Repost: Holliday Letters Between a Father and his Son

Holliday Letters Between a Father and His Only Son

Letter #1 From Son to Father:

"Hi Dad,

Merry ChanuKwanzMas and Happy New Year! Your Dentist keeps sending me these Dental Reminders. I've emailed back telling him that you make all my appointments with him and they should be emailing you, but he keeps emailing me, so I thought I'd just forward it along so you can either schedule one for me or remind him to stop emailing me. Wishing you all the very best!

Love,

John jr."

Letter #1 From Father to Son:

"Just remove yourself from the e mails. You would not like a father who beat you your whole life to pay for your dental work, because then you could not play your academy award winning role of 'THE VICTUM'.

John Q. Doe"

Letter #2 from Son to Father:

"I wasn't asking for a father (and even if I was, it's a little late now; I'm all grown up), I was asking for an email removal or action regarding a Dentist that you were recently sending me to and paying for; Nothing more, nothing less. I apologize if you misunderstood.

I'm 31 now, Dad. Technically you only beat me for about 1/4 of my life, but that's in the distant past for me. I'm truly sorry that it is still very present for you. I love you very much despite your sadly ongoing mental war with me, despite our past, I can't help it (though sometimes I wish I could), blood is thicker than water.

But anyways, this was just about a simple email request, not your resentment towards me or what I view as ancient history. I hope one day you can view it as the same. I have asked to be removed, but I'll try again. Thanks for responding so fast and again Have a happy New Year!

John jr

P.S. Did it ever occur to you that YOU may be acting out 'THE VICTIM' (misspelled by you)? You are acting out the role of the poor father who did everything he could for his messed up lying kid who says that the poor victim father abused him, when really the father was wonderful. Poor, poor, father, to be stuck with such a bad child. Bad from birth. Nothing the son did was the Father's fault! The Father did everything he could, but the Boy was just born bad and always was mean to the Father?

You have given me some good advice over the years (and some bad advice), maybe you should turn your eye towards yourself one day?

P.P.S. Whether you believe it or not I FORGIVE YOU for the way you treated me as a child. You did the best that you knew how to do at the time and you provided for the family very well financially. Even if you never forgive me for whatever it is that is still sticking in your craw about me; I STILL FORGIVE YOU.

Letter #3 from Father to Son

"YOU are as crazy as your mother, your both idiots.

John Q. Doe"

Letter #3 from Son to Father

"Again, your grammar is a bit mistaken Dad. Your letter should read 'You're both idiots,' as in the contraction 'You are,' rather than 'your' which refers to possession.

My mother is a teacher and a published author who has won awards for her work. She definitely has her mental faults and she is definitely a little crazy, but she is no idiot. I love her, I'm very proud of her, and the fact that you, my father, think it's appropriate to speak to me about my mother that way shows the truth of your character and ability as a father; Ugly.

As for me I've been scoring as a Genius on every Academic test I have ever taken and though I may be a bit crazy (everyone is), I'm certainly not an idiot. If you were able to understand my published works you would see that. My readers are some of the smartest people in the world and their compliments mean a lot more than the resentful insults of my senior citizen father. Your opinion of me ceased to matter a long time ago, you might as well keep it to yourself.

I feel sorry for you that you can only communicate by means of insults, but I guess that's one of the reason's we don't communicate much. Despite your venom, I'm also proud of you and the work that you've done; Building yourself up from nothing and the legacy of buildings you will leave on the earth and the pages of Architectural Digest after you go (Until they are inevitably torn down). Goodbye for now Dad. I hope next time I hear from you, you are a little nicer.

On a side note: It's a very odd and ironic feeling for me to suddenly find that our situation is now reversed; For once I am the adult and you are the angry child. You once told me that people age like wine and from what I read, you sound like Sour Grapes. That's too bad. You can say all the mean things you want, it only reflects on your character, not mine, and certainly not my mother's. Those words are wasted on me; I don't even hear them any more.

But before you die, in the distant future, (since I don't anticipate your attitude changing before then, though I pray) I just wanted to make sure I set the record straight. That I forgive you. That I love you.
Goodbye.

Letter #4 from Father to Son

"The fact that you would respond to me proves that you are an idiot.

John Q. Doe"

Letter #4 from Son to Father

"Touche! And the fact that you write me back proves...?"

Poem: The Waiting of My Life

Feeling trapped
time is just passing.
A room, routines,
pissing, pills,
and shopping for food.

A lover, so tough,
she can't even stand
on her own two feet.
Each time I love her
I lend her my shoulder,
dragging me further down
on my very slow climb out.
Up and out
of the dirty prison
The conditions of my Life.

My Health, my Poverty,
my Loneliness, my Pain.
The only answers come from me
She does not offer any.
Just time pleasantly spent
or time tortuously wasted.

She doesn't see
what I see.
Doesn't understand
what I understand.
For all the time I spend with her:
It takes twice as long to recover.

And for all the time
I try to help her,
she tries to help me none.
"So don't try to help me,"
she says in my head,
but that's not my definition
of Love.

For my Life to change
I'm the only one to do it;
No lottery, no family,
no helpers, no miracles.
Just the Power
of my Choices:
Do I work
or go to school?
Or keep sitting on my butt
doing fuck-all,
but get worse.

My life slows down spiraling.
The waiting of my Life.

Poem: Waiting and Love

There's a Love and an affection,
a Worshiping;
I'm told to wait
and I wait.
And I keep waiting.
And I keep loving.
And then I'm tired.
Tired of loving
and getting nothing in return.
Tired of loving
and being ignored.
And then they are ready.
Ready to receive my Loving
and Love me back;
but I'm Empty.
Out of Love.
Used up and tossed aside,
feeling like I have nothing left
to give.
And they kiss me
and they touch me
Finally.
What I've been wanting all morning.
But I have nothing left to give.
I feel empty.
Worse, I feel pouty
and Sad.
I don't want to feel this way,
but I do.
I wait for it to stop,
not knowing
if it will.

Poem: Texts, Tears, Tales...

She texts me again.
To tell me she "misses me,"
too.
She has sen the Poem about her
on my Blog;
The one I called
"I Miss Her."

I've told her before
not to mistake my blog
for "Truth."
Explaining it's only "Poetry."
only "Art."
She's never listened.

The last time we communicated
I told her never to email,
write,
or text to me,
ever again.
But she could phone
or visit
if she felt she wanted to.
In fact, I've told her,
asked her,
and begged her
many times
not to text me at all.
She's never listened before.

Against my "instincts",
my "better judgment,"
the advice of others,
my pride and self-esteem.
Pulled by my Blind-Heart,
loneliness,
habit,
and sleeplessness...
I texted her back,
wanting to know
the Only 3 Things
which she could tell me
that would make me Happy:

(1)First, that she had found good Doctors
who were prescribing her good, working, medicines;
for her painful medical problems.

(2)Second,
that she was taking her Medications as prescribed,
that they were enough,
that she no longer needed to go "outside" the Medical System
for relief.

And (3)Third,
the most painful to me personally.
That she had realized how unhealthy
her chronic ex-lover Jason was.
The Jason who she once "Loved more than me."
The Jason she had lied to me for.
The Jason who had abused her
over and over and over:
That she had finally realized he was bad for her.
That she had finally found the power
and self-respect
to cut him out of
her life forever.

The only answer I got was number (3) Three,
ignoring my questions (2) and (1):
"Jason and she are still 'platonic' friends."

The kick to my stomach.

She texts again:
"Can we talk on the phone?"

.
.
.

"If you call, I will answer."
I replied
after praying
after meditating.
(Though I wanted
to hear her voice so badly,
to see her, so badly.
To be inside her,
smell her again!
All of it, so badly).

I prepared myself for her call, waiting for hours.
Finally she texted again:
"I've wanted to call you so badly for the last two months,
that I'm too choked up to call right now...
give me a little time to rest."

Me texting, "OK."

Hours more of painful waiting for her.
Proud that no tears had come.
Amazed, really,
that I wasn't falling apart,
like I used to...

Finally it was nighttine,
time for me to sleep.
She didn't call.
My wish for something New with her was falling apart.
Everything was Old, so Old all over again.
Debating myself to send another text,
realizing I never should have answered the first one.
I went on with our sick, old, game:
"I will be going to bed soon, FYI," I texted,
"After all we've been through,
I don't care if you are crying,
or out of it, just call me please...
if you want to."

Her text came fast back to me:
"I just woke up, I'm still a little tired,
I hope you have a wonderful sleep
and sweet, sweet, dreams.
I love you and miss you,
but you can call me whenever you want,
if you feel like it,
Goodnight."

.
.
.

Illusion shattered in me
like a rock through a stained-glass window.

It had been a trick,
the same old trick,
and I'd fallen for it again.
Just like I'd used to.
She never was going to call me,
just manipulation games
to see how I'd respond.

My Final Text:
"I am not ready to communicate with you again.
I am willing/wanting to talk to you if you call.
Besides that, nothing has changed between us.
Thank you for your texts. My best."

Sadness in the pit of my stomach,
but no tears, no blame, no self pity.
Slightly amazed at the
Serenity and Clarity
I feel toward the incident.
I thought (prayed) that I got away unscathed.

But lying in bed, sleep did not come.
Eventually getting back up, puttering around,
meditating and praying for hours,
doing rituals I hadn't done in years;
Anything to keep me from the old pain
she brings.

Finally collapsing, fully dressed, on my bed,
Around 5:AM; I wake up again at 9:AM,
surprised by my pleasant dreams.
I still hope she finds the Courage to call.
I still pray, if she does, that I have the Security,
to Forgive her for everything past,
That my words to her will be filled
only with Truth and Love,
not with Resentment.
Praying that she will hear me.

I cannot force her to understand.
I cannot make her to respect my wishes and boundaries.
I cannot, though I want to so badly,
make her choose her friends wisely.
Rather than just accepting, whoever sticks to her.

All I can do is to wait and to work.
Wait to see if she get's better,
work on making myself better
in the meantime.
The proof of these words
is the Love I still have for her,
manifesting not in Tears and Self-Pity,
but in Patience,
and Acceptance,
of Reality.

Poem: Property Manager

With flat eyes like a Reptile
It stands before me;
all my words deaf to it's ear sockets.
With snarls and spite
the creature foams in it's rage at me.
No communication here,
no compromise or debate.
My purpose is peace
and a home free of sickness.
It's purpose is stopping me
from any of my desires.
No thought in it's head.
No feelings in it's chest-cavity.
Even when our goals are the same,
It would wound it's own flesh,
just to spit in my eye.
Turn the other cheek
and
love thy neighbor
I believe.

But this Lousy Cunt
has it out for my Nuts.

Poem: Connections on the Cadeuxis

Sex makes my back hurt.
Laying in bed makes my back hurt.
I like laying in bed.
I love having sex.
I'm too young to have these issues;
But wait, I have them-
I must not be too young after all.
Walking helps my back feel better...
though I'm often very tired.
Stretching is supposed to make my back feel better,
(but really I don't notice the difference).

In this way, One is forced to walk.
And often.
In this way,
One may legitimately fear
that an end to sex
may one day be near.

Sex and pain,
relaxing and pain.
It doesn't seem right
for them to be connected.

Thirty-years-old,
One walks with a cane.
Barely an adult,
One is a slave to medications,
monthly Doctor visits,
hours of waiting at Pharmacies.
Literally unable to function
without this Trinity:
Two snakes intertwined
around a winged staff
indeed!
Their intertwining is my imprisonment.
Their venom is my medicine.
The wings on the staff
is the benefits One receives
from the Medical Trinity.

The staff is the instrument
which administers blows
to the patient,
as well as a permanent reminder
of the pain One would be in without
the Doctors.
A Medical Prisoner.
One never dreamed to be this way.
Not "Free" at all.
By any sense of the word.
No Thailand for a Medical Prisoner.
Not without Medicine, a Cane,
and a secret stash in case of theft.
Documents too,
to prove the need to transfer medicines
across National Borders.

Oh yes, not "Free"
by any sense of the word.

Poem: Insomnia #31

Nighttime comes again.
The same nighttime I've known most of my life.
Not the drowsy-sleeping,
tucked-in and dreamy-time night.
The Other Night.
The Night where I am so tired.
The Night where I am exhausted.
The Night where no matter what I do
I can't sleep.
The extra eight hours that I am awake
while most people sleep;
So even people the same age as me
have not lived as many hours awake.
Too tired to read, but I can smoke.
Every cigarette costing me 40 cents;
Burning up money, all night long.
The night where I drink "sleepy time" teas
and eat cereal, but it only makes me
pee and poop more.
Just more things to keep me awake.
Watching movies and worried.
No, certain actually,
about how tired I will be tomorrow.
Feeling the psychic stillness in the air,
the empty space of cities at rest.
But not me.
No, not me.
To me that sacred rest is forbidden.
I still don't know why.
I have guesses, suppositions,
but as long as I remember
I've been this way.
Oh, there have been times...
brief, grace-filled times of rest.
Exhaustion from boisterous sex,
or the brief effects of a new medication.
But it never lasts.
It always comes back to this.
Me, alone, awake, wishing I could sleep.
No drugs left for me now.
All that remains is to take it,
take it as best I can.
Watch videos, write, pray,
and meditate.
Turn on NPR and listen
to the droning voices talking
babbling aimlessly into the dawn.