rescue

August 5, 2013 …

“You are not welcome here,” she didn’t say.
“Now is not a good time to visit,” she did say.

Visit? They invited me! For respite! For recovery! I’m dying from mold poisoning! I evacuated my home of 10 years and drove more than 550 miles, over several terrifying days, to get this far! What do you mean, now is not a good time to visit?!

I don’t say any of this. Instead, I say, “Of course. Talk to you later.” I calmly hang up my cell phone, pick up the room phone and dial zero.

“Please call 9-1-1,” I say to the Lithia Springs Resort receptionist. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

Heart racing, can’t breathe. My father (via his wife) has rescinded his invitation. The only reason I’m in Ashland is because I’m trying to get to his house, another 300 miles away. Devastated is an excellent word for how I feel right now.

Interestingly, the day before I wrote in my journal:
Finally acknowledging that my family is not going to help me the way I need.
I can rescue myself.
I’m really the only person who can.
Prefer to stay in Ashland instead of white-knuckling it another 300 miles to people who don’t like my tone when I’m in the middle of a panic attack.
Not restful there.

However, hearing it baldly over the phone… crash crash crash. Daughter-hopes smashing to the ground.

He does love me.

He helped me leave LA when I was 18 and stuck in an abusive relationship. Drove down with his yellow pick-up and loaded me up, Bianca Kitty and all.

In Mexico, when a man in a gift shop suggested we go out for a drink. I’m grateful — now — that my Dad walked over and said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I wasn’t familiar with boundaries at the time.

He went to therapy with me when I was clinically depressed in my twenties and recovering from sexual abuse.

So why isn’t he helping me now? Why has he turned me away when I am dying? When I’ve come so far to see him?

In the distance, I hear the comforting sound of sirens, coming for me.

911

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