Discover Mare Martell

10/03 :  Part 5,000,001

   Today I spoke with a former advisor about the situation with my father. It was suggested that perhaps replacing the lost revenue in some way would allow my father to relinquish control. After lengthy discussion, I acquired permission to give contact information to my father to hopefully get Matt help. I attempted to call and wasn't able to contact my father.

A while later, he called me back upset because the application that he's supposed to fill out with the child support office didn't come filled out for him (essentially). When I answered the phone, however, this is how the conversation began.

"Hello there! I was trying to call you!"
"You couldn't have been calling me. I dialed your number."
"No, I mean I tried to call earlier and didn't get you."
"I DON'T SEE HOW YOU CALLED ME!"
"Dad, I didn't call you right now. I called you earlier."
"I just picked up the phone. I just dialed your number. You can't have called me."
*sigh* "What do you need dad?"
"I called up to that child support place and talked with (the lady) who didn't put the sticky note on the application."
"Why not? I gave her the information."
"She said she couldn't give the information I gave her to me."
"Dad, you didn't give her the information. I did."
"RULES! RULES! RULES! Always with the fucking rules! Why can't they just give me the information I asked for instead of making me jump through all these damn hoops all the time."
"It's a confidentiality thing. You weren't the one that gave her the information."
"Why does it matter? I'm going to get it from you anyway."
I gave him the information he requested. He then went on a rant about how he's broke. He spent his last $50 bucks on a weight machine he still owes $50 bucks on and shouldn't as per the prior post. After he settled down, I said:
"So, about why I called."
"Shit the bed, Fred. I called you!"
"Do you want the number to the advisor or not?"
"What advisor?"
"The one you asked me to contact regarding Matthew?"
"Well fuck, let me get a pen...okay, what's the number?"
"***-**"
"What?!"
"Dad, you okay?"
"Just trying to write the number down on a piece of paper on the couch cushion and it's not working out too well."
"Oh, ready?"
"Okay, *......*......*, what's the rest? I missed it."
"***-***"
"DAMN IT! What was it again?"
"***-**.......**"
"***-**#$?"
"No, ***-****."
"Appreciatecha" *click*

Not long after that, I received a phone call from Matt's case manager. He said he couldn't talk to me without a written form giving consent. I explained that I don't want any information from him, I want to give him information. My father had given verbal consent to this man for me to speak to him. So I did. I told him everything I know goes on and has gone on in that household. I explained how I have first hand knowledge of the behaviors in that house. I'm healthy emotionally, happy nearly all the time, but that whole house atmosphere agitated every bone in my body. I couldn't keep from feeling overwhelmed by the negativity that sputters and chokes the air there.

By the time the conversation with him ended, he said that same thing I did. He said DCS needs to be involved. I said, to my knowledge, they are already. I called them and reported the behavior that occurs there. I'm thinking that blood on my hands should be the least of my worries. I'm thinking that blood spilled would be blood earned (figuratively of course.)