Don’t Call Me Daughter

Daddy.  Father.  Daughter.  Little girl.  Baby.

I am someone’s daughter but I don’t quite remember him being a daddy as a child.  When I was in the hospital after my suicide attempt and he had to feed me because I had no use of my arms he was, without doubt, my Daddy and I can’t write this without crying.  I may take a break to indulge those couple of days when he didn’t leave me until he knew I wasn’t going to leave him.

I was someone’s sexual “little girl” and I called him Daddy, a warped assignment of the word that only the desperate and infatuate will apply.  I used the word on a man would never feed me like that unless it was his cock. And I would have done it.  I called him Daddy for years whether he treated me like his little girl, his little whore, his daughter or as if I didn’t exist at all.

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These two “daddies” intertwined in my psyche and my sexuality which is not to say that I ever had a sexual thought about my father.  I did not despite “Daddy’s” jerk off fantasies wherein I did.  All little girls want to please their Daddy and so….I went along with his fantasy.  It was a performance to please him.


I did the same with my father as a child:  I performed to please him.  Dancing, singing, impersonating (I used to be good at that as a kid – like oddly good).  I did what my father wanted for his attention because – like my “Daddy” the attention would be brief and always – ALWAYS – leave me insecure.

Daddy.  Father.  Daughter.  Little girl.  Baby. 

It wasn’t until about 3 months ago that finally, FINALLY, the word daughter felt real, right and perfect with me.  So perfectly, that all of that shit I just wrote went out of focus. It went very much out of focus:

Matthew 9:20

…And a woman who had been suffering from a hemorrhage for twelve years, came up behind Him and touched the fringe of His cloak; for she was saying to herself, “If I only touch His garment, I will get well.” But Jesus turning and seeing her said, “Daughter, take courage; your faith has made you well.” At once the woman was made well.…

I have a little prayer corner in my house with a crucifix, a statue of The Pieta and Saint Francis, patron of animals for after my suicide I was forced to put my 3 beloved cats down and was left with only the knowledge that their souls exist in Saint Francis.  When I first  read that bible verse and saw the word “Daughter” used by Jesus to a strange woman who reached out to Him for help, I cried for hours.  Maybe days.  When I kneel to pray in the corner I look at the Crucifix and whisper “Your daughter is here…” 

I am a daughter who suffers no neglect.  Who is loved for no reason other than love.  Who doesn’t have to fear lack of time, who doesn’t have to sexualize the father/daughter relationship for fear of having none.

 I am the daughter of Jesus Christ.  Everything is pure.

(self portrait 2009)

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Sex Worker

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This is one I am not sure I can write.  Well, I have begun writing it but I am not sure about the tone.  And the content….I don’t know if this is something I can post.  Why do I feel compelled?


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48 Hour Pay Pal Project

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August 28, 2014 · 6:38 pm


(Dedicated to Reticent Mental Property for no particular reason.)

And on the fringe of all this, there is an outlier that barely meets the definition but there is exists, taking potshots at me, forcing me to tease it out until I can take a potshot at IT.


I’ve never been diagnosed as paranoid nor am I. But I have periodic mild episodes that render me MENTAL because I know it is happening! I was denied the high manias of bipolar and I am denied the obliviousness to paranoia.


God has counted every hair on my head (Matthew 10:30) and knows every word before I speak it (Psalms 139). He has deemed me capable of living with the soup kitchen versions of my mental illnesses and though that’s a funny line and though I can complain about these issues, the reality is I have friends who have and do SUFFER from these illnesses. They are not and were not blessed with outliers therein but rather forced into the center of these things like jelly into a donut and so the question is why? Why does God dish it this way here, dish it out that way there and then not dish it out at all or throw an entire smorgasbord on some souls. Why indeed?  We are all God’s children.  Jesus died for the sins of us all,  even the worst people, even pedophiles.  Does our sin manifest in these illnesses The person to whom I dedicated this post tripped me up with my thought process.  She said “God is Love” and yes God is love but there is more.  There is praise.  There is the sacrifice and reward of following Christ and yes God is love and He has forgiven our sins as we forgive those who trespass against us so there is work.  Forgiveness.  Right now, I am unable to forgive a few people.  And there it is….the paranoia. My reward for not turning it over to the Lord. 

I think we are, some of us, organically askew. We have illnesses of the mind. Others, illnesses of the body. But it is the illness of the SPIRIT that dictates the degree of it and the “Other Side” that makes us suffer. I am loathe to use the word “Satan” here but really there is no other word. 

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I found this gif, imagined it in the pages of some young kid’s tumblr, someone who hasn’t yet reached the time in life where the questions of this post are real but is still suffering in that “my pain is cool and needs a tumblr page” phase. That is a deadly phase man. So many do not pass through to the other side and it is not about God. I say “the other side” or “satan” v. God. My mother the reluctant agnostic says “good energy v bad energy”. JPEG v GIF. No matter how you shake it out there is pain. There is pain in the human condition. There is pain so great it pulls down the shade on life and throws the sunshine on death and I have 4 times been fooled by that devil’s trick. And 4 times blessed to survive it.


I get a little paranoid 4 or 5 days in a month. I have the gift or curse of presence of mind and must do battle with it and in terms of battle it’s like arm wrestling vs. World War II. I can’t complain. I can’t complain.


Tonight I raise a prayer to Jesus that all of you, even those of you who have caused me harm, will be released from the Other Side’s grip on your spirit however mild or unacknowledged it is because I know those prayers were raised for me by so many people.


And, you know, that’s who to blame for this blog.



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Untitled #1

I came back to this blog with the intention of telling my story without dressing the pain in spandex and glitter.  I’ve already admitted to being bipolar and living with suicidal tendencies most of my life.  Admitting is not that hard, really.  Confessing, writing without tricks, abandoning obfuscation for raw truth is going to be difficult and I don’t know if I can do it.  The last 24 months have been harrowing though I have come out of it as living proof that (this is going to be a big admission) Jesus is real.   I may have been breathing my last,  laying there soaking in my own blood when this feeling of calm washed over me.  I didn’t fuck it up this time.  I was being freed from the torture of living my life. It was actually something else altogether.  That’s as far as I can go right now with one exception.


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Tame Impala (feat. a kazoo)

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There Is No Dorothy Parker

“This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force.”

Dorothy Parker, writer, drunk, manic depressive, screenwriter, organizer, disappointment, enigma and one of the wittiest minds ever misplaced in the body of a woman is in some ways my hero and my greatest fear because I am afraid I am Dorothy Parker. She is, by definition, one of the greatest wastes of 20th century literary talent. This is not to say I consider myself some sort of literary giant and the world just doesn’t know it. But I could fall into that category of the many cursed women whose talents are born of their demons and the two spend their entire time on earth arguing over who gets the remote. Then the show is over and no one saw anything.

The world should know the name Dorothy Parker before Emily Dickinson but crass and bold does not teach well in school. Especially American schools. Somewhere along the line a decision was made to keep the truth about most things from American children from the Holocaust to women who could write and I mean write: speak through writing so that it is understood and might inspire a child to write themselves, not wax ridiculous with a parasol and a bottle of laudanum. Alright, wait – I can’t really attack Emily Dickinson. She had balls to write the way she did in the mid 19th century but no more or less than Dorothy Parker in the early 20th. Look:

Emily Dickinson on the pain of love:

Heart, we will forget him!

You and I, to-night!

You may forget the warmth he gave,

I will forget the light.

When you have done, pray tell me,

That I my thoughts may dim;

Haste! lest while you’re lagging,I may remember him!

Dorothy Parker, same subject:

“By the time you swear you’re his,

Shivering and sighing.

And he vows his passion is,

Infinite, undying.

Lady make note of this —

One of you is lying.”

It was Parker’s acerbic accusation of what was really her own painful recollection that put her too far outside of what was acceptable. She wrote about the exact same things as Dickinson 70 years AFTER Dickinson, but she was denied any mainstream recognition because she didn’t wrap it in a god damn doily.

Both women wrote of love and suicide, heart ache and hopelessness and both were ground breakers of their time but Parker was left out of the history books. She wrote outward, using “that girl” as herself and “that girl” is usually a VERY thinly disguised whore which she wasn’t but rejection is worn better in a deep shade of red lipstick with your tits thrust forward than it is with the posture and pale face in which it is actually dressed. Dickinson was demure in her sadness. Parker was drunk. And she got drunk more than the men in her circle, authors actors and artists of “The Algonquin Round Table” and I’m not even going to write about them or it. You can click right on it if you want to know more. I’m writing about Emily and Dorothy and why it’s ok to write about suicide as long as you don’t say the words or take the action – which Parker did more than once. Emily Dickinson may have been the most morbidly depressed woman with a pen and paper who ever lived, Sylvia Plath taking the Silver, Virginia Woolf the Bronze and Parker didn’t even medal next to them – unless you really read between the lines – though I suspect without the excitement of her era she might have taken the Bronze. One probably couldn’t help but get off occasionally on bathtub gin and speakeasies during prohibition. That kind of fun might have derailed any number of planned suicide attempts. Jazz and short shimmery dresses and loads of make up and those long cigarettes and the guys dressed so snazzy! You even used the word snazzy. How could you stay focused on suicide when the word “snazzy” was being thrown around left and right?

Despite an overall distaste for Hollywood though, Parker did thrive and became a social and political activist, associating herself with radical anti-fascist groups and left-wing causes. She founded the Hollywood Anti-Nazi League and spoke out in support of several communist groups which would ultimately get her blacklisted during McCarthy’s obscene witch hunt (she also married screenwriter Alan Campbell who was a ridiculous drunk and philanderer with both men and women). Her screenwriting, nonetheless, was fast and witty and landed her two Oscar nominations. I don’t think she showed up for the Oscars either time. Meanwhile, many of her friends from the Vanity Fair and The New Yorker days had forgotten her or begun to die. Eventually, Parker returned to New York where, of all things, she outlived everyone from the Algonquin Round Table. She died alone of course. Eccentric people like Dorothy Parker always die alone in their apartments or hotels. She left her entire estate to the NAACP. No one could figure out why.

I don’t know where I intended to go with this post. I consider Dorothy Parker – one of the most underrated writers in American history – to have been almost conventionally dismissed because of psychological issues. Like many artistic geniuses of questionable mental health she rejected the norm and was too ahead of her time. Add that she was a woman, and now a tough sell has become almost impossible to a chauvinistic public. Give them one good reason to stay within the safe confines of what is traditionally acceptable, to not stretch or take a chance and accept someone odd or weird and they will take it. Mental illness is the nemesis of the artistic visionary.

I think this post could have been better but to quote Dorothy Parker:

“Take me or leave me; or, as is the usual order of things, both.”

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