep inside of my brain. It’s so goddamned annoying. I adore my therapist, but there are questions I simply can’t ask her, but I could ask you.

I just miss you so fucking much. When I post on your wall I always cry, so this gives me a way to talk to you without crying. I don’t want to cry so much anymore.

I already told you about the bakery that only sells bundt cakes. The name is just as good as the place itself. “Nothing Bundt Cake!” Tell me that’s not a cute name. And Jason. The cake? The cake is OBVIOUSLY not as good as one you made, but holy hell. They are SO damned good. It’s already written into my schedule tomorrow that I will go and get one.

Target was an odd place to run into multiple bundt pans, but there they were.

You’re just everywhere. It’s so hard right now but at the same time it’s just so great. Some day all of these memories will still make me a little sad, but they will mostly make me smile. I’m just having such a hard time getting to that part.

I miss you. I love you.


A few months ago I finally got a good steamer pot. I’d been proud of myself for many years to be able to steam an artichoke in other ways. I can steam it in the microwave. I figured out a way to steam it without a steamer basket. It’s always worth the effort. But I’m finally “growing up” and trying to get the best parts of your kitchen duplicated. That included the good steamer pot.

Tonight’s dinner was 100% things you taught me. First we had spaghetti using sauce that I’d doctored. I saved most of mine for lunches this week.

Besides. I got myself two big fat artichokes that I had to leave room for.

They’re just such strong memories. I remember your steamer pot, what the lid looks like, where you stood at the stove. I remember I always wanted more than my artichoke provided.

But now I’m an “adult.” I’m almost 40 and I still don’t know my ass from my elbow. But I got me a nice big steamer pot. And I made myself two artichokes.

The Box

Today your remains arrived in a box. It’s a small box, about the size of a box a pair of shoes would come in. You weigh only a pound or two.

I had husband put the box in the closet where I can’t see you. I’m not ready to look at you yet.

Monica and I are both going to have part of you. We will also share your watch.

I don’t know how to deal with this. When I said goodbye to you and dealt with the emotional feelings that it caused, I was under the impression that I had dealt with it all.

And then you died. You died in your sleep. It was the best way you could have gone. I was terrified you were going to have another seizure, or something equally terrifying for your partner to witness. So in that sense, I’m glad things went the way they did.

But I’m all fucked up in the head now. I miss you. I can still hear your voice in my head and sometimes when I yell. I want my birthday kazoo. I want you being pissed off at me for something stupid that I’m mad you’re pissed.

And I can’t have any of that anymore. Why in the hell do I miss you being MAD at me? Of all of the shit to miss, that seems like the most stupid.

I just don’t know how to deal with it all. I’m waiting to get into therapy.

It just fits so damned much that even in your death you’re difficult and fucking with my head and upsetting me.

I don’t want to miss you anymore.

I’m A Gnu 

I do crosswords all the time, you know. You taught me the secrets. All of the little tricks on how to solve the puzzle. So each puzzle reminds me of you. 

Tonight’s puzzle includes the word “gnu,” and I just started humming that song & I don’t remember where it’s even from. Did we make it up? 

Anyway, then I missed you just so much. I want to know how you’re doing but I have to really push for details & that’s so hard to do. 

I miss you. I’m a gnu.