I wrote this on paper while sitting in my car.

Well, the shit just hit the fan at my mother’s. I’ve had enough, and I said so. I’m sitting here in my car, in the rain, in the parking lot of my childhood church, where I was first married, two long hours before the local meeting starts. Of course, it had to meet here, as if my emotions weren’t already crazy enough.

I had thought I might not be home for dinner, since R.V. and I had discussed maybe meeting up today. I never heard from him, so I was thinking about taking the kids swimming. Mom had said earlier that Wendy was in the shower while Karina slept, and that they’d be over in awhile, so – stupid me – I stayed around home and waited. And waited… The baby was sleeping. The baby needed to eat. The baby was sleeping again. Finally, around 4:00, my mother was complaining about the afternoon scattered showers, saying it always rained when she wants to grill out. Having been cooped up in the house all day, I suggested we go around the corner for Mexican food. She said she guessed the chicken could wait.

I got my shower, and while I was getting ready, Mom said Wendy was on her way over, but that she didn’t want to have to put on makeup or get dressed to go out for dinner. I asked my mother what she was going to do, and she said she guessed she was going to stay home and cook chicken for Wendy.

I blew.

I told my mother I’ve had it – everything was all about Wendy and always had been – she never calls her on her rude shit, and I’m sick of all the excuses she makes for her. I told her when she’s very old and needs help, and Wendy was too irresponsible to help her, maybe then she would remember she had two daughters. (Nasty, I know – it tasted like bile.)

She continues to refuse to acknowledge my feelings. Instead, she tells me it’s not true, that she doesn’t know where I get my crazy ideas.

I yelled and screamed and cursed and told her I was taking the kids out. She proceeded to call my sister on the phone right in front of me and whine to her about me.

I want to disappear.

The field I used to run to as a child down the road is now a developed neighborhood.

I always thought I was running away from my dad. I never realized the impact my parents’ dysfunctional relationship with my sister had on me. Much like the cunning and baffling disease of alcoholism, this other dysfunction goes on, unacknowledged, and I am made to feel like the crazy one.

And I did believe I was the crazy one, for years and years, until one day, at my own holiday table, Wendy admitted it – Dad never, ever struck her – not even once. I got the belts and sticks. She said she used to cry when she saw him beating me. She was the trouble maker, by her own admission. I followed every rule.

I am not angry with Wendy. She is a product of their sickness.

I still have 50 minutes before the meeting starts, and I’m about to jump out of my skin. No one is returning my calls. Guess I’m destined to feel all my hatred and tough this one out. No food – no booze – no sex – no little magic pills… just me, my water bottle, my pencil, and all of these goddamn feelings.

I hesitate to blog all of this anger, but the experiment isn’t honest if I only include the sunshine days. This angry part of myself had been pushed down and quieted for too long. She needs to speak. She needs a voice.

I’m afraid to walk through those church doors. What emotions are behind them that I abandoned years ago? This church was my life – my refuge from my crazy home – my hope. God was the father I never had. I felt like I belonged somewhere. How ironic to return, 22 years later, to join hands with a family I haven’t yet met, but already love in a special way – the miracle of Al-Anon.

Thirty-two minutes… should I go in? The church is huge – it might take awhile to find the room. Maybe I will break down in sobs and need time to compose myself. I’m really scared.

Tick-tock, tick-tock… waiting…

I hate the thought of goinng back to my Mom’s tonight. I considered moving to a hotel, but it’s not so easy with the dog. Niki isn’t done with camp until Friday, and my reunion is on Saturday, so I need to stick around.

She won’t bring this up – no – it will be swept under the rug with all the rest of the family dirt. She will play the wounded innocent to Wendy and to her friends, but for me, she’ll have smiles and walk on eggshells. We don’t want to make crazy Lisa blow up again.

Twenty minutes… where do I go?

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