She's Ba-ack...

I don't really know where to start. But I feel like I have to start somewhere. It's got to come out or it will poison me. There was a chapter of my life I thought was over, a book that had been closed and burned. But some things, like a bad penny, keep returning. The book is back open, and I don't know the ending anymore.

My former stepmother is back. We'll call her Linette. Cuz, well, that's her name. Or I think that was her name. There were some mysterious things about her, the history of her name among them. I always called her Linette to her face. Behind closed doors I had other names. There were documents with other names too. And her age was always in question. Somehow she was younger than my dad, but her youngest child was still older than my dad's oldest.

Let's go back to how I came to have a stepmother in the first place; I'll try to keep it short. My parents split right before I turned 13. I remember they took me to dinner at Denny's to tell me, someplace public so I wouldn't make a scene. They sold our house in the "good" part of town, and I moved with my mother into a one-bedroom apartment in the bad part of town.

Now, teenage girls not getting along with their mothers is nothing new, but I was having a particular challenge with my mom. Maybe it's because of where we lived, but she was extremely protective of me. She used to take me to the bus stop and wait there till the bus came. I wasn't allowed to walk a block-and-a-half to the library by myself. And I was 14. I felt stifled, babied, and I didn't like it. 14, 15, 16 - those are kind of dark years for me...more than enough for 10 blog entries, maybe even a book - but at 15 I decided I couldn't really take living with my mom anymore and went to live with my dad. Sure, he lived on the good side of town and I had my own room at his place, but that wasn't the appeal - I had freedom. I could cook for myself, walk to the bus stop by myself, I could get "alone" time. That was soooo...different.

Shortly after I moved in with my dad, we both moved in with his then-girlfriend. She seemed nice enough, we lived in a different city, walking distance from the beach, I had my own room that I could decorate myself (can you say "pink bordello"?). She had dogs- dogs that meant more to her (and eventually to my dad) than even children. She became my stepmother shortly before I turned 16. There you go, my stepmother - professional photographer who somehow couldn't make a living at it, bottle blonde, oh - and raging alcoholic.

I soon came to know that there was a fine line between "independence" and "neglect" or even "abuse." I can't tell you all the stories, I don't even want to. I'll never stop writing, or I'll write things that aren't fit to print. Like the time I was coming down with strep and had to ride my bike to a basketball game in winter because the dogs had to go to dog school so no one could drive me. Or the time I did something wrong- I don't remember what, I probably made dinner wrong - and she threw plates at me. And why was I making dinner? Because she was usually too drunk to by dinner time. Now, I don't want to say no one cared...they did put me in therapy. But it had to be the ones they liked. The one I loved best was the one they wouldn't let me stay with. The one who told me how smart I was and that I had to protect myself. CUT! On to the next therapist. Let's keep in mind we're not talking about a total screw-up kid here. I was still a straight-A student, cheerleader, did my chores, had a job, went to church every week. But I did have a bad habit of taking out my anger on my hair. And a few eating disorders.

After I turned 16, my sister and her infant daughter came to live with us. I know this was a lot to take on, but my sister, six years my senior, had just left an abusive relationship (I am proud (?) to say I am the first woman in my immediate family who's never had a guy beat her). My sister needed a place to stay and a job and wasn't going to try to live off anyone. She actually got a job working at the company my stepmother worked at. This allowed her to see how many times my stepmother was drunk in the office. It also allowed her to absolutely kick Linette's butt at work. Can you say, "Threatened?"

It was around this time when my dad took my sister and me aside and said we were putting too much of a strain on his new marriage, and we needed to move. out. without parents.

And you know what? We did. My 22-year-old sister, her now-toddler daughter, and 16-year-old me got a cute little apartment in an OK part of town and lived off my sister's salary, my little paychecks, and the child support check that my dad was obligated to pay to my caregiver. My sister went to night school, got married to a nice guy, I eventually moved back in with my mom, and graduated high school with honors. I got my own place at 19. We didn't talk to my dad much. He made his choice.

I did see my dad (and that woman) a few times over the next 10 or so years. I put myself through college and he came to my graduation. Someone told me he cried. Not sure if that was pride or guilt he was feeling. When I got married, I wanted to make some attempt at family and invited him to walk me down the aisle. We weren't sure if he would show. He came by himself, walked me down the aisle, and left. I think that's the only picture I have with him at my wedding.

By the time I had my first child, I determined that I wanted my kids to have a relationship with their grandfather. Good news for us, I guess, in that my dad and stepmother were in the process of divorcing, he was retired, had lots of free time, and he moved about 20 minutes away from me (Linette moved to Texas). Things weren't perfect and I would be foolish to think something that damaged could be glued back together with no visible cracks, but my dad seemed to be making an attempt to bond with my children to make up for what he never gave me. And he did a pretty good job at it. Babysits my kids, comes to events with us. Was there for every baptism, every birthday party.

Until this week. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, dad can't make his only grandson's birthday party.

Because his second ex-wife, Linette, is moving back into town that day.

I guess co-dependency never really dies. Bye dad, see you around sometime. Watch out for your plates.