Potential Spoiler Alert

DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T HAVE A CLUE WHO JON SNOW'S MOTHER MAY BE. THIS IS JUST SPECULATION, BUT COULD STILL BE UPSETTING.



Holy, holy, holy crap!

I finally caved and started searching among forums for the Game of Thrones books. I just wanted to get different takes and perceptions of the significance of the characters and their possible futures. And was instantly hit by a crazy, but fitting possibility!

Jon Snow's mother, one of the great enigmas of this series. At one point, we're given a name of his supposed mother, but she still could have been anyone. One reader on a forum suggested that he was perhaps the son of Lyanna, Ned's dead sister, and the dead prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Not much is said about what happened between the two, beyond the fact that R. captured L. and raped her (which is only said by Robert, the guy obsessed with Lyanna, and Bran, who certainly didn't hear anything like that from his father, who never talked about his sister, and who, by the way, got the story of his uncle and grandfather's death slightly wrong too), and she died with a fever, among blood, and repeating "Promise me!" to Ned, while clutching blue roses. And we're never told what she made him promise her, that made the fear leave her eyes. I assumed from that same chapter that she just wanted to be taken home and buried in the family crypt and that Robert's account of her being taken and raped by Rhaegar was reliable--that was the implication from the chapter, but now, I'm definitely not so sure.

Later in the series, the two Reed kids tell Bran a fantastical version of how their father met his father, and it mentions that Rhaegar meets Lyanna at some tournament, and that the wolf girl cries over the dragon prince's harp music, and he crowns her as the queen of love and beauty, with blue roses.

My eyes are freaking watering right now! Jon could be both a Stark and a Targaryen, that Ned passed off as his own son. He adored his sister, and WOULD be willing to take him in and claim him as his, risk his reputation with society and strain his relationship with his wife. It fits with the honor of Ned Stark, and fits the title of this series: A Song of Ice and Fire, which yeah, is already fitting with the White Walkers and the Dragons, but is actually embodied by Jon Snow, a son of ice (Stark) and fire (Targaryen). The whole idea is so freaking brilliant! And maybe it isn't true, but it somehow feels right to me.

It's strange that I had already forgotten about Lyanna. She doesn't deserve that, and even if she isn't Jon Snow's mother, I would love to learn more about her. But Ned is dead...

I love these two songs from the HBO series. I love the Starks.

Bonding Time with Dad

I'm too irritated and conflicted and frustrated that I have to type this out! I would lose it if I had to slow down to my writing-with-a-pen pace. And my handwriting would be completely unreadable, which would piss me off more. Because I'm so particular about some things! God.

My dad. He has no EFFING idea of what a terrible father he was when we were growing up. He blames all my social quirks on the DIVORCE. It's like he's forgotten, or even worse, was never even aware of what he was doing to us, how it was affecting us. Forgotten that we were well-aware of mom's intention to serve the divorce papers, that we went behind his back, planned to run away, and took off with mom without dropping a hint. For all I know, he's convinced himself that mom took us against our will. HAHAHAHHAA. Tonight he asked if I thought I was so insecure because of the divorce. Because of the divorce's shock factor. And for some reason, I can't just come out and say, "Dad, the divorce was the best thing that ever happened to me, to all of us who left." Instead, I laugh, and can only say, "No Dad, that has nothing to do with it." Its source is only the effing abuse we received from you, Pops.

He was stretched out on this big, fancy bed and talking about all these different, beautiful women who are "completely taken with him". These women all look the same, and talk his ear off for hours, and he "plays the game." I'm so tired of hearing about and being shown pictures of these women from MySpace (does that tell you anything?) and LDS dating websites. They will talk to him for hours, but won't actually meet him. Or they set up a time and place, then blow it off.

Then we were talking about Thanksgiving, the family, and pies, when he suddenly blurted out, "Do you like boys, Tiffany?" Ever since Kjerstie came out, he's suspected all of us. I remember how he would get after Nikki and Char in high school. If they didn't have any friends, he proclaimed they were hermits. If they had girl friends to hang out with, he accused them of being lesbians. If Nikki went on one rare date and was ten minutes late getting back, he called the cops and accused her of having sex. There was no pleasing him. One time in high school, Julie put up a picture of her and her best friend as a profile picture, and he asked me if I thought Julie was a lesbian...

"Yes Dad, I'm attracted to guys." "Well, how come you haven't been dating anyone while you've been down here?" "Because I'm not staying here for long." He didn't respond, obviously expecting more from me. "Because I don't want to date anyone, Dad. Because I have trust issues with men, because I'm insecure, inexperienced. Because I never have really dated anyone. I've only ever been on one date, Dad, in my whole life." He randomly threw out, "Well, what about that guy who used to give you rides home?" "'What about him?" "That wasn't nothing." "Yes, it was. He was just being nice. We lived on the same road. It would've been weird if he didn't offer." "No, Tiffany. THAT was a relationship." Wow, Dad, wow. "Oh really, so, car rides involving strained, awkward conversation, or stoic silences, is a relationship?" Then he started laughing, repeating "stoic silences." Then said, "But you liked him, right?" "What's the point of this, Dad?"

Then, he randomly went into how he doesn't blame himself that I fell away from the church, starting abruptly with, "You read the scriptures more than once, right?" "Uh, yes." (Did he forget how many times we all read it together?) "That's right. You did. And you made your covenants with Him, not me. It was not between us." "Right..." Pause. What did he want me to say? "Yeah, no guilt for you, Dad."

Well, gee, I guess it's a good thing he doesn't blame himself?? Even though he definitely played a part in my decision, has always played a part in my distrust of the whole religion, and maybe he should feel guilty. Because he was never a good or kind or loving parent or husband. His status and public image at church meant more to him than all of us put together, something I've known since I was seven. Around the time he started telling/yelling at me that I was going to hell because I had skipped or mispronounced a word in our neverending scripture sessions, but not to worry daughter, he would sully himself and descend to my worthless level and help me see the light, and I would be so grateful to him. God, those sessions. Where I learned that quantity meant so much more to my dad than quality. We never once talked about what we read. We just each had to read a chapter. Six chapters, in other words. And it always ended with one of his disgusting, neverending prayers that supposedly demonstrated just how spiritual and holy he was, always ending in fake tears and that repulsive, whimpered, sanctimonious, "amen."

That was around the time when I realized that the nameless frustration, anger and outrage I felt towards him could be formed into one word. Hate. I can remember the exact moment.

God, you know what? I don't want to talk about this anymore. Tip of the iceberg with him, I've barely begun, but whatever. My point was that it is hard to reconcile my two different perceptions of him, as a child stuck with a controlling, paranoid, abusive father and as an adult. He has mellowed out some and it's been the weirdest thing in the world to occasionally have normal, rational conversations that almost feels like he cares about me and who I am. I don't know what to do with it. I try so hard to forget the first perspective, but it isn't possible. Because every time I encounter little reminders or behaviors or tones or anything remotely related to him and the past abuse, I react too strongly and I actually go into a state of panic and fear, and I'm forced to remember. It will never go away.

Like I said, I don't know how to reconcile the two perspectives. I still HATE the man he was, but I only feel irritation and exasperation with his current form of character. I do not love him. And I never have loved him.

Love the man who pulled my arm out of joint when I was four and told me to quit crying? The man who would leave the engine running when he filled the car with gas, and would not let us get out of the vehicle, knowing the risk? The man who whistled for his daughters like dogs? The man who wouldn't let us play with any friends? The man who lost his temper over everything (ex. the absence of a ketchup bottle) and yelled for hours, sometimes crossing over into physical abuse (we never could know when it would happen), the man who blamed everything on my poor mother, who had already been abused as a child by her mother? The man who would throw her books against the walls to break their spines? The man who told us again and again that he was the head of the house, his will was law, it didn't matter what we wanted, because he was the man? My father, who told me and my sisters that women were only made by God to give men pleasure and children, and weren't meant for anything else? No girls, Mommy can't lead this Family Home Evening because she's a woman. No girls, you can't lead the meeting either, because you can't ever hold the priesthood. Say the prayer, Tiffany. Say I'm so grateful to have a righteous father who holds the priesthood and who loves us so much. 

Creep on eggshells, don't wake him up. Don't make any noise.

Don't cry. Don't backtalk. Just go away into that empty place inside, ignore everything he is saying, everything that he is yelling, because it's not true. See all the rage and hate in his eyes? See it and lock it away somewhere. Forget it.

Maybe he'll get in a car crash and die on the way home from work tonight, and then we'll be free, and Mom can find someone good, someone she deserves, and we will all finally be happy. Home will be a safe place. I prayed for that every night as a kid.
No. I will never love him.

There's a million more specific things I can come up with. But I'm tired, and what's the point? I will never allow myself to be drawn into another kind of abusive relationship. Never. I will not go through that shit ever again. But I'm terrified that it will happen. And to feel such a vulnerable, overwhelming love for someone and express it...and then to later discover, to feel it all to turn to ashes in my mouth...

I can't be in any relationship. I won't let it happen. I'm content on my own. I can make my own happiness and live a full life. I have a spine. My dad's parting words tonight were "Marriage is ideal, Tiff." Yeah, maybe it is for most people. Why haven't you gotten married again?

I may have skipped over one huge thing that matters just as much as the other factors (Dad and screwed up Mormonland (which I guess I didn't talk about either)) in this decision. But I won't talk about it. I can only say that I am absolutely certain that dating is not for me.