back in.

 

It’s hard for me to accept. Impossible to foresee what the outcome will be.

Either all I have worked for comes to fruition and my life changes entirely, or… it doesn’t.

Like the 1st letter I sent to the person who, after searching for 25 years, I knew was my birth mother, and the wait after that. Like fighting so hard and so long to make a dream come true that the final act of jumping into the unknown is the only direction to go anymore, I need to take a deep breath, and believe.

It’s time to let go.

Let go of nearly all of the control I had, and just do my best to aim away from the rocks and trees as I soar past them, faster than I’ve become familiar with over the years of lying immobile in a hospital bed and then my own, planning for this time as life passed me by.

It’s time to join life again. To jump back in the game.

It’s getting closer. It’s what I have worked so hard for. It’s what I have studied far too much for – and I’m terrified. I need to remember how to love being afraid, because I *sure* as hell have forgotten – and I recall not that long ago when being afraid, when doing something I had NO idea how to do was like a drug for me – a euphoria. Where the hell did that person go?
I need to do some digging around inside of me & find him again. Maybe he’s just sleeping – feeling unloved and under used.

This will light a fire under his ass.

Very soon, it comes to the point where I have to release this to the world, and see if they approve. See if they are interested enough in me enough to support my project, and hope that they are.

Will they see me? Do they want to know me?

Will they love me?

Sure, I’m frightened – but I also believe that it’s time to light a fire under MY ass, and which-ever way this goes – in some way, it will be successful.

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tearing down the final stones

Yesterday, after finally completing the 2,000th draft (or somewhere around there), I dug around my apartment gathering stray nickels, dimes, & even pennies for the stamp that would send it on its way. It could not be put off any longer.

It’s out of my hands now, on its way to Boise friggin’ Idaho, to be opened within the next few days by one Donald Lee Mathern.
My Father.
It was much more difficult than I expected trying to word a letter to a man who on New Year’s even in 1966 slept with my Mother, once, in celebration of the new year.
Forty-seven years and a few weeks later finding out for the first time that union bore him a son.
Surprise.

I have yet to speak with my mother about that evening, to ask all th things I want to know, to hear the entire story of who they were to each other before and after they unknowingly created me.

I would like to imagine that it was a beautiful evening full of romance, laughter, and love. I would like to imagine them as lovers, if only for a single night.


I said in the beginning of my letter to him that if he drinks, now would be a good time to pour one.

I wish I wasn’t so fucking broke. I could use a few drinks too in order to quiet this head.

I had told myself that he didn’t really matter. She was the only one I wanted to find, she was the one who sacrificed. He just played the part of donor. Don’t really care about knowing who he might be.
I think I might have been wrong in this illusion I made myself believe.

At least it’s out of my hands now. What’s done is done… and perhaps I should start tearing down the last of my walls.

Surprise, I’m your spawn!

(Failed attempt to write a letter to my Father # 3,514. I’ll get it right before the New Moon on the 25th of this month… after all, I was born on a new (aka dark) moon –  what better time to send the letter and twist his reality around?)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

New Years Eve, ’66-’67.

Think back. Remember what you were doing? You were in California, celebrating the new year with a beautiful woman.

She still is.
She tells me that you were a good man, a good friend to her for many years. A childhood companion, or something like that. She has never spoken a bad word about you.

 

When I wrote to her, it was the most difficult thing I had ever written in my entire life – up until now.

See… this is the thing:. She knew about me already.
You don’t, nor ever have. You had no idea that on that night, celebrating the new year in joy with Annie Stenerson, you created… me.

Hi. I’m your son. People call me Casey.
I need to let you know that I am not looking for anything from you that you aren’t willing to offer. I am not here to turn your life upside down. I have no idea who you are or what your life is like, and I understand that you may have a family of your own, which I do not want to harm, create turmoil, or damage in any way.

Please know this – I have my own life, as I’m certain that you do as well. If you need to keep me a secret, I understand – some things simply are better left in the past, but if you do have a family, I hope that the person your son (me) has become is a reflection of you – honest and with a full heart.
I don’t hide anything. There are probably many who would be proud to call me their son… but only Annie and you truly can! Isn’t that amazingly cool?

I am alive because of you. After nearly 47 years I pop up and call you out as my father. This cannot be denied – you are my father, and I am your son. Your child.

The decision to acknowledge my existence in your life is up to you. I know it is not an easy one… none of this is. It’s not every day that you receive a letter from a child of yours that you weren’t aware of.

HI! How the hell are you? I’m your “oops”. Nice to meet you!

 

A little more than a year ago, I finally met my mother, Annie Stenerson – and she’s just as cool as she probably was back then. I searched for her for over 25 years – over half of my life – but all of my life I wanted to find her. Needed too. She carried me for nine months, gave me up so that I might have a better life, a life she couldn’t give me at the time – and also that unwed pregnancy thing? Not so socially acceptable 46 years ago.

Please don’t take this in a bad way, but I wasn’t really concerned with finding you. You don’t even know I am alive. I don’t want to disrupt your life. You… you just happened, much like I did.

I choose not to think that either of us were “mistakes”. Without you, I could not have lived the life I have. Without you, I wouldn’t even exist… and my life has been truly amazing. I have helped people. Inspired them. Loved them, and continue to.

I have been told that I am a good person, a “good man.” That has little to do with the “dad” that raised me, it has been a personal quest from the first moment I understood “Self”.