As I sit here, I am surrounded by piles of work. I live in a constant state of exhaustion, overwhelmed, and overstimulated. Even when I sleep, I never fully rest. A question kept popping in my mind, tell them.

Starting this blog has brought me a sense of life again. A renewed energy. A trust in myself that I didn’t know I still had. Doing the scary thing might help others, yes… but selfishly, it’s also helping me.

As I continue to press “post” on my real-life experiences, growing up in a dysfunctional, abusive, and chaotic home, I find myself asking a question that I know many of you, my dear readers, are likely wondering as well:

Do I hate my father?

The answer is simple: no.

I do not hate him. As much as it pains me to say this, as much as it feels like I should. I don’t hate him.

While we have only scratched the surface, My Father is only one constant in my stories. There is more to come. And yes, I will tell you.

I’ve only recently begun building boundaries.

I don’t reach out to my father, and he doesn’t reach out to me.
He often blocks me for no reason; I don’t care enough to block him back.

My father typically contacts me for one of three reasons:

• To ask for money
• To tell me he’s dying from some rare disease
• Because it’s the first of the month, he has a bit of money, and has circled the block to buy prescription pills

Yep.
As I mentioned on my home page, there won’t always be a happy ending.

What I can share is this: I am insanely jealous of other families. In moments when I need someone to talk to… someone to guide me… someone to show me how to do things or help me fix something, I have no one.

My parents, while alive, are dead in all the ways that matter to a child.

Outside of my great-grandparents, I had no positive influences. No reason to rise above. I am a broken person teaching herself how to rebuild, piece by piece.

I am gullible because my exposure to the world was limited. I have binge tendencies, so I limit any habits that could pull me down a similar path.

I have two phenomenal best friends. They mean the world to me. Yet the things I share in these blogs are things I’ve never told them. And come to think of it, most of what you’ll read here are things I’ve never told my husband either. Some bits, yes. But most? No.

Having two best friends means I attend their milestone events. Both come from divorced families, so between them, there are four sets of wonderful parents. Every time I’m around them, I’m in awe. The hugs, the speeches, even the lectures. They are unbelievably fortunate, and I’m unreasonably jealous of them sometimes.

Take my husband, for example. He has a family. He calls his parents once a week just to chat. He asks for their opinions, runs ideas by them, and talks about his life. I am green with envy listening in, wishing I had someone I could call and say:

“Hey! Guess what? I have this new job opportunity and wanted to see what you think.”

Speaking of which, did I mention, my dear reader, that I was offered a new role yesterday?

I’m actively debating whether to take it, but to my surprise (and relief), my employer offered me a 60‑day trial. After those two months, I can either keep my current role or dive headfirst into a new position in a different department.

The thought of pivoting my career at 41 is terrifying. And at the same time… exhilarating.

Outside of my husband and my two best friends, there isn’t anyone else I would share this with.

I’m not sure this role is right for me, but I’m excited to try. And I’m deeply grateful for the chance.

Now that this Friday Night posting itch has been scratched, metaphorically of course, I will sign off.

Until Sunday, my dear readers. 

Unbreakable,

Sis