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I sat at home and watched Dawson�s Creek and Felicity last night. It was funny, how dead-on Katie Holmes and Joshua Jackson got the �we broke up but I still love you but I don�t know what I want so I�m just going to be awkward� thing. Man, how many times have I been there?
Oh, and all those Felicity fans who�ve been hoping Felicity and Knoll would get back together? I hope last night ended that for you, what with Knoll behaving like a jealous little dick and all. (And yes, I know the character�s name is really Noel. If you�re confused by my use of the name Knoll, please go read the Mighty Big TV wrap-ups)
So glad I have that WB escape to look forward to in life�
Anyway�
So I�ve been thinking a lot more about what I wrote yesterday. I got emails from Carla and HSBF Scott and Bison shortly after each of them read my entry, all saying much of the same thing. Let me say again, thank you to all three of you. Y�all made me cry. It�s good to have people who love you. And I am certainly feeling loved.
My problem, the root of so many of the shortcomings in my life, is that I am extraordinarily undisciplined. I�m great at beginning things, but not so great at follow-through. It�s a big issue. And it�s one I don�t really have any idea of how to conquer.
That�s part of why this diary has been so good for me. When I started posting entries into it, I made the commitment that I would put something up here every day that I had computer access. Thus far, I�ve held myself to that. Even on days when I�ve felt like I have nothing to say. Even when my entire entry has been one long grumble. Even when I really haven�t felt at all like writing. I�ve posted something every day that I�ve been able to get into the D-Land screen.
That�s what every writing teacher I�ve ever had has driven home. Write every day, Jennifer. Write something. Every. Day. No fail.
And I won�t pretend that having an audience isn�t part of what�s made me do that. You, reading this�you�re the reason I�ve been able to follow through on my promise to update every day. So thank you, too, for being there.
I haven�t said a whole lot about my dad in here. He�s a subject I avoid a lot.
When I was little, I thought he was Superman. My very charming, well-spoken Daddy could do no wrong in my eyes.
He was a demanding parent. He was also organized to a fault and very pro-education. He�d been the first member of his family to go to college, and was extraordinarily proud of that fact. He had my whole life planned out from the time I was old enough to know what a �future� was. The first incarnation of the Jennifer Plan had me going to Dartmouth for undergrad and then Harvard Law. Once I started leaning toward journalism, he modified that, planning to send me to Northwestern for undergrad and then to the Breadloaf School of English at Middlebury for graduate school.
In eighth grade, my social studies class spent an entire quarter studying the Holocaust. I had trouble with the subject matter. I argued with Mr. Berkowitz, my teacher, about it. He told me I was welcome to not participate in any or all of the unit, but that I would fail. (*Please note, I wasn�t objecting out of a belief that the Holocaust was not a horrible thing, or in thinking that it didn�t happen, or because I thought anyone �got what they deserved.� I objected because the unit presented very graphic material to 13-year-old me that I had trouble processing.). I chose not to participate. Mr. Berkowitz responded by giving me an F- for the quarter (and yes, that would be an F MINUS, the only one ever granted at my junior high that I know of, ever).
My dad lost it. He was angrier than I�d ever seen him. He couldn�t fathom that any child of his could possibly have received such a grade�have deserved such a grade. It was an ugly scene. I was frightened.
It was the first of a lot of ugly scenes between Dad and me revolving around my grades. Wasn�t important to me. Meant the world to him.
My senior year of high school, I filled out three college applications. One for Emerson, one for Middlebury and one for Umass Amherst. I stood a good chance of getting accepted at all three. I shoved all of them in the back of my desk drawer where they stayed, past their cutoff dates, until my mom dug them out in search of the checks that had never cleared.
She told me it was find with her if I didn�t want to go to school, but that I had to tell my father.
The scene that night made the F- scene look like a trip to Disneyland.
I did manage to find a place to go that fall (My Gordon Experience�the parts I haven�t already written about�needs a separate entry). Anything was better than staying home with my dad.
It was about a year after I flunked out of Gordon that Dad moved out of the house. He was manic-depressive. He had a bad shrink. He told my mother that he needed to solve his problems on his own, without her help. Our house got darker and quieter each day. They would come home from being out somewhere and argue in the car for an hour, then come in separately, both in tears. Inside, everyone just stopped talking. They wouldn�t even meet each other�s eyes.
It was the first summer I worked at Great Woods as a full staff member. Dad left the day of the Blues Festival. I went to work in the morning for a double shift. When I got home that night, he and all his stuff were gone.
He and my mom told me the separation was only temporary. They both insisted he was coming back as soon as they could work things out. Maybe they believed that. I never did.
We were at Foxboro Stadium the day it really sank in that my family would never be whole again. My mom was working as an usher supervisor for the David Bowie Sound and Vision show. Dad and I were on the usher staff. I was scanning the backstage area, hoping for a glace at DB himself when my mom came over and started talking to my dad. I wasn�t close enough to hear what they were saying, but watching them together made everything clear. No matter what they said, no matter what they wanted me to believe, my family would never live together under one roof again.
I don�t remember a thing about the show.
Dad bounced around to a couple different living arrangements in the next year, but finally went to California. In that year before he moved, I saw him only a handful of times. For more than half of it, he was living next door to Jill, four minutes from my house.
His moving didn�t improve our relationship. Now we were separated by a three-hour time difference and an eight-hour plane trip. We barely spoke.
I have a few letters from him that I received while he was in CA. Shortly after he moved, he had a breakdown and was hospitalized for depression. His behavior made it obvious he was suicidal. I didn�t know what to do. His letters from the hospital are almost illegible, his hands shook so much. I guess it was from the medication. Shortly after he was released from treatment, he lost his job. Months went by and I didn�t hear anything. Then, suddenly, a plane ticket appeared.
I went to see him in April of 1992, just over a year after he moved. He was living in Dana Beach, dating a woman he�d met out there, looking for a new job. My original travel plans had me out there for 12 days, but he�d changed them so I was coming home after eight, saying that the ticket came from frequent flier miles and the date I was supposed to fly home was blacked out.
Never have I been as nervous as I was getting on that plane.
He was so happy to see me.
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I�ve been staring at this screen now, unable to type any further for about ten minutes.
Maybe I need to come back to Dad later.
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