BlackFriday Tears

Behind every door lies potentialcries on way to work thinking-why, when I am wearing mascara, do I do this?

in car alone, Ben Folds Five inducing tears.

“If you do not want to see me again…”, the old suicide song. It always reminds me of September 2001, waiting for soccer practice to start in college, walking around the track, watching planes take off from Logan, where one went awry and collided with the world trade towers in that recent past…but that song makes me think of my sister, in that time, and how

distant I felt from her. I can’t hear that song without crying.


Sometimes I drive and listen to NPR or classical. Other times I drive and look for songs to cry to. What a woman I am. To sing and cry is utterly me.

I also heard Ben Folds’ “abortion song”, and the line “can’t you see? It’s not me you’re dying for” always makes me think of the small moment when I reconsidered my abortion 13 years ago, but my boyfriend shut the idea down quickly (mercifully? Mercilessly? The memory spins)

I heard, I found-rather, Pearl Jam’s “Don’t call me, Daughter…the picture, it will remind me”…which gave me new tears to cry, as this song does, because it reminds me that I have a father I will never see again, someone who might have a picture of me in his hands or in his heart but will never know me know, and how much I want to be known as a man’s daughter. Thanksgiving being yesterday makes me mourn this noun-less state, this fatherless-ness. I think that being a child of a divorce and not ever being raised with a father is one of the most profound emotional wounds I have. I’d love to come to peace with my paternal orphanage. I’d love to feel “not less than”, and “less loved”. I wish more people loved me. I wish my dad loved me (maybe he does), but I wish I had a dad that could love me and be my cliche…but it’s too late for me to have that. I’ve lived my whole life as a fatherless child.


Just because there are so many of us paternally abandoned, does not mean it’s easier for us by ourselves.

i remember in catholic school as a kid, I’d go to meetings for children of divorce. It was called The Rainbow Club. I’m glad I did. It’s funny how there is no support group for those of us with abandonment issues as adults. Maybe AA, OA? But nothing specific. Our issues are left to bleed into our lifestyles and pop up at unexpected moments of vulnerability,

or when a certain song comes on the radio

and we are all



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