"Nothing But Fear..." - A Mechanic's Misguided Design

The way I see my family now is very different from how I viewed them all just a few years ago, before my identity crisis began. Perhaps the one that hurts the most to realize didn't have my best interests at heart is my dad. It was somewhat expected with my mother, and my relationship with my (half-)sister has always been a detached, one-and-done type of failure, so those are easier to accept.

Let's go back to just before shit really hit the fan. Set the scene.

In 2021, I spent some two months absolutely dedicated to helping my family. More-so than usual. I accompanied my parents and my severely handicapped younger brother to South Dakota for my grandma's celebration of life for a week (8 hour drive both ways), then spent less than 12 hours at the home of my partner and I (his home - only mine by extension of being in the relationship - I own nothing) before going to my (half-)sister's home to house- and dog-sit for a week there. A few days at home, and then I was back at my parents' (a common occurrence) to help out and watch my brother over the course of 3 days. During that time, my aunt and uncle we had stayed with for the celebration of life asked if I would come back to South Dakota for at least 3 weeks to help pick corn and can food. A few days later, there I was. You can read more about that here.

When I returned to the home my partner shares with me, I decided I deserved a few weeks to relax, unpack, and get back into my own routines after nearly two months of constant disruption and the stress and pressure of performing tasks at the levels my family demanded. A few nights, I did shots from my last bottle of alcohol in the house at the time to help me relax, and eventually finished it. It was a bottle my mother had purchased for me at least 3-4 months previous, and I admit, I was liberal with the shots the few nights I did drink because I was having a rare good time.

So after I'd been home a few weeks, it was my birthday - my 30th. When my parents called to wish me a happy birthday, my mom decided she'd come over for drinks. I informed her I didn't have any alcohol in the house, but there is a liquor store within walking distance.

"What? Didn't I just buy you a bottle?! You went through that whole thing already?!" This from a woman who drank more in a month when I was growing up than I do in an entire year. This from a woman who says nothing about how much my (half-)sister drinks in a given week. But I take months to drink a bottle, and somehow that's a fucking issue? I was sort of caught off guard.

"That was bought months ago, and yeah, I did have some nights where I drank a bit; I thought I deserved it after all the helping out I did the last few months."

So she said she'd bring some pre-made margarita mix, and when she arrived, we sat ourselves on the front porch and began talking. My partner, who usually makes a quick appearance when I have guests over and then returns to his office, decided he'd come hang out on the porch with us, though he neither sat nor drank (very seldom does he drink). And while I was anxious at my mother being over, especially after the remarks on my typically uncommon drinking, the conversation wasn't too crazy.

Until about 15 minutes in...

...you know, until she started bitching about rising COVID-19 numbers and blaming it on "illegals".

Was I repulsed? Yes. Was I gonna say anything? Not likely. I have never "won" against my parents in such things - my views simply cannot be heard, or right, or even considered. So I haven't spoken up against them in some time; years. However, my partner was going to say something - and did. Now, was his response a little immature as my mother accused? Sure, he mocked my mother and imitated her putting her hands on her hips. Turned his back on her and mocked.

And he called her a fucking idiot, to which she left in a rage and drove like a fucking psycho. Real fucking mature of her, hm?

You can read more about that interaction and a few others leading up to it in, "Catalyst". It certainly lays out the build-up to that day a lot better than I will here.

Any case, that was the interaction that led to basically low or no-contact in the nearly two years since. And while I expected shit behavior from my mother, I was hopeful maybe my dad might side with me for once. And I didn't expect my half-sister, who doesn't know jack shit about our family dynamics, to butt into something that had nothing to do with her snooty ass. She is 13 years older than me and moved out when I was 5, never helped out with our brother, and has never even bothered to think or ask about what the fuck my life was/is like. No interest. As per usual in my family, everyone else is right, and I'm always weird or wrong. Like my parents, all she does is judge - or suggest solutions no one else in the family could even afford like it's so easy for us all to do so and she "doesn't understand why we don't do it that way". Honestly, I could count the one-on-one conversations that weren't idle chit-chat I've had with her on one hand. We are so different, I don't even feel like I can have a chat with her and feel understood. There's no common ground.

Now, here's where things with my dad started getting fuzzy.

After mom raged home, I decided not to call over for a few weeks. The game plan initially was to give it some time and let things cool off. Maybe try calling after 2 weeks or a month. At least to talk to my dad and check to see how my brother was.

Well...

My sister texted me first, both asking me to tell her my side, but already demanding my boyfriend apologize for calling mom a fucking idiot. Given the option, and still weighing out options to fix the rift, I didn't give her our side of things. She's since never learned our side and sided with mom from the get-go. I also didn't respond to her because - surprise - IT'S NONE OF HER FUCKING BUSINESS!

That was when I knew I was probably in trouble. I mentioned earlier that I've never "won" a disagreement with my parents - even though I'd be "on the right side of history" or "morally right" in most cases. It was often a case of getting tag-teamed by both parents, neither who cared about my views on the world or anything I used to present my values. I was never right; they were never wrong. But now knowing my half-sister was siding with mom without even knowing my side... Now I had to worry about all three of them. Because I already suspected dad would side with mom, even if just to keep the peace in their home. I'd hoped not, but as per usual, it didn't matter what the fuck I wanted.

So I didn't call home. Neither did they. Not for Christmas or New Years. Not for Mother's Day. Pissed my sister off because I didn't reach out when her dad passed from COVID-19; I was so over how shitty my family treats me, I couldn't even bear the thought of talking to them.

I also didn't want to be really rude like I was thinking about being.

See, prior to the fallout with mom, I had raised concerns over my brother - who is non-verbal, physically disabled, and mentally disabled - getting COVID and neither of our parents doing much to protect themselves or him. He literally wouldn't understand what was going on, couldn't tell anyone how he felt, and it was just concerning that no one was doing anything to protect him like getting vaccines or even taking COVID seriously at minimum. Particularly my mom, who worked as a bank teller and saw hundreds of folks in a day.

And what did the other "adults" at the table do when I raised those concerns? They laughed at me. To my face. In front of my nephews. Laughed at COVID...

And then my half-sister's father died from it. Pretty fucking funny, huh? Fucked around and found out.

So yeah, I was pissed off and didn't wanna salt the wound. Besides, we aren't close - what would my condolences have done for the sibling that only ever calls me when she needs something, but never calls to chat or offer me help in a meaningful capacity? She's never given any indication that I have anything of value to offer her besides being a pet-sitter. She's got a slew of supportive friends and neighbors she cares about more than me, and they were giving her more sincere respects than I ever could have, given how little a connection we had. I still felt bad, but I was so pissed off and done.

But then my dad's birthday came up in 2022. I was working at Jurassic World: the Exhibition the last 4 months it was in Denver. And I was very much enjoying it.

It was dad's 50th birthday. I decided that the main issue was with mom, and I didn't want her dramatic-ass shit-show to stop me from reaching out to my dad on his big birthday. So I called, but didn't get an answer. I left a voicemail saying I'd try again later.

I eventually did talk to my dad for a little over an hour. It felt like nothing had changed, which in one way was a comfort...

...but in another, was a difficult thing.

Prior to Jurassic World: the Exhibition, I hadn't held a public job in about 7 years. I quit when I was 22 and worked at King Soopers (also known as Ralph's and a bunch of other names depending on state). I was in a weird position: I was a type of "courtesy clerk" - the folks who bag your shit, help you out to your car...etc, except the manager who hired me on wanted me as basically a daytime janitor. Most stores would just have a random courtesy clerk go around and clean the aisles, check bathrooms, and handle trashcans in the store each day, but the manager who hired me wanted one person to handle those duties consistently. While she was still there, she made sure I didn't get called to bag groceries for too long, as we had 3 rushes of high school students that came through and would trash the Starbucks seating area if I couldn't be left alone to handle it.

But then she left, and the new manager was not on the same page. I was still left largely to deal with the janitorial aspects, but he didn't care if I got held up bagging for an hour - and then had to work three times as hard to clean the Starbucks seating area. I was also tasked with a spot on the "Cultural Council" - basically event planning for the holiday parties - as well as a spot on the safety committee. Oh, and I was expected to give store tours to new hires.

For $8/hr and no benefits until I'd been there 3 years...

Once I had to start cleaning up sewage for a week, I decided my suicidal thoughts were building up worse than usual, and I quit outright one day. They play it off like I was a lazy kid who wanted to stay out after a New Years celebration I attended before quitting, but in reality I couldn't handle how often I wished I didn't exist once I was taking on all that for so little.

In the 7 years since quitting King Soopers, I had been secondary care-giver to my brother, and maybe saw $70-200/month from that. I had relied mostly on my savings from when I saved up for massage therapy school and my mom talked me out of it when I was a paycheck shy of being able to afford it. She was suddenly so against me going to the school, after taking me to the campus to talk to people and knowing that was what I was saving my money up for for over two years, that when I pressed the issue, she literally did not talk to me for an entire week.

So I guess I'd hoped my dad would be happy that I was working a job in public again after so long - especially one I was enjoying. Instead, as usual, he shat on my good time.

"Oh, I bet that smells just lovely," was the gist of his input. The center the attraction was housed in was near a dog food factory, so yes, sometimes it did really reek. But he never has anything good to say about, well, any of my choices really. Whatever I do, however I do it, it's never "right" or enough for my family. As I realized he wasn't going to celebrate my good time with me, I was reminded that it wasn't just my mother who constantly discouraged me from things I would have pursued if not for the fear of angering my parents.

I wanted to be a paleontologist when I was a kid (I mean, if I thought I could still learn so much at my age, fuck yes!), but was told by dad that I wouldn't make money (most important thing to my parents for jobs). I wanted to be a meteorologist in middle school, to which he responded, "well, it's the one job where you can be constantly wrong and still have a job". I've tried to be a writer, and sorry to say, he was right when he said that it also would not be a job worth shit; there's no earnings.

I used to - and to an extent still do - admire my dad. I used to be so proud of him.

My dad was 18 when he met my mom - then 32-33. He knew he was going to marry her the first time he saw her. The age difference caused some issues in the family, like my grandmother basically stalking them. But in 1991, at age 19, dad and I got to meet for the first time. I was not quite a month premature and only weighed 3 lbs and some odd ounces. By the time he was 20, he was also father to my younger brother - 3 months premature and only 1 lb, 6 ounces - and all the disabilities that came with him.

In 1996, our grandpa - dad's dad - passed away. He and grandma were watching me and my brother while our parents were at work, and I remember my grandma screaming from the backyard, and seeing grandpa on the couch on the back porch, a big bubble coming out of his mouth, and later the people carrying a stretcher through the backyard to get him. I know his loss was extremely hard on dad, and I can only imagine how much more intimidating taking care of two young kids at 24 is without a father figure to turn to or consult - especially if one has so many disabilities.

As we got older, my parents couldn't afford childcare. One kid was expensive enough, but two - again, one with disabilities - was not doable. My mother made good money at a shitty religious registry, though, so she - depending on who you ask - supported or even suggested that dad start staying at home to watch us. At those young ages in school, this meant he had a portion of the day open for housework or for making a little under-the-table cash as an at-home auto mechanic. Customers paid for their parts, which he would often find for them for cheap via the scrapyards or just really good shopping around via phone calls and friendships with local part store workers, and all they paid him directly was cost of labor. Not really something he was supposed to do, but it brought in extra income and gave him something to do when we weren't home, plus saved a lot of other people from costly up-charges at the big chain places. For a while, this arrangement worked.

But then we got a little older. I was 7 the first time I recall my dad telling me to watch my brother while he went to the part store or something. And from then on, when I was home, my brother was mostly my responsibility. I was never really asked - it was always a demand. One where, if I tried to decline, would result in my getting yelled at by dad.

Getting yelled at by dad was a common experience growing up. Not doing this, not doing that right, "GET ME A DIAPER FOR YOUR BROTHER!"...etc. I can't tell you how many times he got red in the face yelling at me when I was in my room listing to CDs on a CD player - just trying to relax and enjoy something. And forget boundaries - he'd fucking pound on my door and threatened to take the door off the computer room if I didn't leave it open. I loved dad, but I was also afraid of his anger.

He did most things by himself - who else was he gonna call in the middle of a workweek who would be available to help? But what he couldn't do himself, I usually wound up roped into. From swapping mouse traps in the crawlspace (since I was smaller), to helping push cars that didn't run to new spots on the street, to helping carry and stack the firewood for our wood-burning stove. Also while attending school. Also while expected to care for and watch my brother after school. Also while handling chores, which, friendly reminder, were not divided among siblings like they had been for both of my parents; it was just me. I was constantly told what to do between home and school, with no time to think for myself or even just enjoy myself. I stopped trying to paint my nails growing up because I was always interrupted to help out with some other thing. Really, I stopped asking to do most things; "no" was so common.

Then, my parents started to cart us "up the hill" to the casinos in Black Hawk and Central City. Gambling was/is my mom's tri-weekly habit, so she often got rooms and meals comped because she earned so many points.

At first, it wasn't bad; I had fillet mignon basically every weekend for years. But besides the tasty meals, it kinda sucked. Every weekend, after a long school week and watching my brother after, we'd have to pack up and cart everything an hour away to the casinos, and once fed, my brother and I were often left alone in the hotel rooms. I'd bring plenty to entertain myself, but the fact was that I was stuck in hotel rooms every weekend for years with no one but my non-verbal brother, whom I had to change diapers for and medicate 3 times daily with anti-seizure medicine and feed.

Usually it was dad who came to check on us and usually we were always fed within a reasonable time-frame, but I do recall at least a few times where I was hungry enough to call the front desk and ask them to page my parents and ask them to get food since, as a kid, I wasn't allowed in the casino area where the deli was. I never got in trouble - I stayed in the rooms and took care of my brother as best as a kid can.

They started letting us stay home by the time we were in high school. Besides the weekends, they would also go up 1-3 times a week depending on what promotions were going on or how many casinos they wanted to visit. This too sucked, but at least I had open access to leftovers or easy-to-make food and I didn't have to pack a bunch of shit every week.

But it didn't help my mental health much. I've had suicidal thoughts since about 7-8, and several times a month I'd plan how I'd run away. I didn't feel like I could talk to my parents about anything - just whatever they brought up. I was expected to do so much. I just didn't feel like I was treated as a person - a kid with my own needs. No one was checking in on how I was doing. So I schemed about running away. But I always stayed, because I wasn't stupid; I couldn't just leave my brother, but I knew I couldn't get away with trying to run off with him. I wouldn't be able to just obtain diapers that fit him as a teen, nor would I be able to get him his anti-seizure medicine. Plus, the wheelchair would just make us stand out even more on any bus I tried to ride. So he had to stay - and so I stayed.

It was also stressful just staying at home, even when they were gone. In winter especially, I worried if our parents would come back down the mountains safely. It's not like they had cell phones - not that they use them now that they do. I suffered a lot of trouble falling asleep, insomnia, and trouble staying asleep because I'd be anxious and worried and wondering why this shit was my life.

I did not feel provided for in some way - which turned out to be emotional neglect. My needs, besides the most basic, were not asked about or considered. My thoughts and values were constantly undermined, mocked, or ignored.

The funny thing is, I also enjoyed when they went up the hill, despite the stress and anxiety; it was the only time, besides when I'd sneak out of bed to walk in the dark, that I had time mostly to myself. Time to think. Time to enjoy what I wanted.

Sometimes, that just meant finally getting to watch a full movie, or binging the cartoon reruns I rarely got to see. For some reason, even when he spent most of the day outside working on cars, dad would yell at me and tell me to change the channel back often if he came in and I was watching something else while folding the fuck-ton of white socks and underwear (frequent chore). This is part of why I don't get excited about movies nowadays - I very rarely got to see one all the way through. I grew up with clips and phrases, and was often left imagining what happened in a story after catching a scene or two. It was for this reason that, every time I heard him coming in through the door connecting the garage and kitchen, I'd quickly swap back to whatever dad had on.

Dad coming in through the garage door has also extended into a trigger of sorts; to this day, when my partner comes home, the quickness he enters the house with and the loud closing of the door makes me flinch - it reminds me too much of every time my dad would burst in via garage or my bedroom door in a bad mood. Drives my partner crazy that I look like I fear I've done something wrong every time he comes home...

I don't know which parent found my diary when I was 16, or which one thought it was a bright idea to read it (told you, no fucking boundaries), but both parents wound up reading it. I found out when, first, I couldn't find the diary, and second, when dad so graciously asked if they needed to send me to the "loony bin". I damn near attempted suicide that night. But again, I thought of my brother; who would care for him in the future if I killed myself?

All of this has been getting dredged up the last few years as I attend therapy and read plenty of books about Emotionally Immature Parents and emotional neglect, or watch videos describing family scapegoats. Both parents participated in less-than-ideal behaviors that didn't do me any fucking good.

But I said earlier that I still - somewhat - admire my dad...

Dad was - is - a loud, somewhat angry individual. Having struggled with many of the same things he did, but as a kid, I can sympathize. There was little to no help from family to care for my brother - that's why it was always on me. Despite all he did around the house himself, my mother was never happy and often yelled at him.

I was there. Dad did take care of my brother for parts of the day. He did laundry, dishes, made dinner, and handled yard work. And of course, he worked on cars. Since it was out of the house, there were always new faces dropping off a different car; I actually don't pay too much attention when I first meet people because I grew so accustomed to a one-conversation deal with dad's customers. I assume I'll never see someone again when I meet them. I'd be the worst witness ever.

But dad was always working on something.

That's why, when someone like my grandma off mom's side would make comments about my, "lazy" dad, it pissed me off. My dad was nearly always doing something. But mom called both him and me lazy frequently, even though all she did was her 9-5. Mom didn't even help out with her son. Yet my sister raves about how great a mom she is. I dunno what version of mom she got, but we didn't get the same.

While a lot of interactions with my dad involved "teasing" mocking of me, I do know there was love there. Same with all the backhanded compliments. He would call me "Dolly" in true affection, and I now refer to our bigger dog, Aleu, as my "little Dolly". I often called dad "Goofball" because when I wasn't screwing up, we'd bond and have a little fun. But only a little.

Dad never took me anywhere fun - scrapyards, part stores mostly. I can count on one hand the amount of times he, himself gave me a non-food gift - usually tools like screwdrivers. But I was his only kid he could roughhouse with, give noogies to, and for a long time, I was the only one who would eat full steaks with him. I forget how old I was, but the first time I finished a T-bone by myself was like a rite of passage. Rarely seen him so proud...

On that note, the only time I remember him telling me he was proud of me was my high school graduation, and that after a few stressful years. When I was 15, an upperclassman groped me under my shirt and bra in front of a group of our peers, and despite all of us filing reports and someone even catching part of the incident on camera, nothing was done about it (for me, anyway. Check out, "Uncovered" for that story in full). That was actually what gave me PTSD that I've been contending with in recent years after a decade of it being "locked away". I was also struggling with heartbreak the last few years of high school, and in combination, I was not doing well in school and was risking not graduating.

For every good thing, there's at least one bad. I know my dad has had his struggles too, and I can even see where some come from. But as I've been working through everything, I have a hard time with how I feel about my dad. He's had to deal with a lot of tough - and disgusting - things when it comes to caring for my brother. But he also slid a fair amount of that onto me at a very young age, which at least contributed to - if not instigated - my lifelong suicidal thoughts. He was more fun and more genuinely kind than mom, who has told me on two different occasions she had planned on aborting me and has never seemed to connect with me unless it was for show in public.

He's put me down, mocked me, screamed at me - made me feel small. Like I didn't have a voice - or at least shouldn't use it. Belittled things I enjoyed.

My dad is a complicated guy, and I never seem to measure up no matter what I do. Even when it comes to my brother; all these decades and - according to dad - I still can't put a diaper on right.

It's hard to succeed when there's no support. Hard to know what I want when no one's ever asked. Both parents contributed to the identity crisis I've been in.

I'm not sure how the future pans out - if I can heal and return to my family. But I dunno if this can be fixed, honestly. Or even if I want to fix it. The last few years away from my family have been kinda nice...

I don't know what the future holds, but as dad likes to say, "Nothing but fear holding you back."