figments + fragments

A blog of some short stories, mostly poetry, figments of fiction, fragments of memory, brain dumps, and who knows what else — penned by Elizabeth Carry (less the many better-written reblogs in between).

[stillhere-erehllits]

This a a reminder to not fall victim to the sunk-cost fallacy. Just because you invested time and energy into something, does not mean you should indefinitely waste more time and energy on it, if you decide it’s not what you want anymore. This goes for anything, from books, to relationships, to jobs, to hobbies, etc.

If it’s not serving you anymore, move on.

[goth-queen]

[weltenwellen]

Adonis, tr. by Samuel Hazo, from “The Crow’s Feather”, The Pages of Day and Night

[mournfulroses]

María Casares, from a letter to Albert Camus, featured in Correspondance, 1944-1959

[figmentsfragments]

Monster

once upon an olden day

I refused to be swept away

in ever-changing tides

‘til time sanded corners smooth

and I lost light behind my eyes

tell me who you see

a monster unaware they can be

offload your every flaw

onto a better conscience

somewhere between

keeping peace and keeping score

I misplaced the sharpest

pieces of my soul

tell me who you see

because

lately

I have mistaken

surrender

for kindness

and self

with enemy

tell me who you see

when the mirror empties

[e.carry]

[figmentsfragments]

how miserable

how long

a beautiful life

becomes

waiting for

the next one

to reunite with

particular someones

[e.carry]

[figmentsfragments]

Spotify is attacking me???

[petaltexturedskies]

Robert Frost, in a letter to a letter to Louis Untermeyer, dated 1 January 1916, from The Letters of Robert Frost to Louis Untermeyer

[figmentsfragments]

Persinette’s Psalm

[E. Carry, 2026]

sing me home

back to our nest

where I find your eyes

I’ll lay to rest

pebbles strike panes

I’ve sheltered behind

until shattered shards

requite the night

pull me down

from the spired pyre

outrun the stars

until I’m yours

[figmentsfragments]

3.

As of this week, I am three years sober. I fought tooth and nail for some of those days and coasted through others. Sobriety is a wild ride because life is a wild ride, so I’ll never try to predict what tomorrow may bring. But the advice I have for my future self is the same I have for anyone in a similar place: Hold steady through the worst; your life is always worth it.

[vexheart]

until you learn the lesson

[figmentsfragments]

“The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children.”

- William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

Today, entirely unprompted, my dad gave me a real apology. He looked into my eyes and admitted he was unfairly mean to me for my entire childhood—that he targeted me without even knowing why. He claimed he didn’t know he was doing it.

I’ve never heard him say any of this, and I don’t know if I even needed to hear it anymore. Still, there was comfort in the confirmation that I didn’t make up the stories of my life. The easiest answer was always to write me off as sensitive, melodramatic, or delusional. I wasn’t then, and I’m not now. I was well-trained to doubt that, though.

I told him I knew now he was mostly trying to joke around with me in the beginning, but he waited too long to realize I was a child taking my father seriously. Then I became deeply aware of the table perceiving me and wrapped up the discussion.

If I had gathered my thoughts in time or knew how to receive his apology better, I would’ve said more. I might’ve conceded that, yes, he was frequently cruel to me and seemed to hate so many parts of who I was as a person from an early age. I would’ve said that I know he mostly hated the parts of himself he saw reflected in me. I realized that years ago. I have come to my own terms with it. (Short version: I’ve done a moderate amount of psychedelics and a mild amount of therapy.)

My relationship with my father is complicated and often confusing to me, but it’s been in a decent place for a while now. Perhaps that’s generous on my part, perhaps weak. I’ve learned to sit with opposing truths of my father: he is now a kind, old man who has grown deeply and worked hard to be better. He thinks before speaking and considers the feelings of others, which I didn’t previously believe possible. He cares genuinely about my interests and life, and he thinks I’m the coolest person in the world. These are today’s truths. And, also, he is the man that consistently tortured me until I broke down for eighteen years. He relished physically and psychologically pushing me to see how far he could go, and then he’d disappear each time I broke. He was often absent from our family, even when he was sitting right beside us. He was easily enraged but also frequently joking, and then he’d go right back to being dark—suddenly and without warning. He was petty, deceitful, and sneaky. He would read my diary and recite it back to me with a smirk and a chuckle, until I eventually stopped writing. He would make fun of my appearance and the appearances of strangers in front of me. His criticism of others became my inner critic of my own appearance.

He delighted in making me cry.

He found joy in making me fear for my life—especially behind the wheel of a car.

My father instilled the unoriginal litany of absentee parent phrasing into my synapses (i.e. “Speak when spoken to,” “This is my house. You merely occupy a room,” etc). I think he believed himself to be doing a bit, like a satirical impression of his own absentee parents. At the time, it stung like sincerity. My father’s words haunt me often, and I find even more discomfort in things he only ever said once. At age four, “I always knew you’d be the slutty disappointment daughter.” At age eleven, “I don’t even think I weighed as much as you when I graduated high school.” At age fifteen, “I just want to start my life over and do everything differently.” At age sixteen, “I think I hate who you’ve become.”

A multifaceted mystery always, my father was a kind, gentle, loving caretaker to his grandparents for the first three years of my life. They only lived a short five minute drive away, so he went over to check on them often—and so would I. Granddad had physical limitations and Glo was in advanced stages of Alzheimer’s. The two of us would go over to their place and I’d sit on the couch listening to Glo talk in circles while my dad did laundry, dishes, or small household handiwork. The best evenings there were the ones when Dad and Granddad would play poker and have chocolate mousse cake. I remember flashes of evenings and afternoons spent there, but mostly I remember being confused. I couldn’t understand why my father was willing to cook and clean so helpfully for his grandparents but not his wife and children. He continued taking loving care of Glo and Granddad until each had passed.

My sister and I were made aware from the start that we were inherent disappointments for neither being a son. As a toddler, I promised him I’d carry on the family legacy of joining the army - simply because I’d never seen him look so proud as when I randomly said it once. I joined a soccer team coached by his best friend at age five and he was my assistant coach. Two years later, I asked my mom to convince him to retire from coaching to devote his time to being a parent on the sidelines; what I never said was that I couldn’t bear having one more venue for him to scream at me. I watched science fiction and cooking shows with him while my mother and sister were at dance class; in the earlier years we’d eat scrambled eggs or hot dogs, both covered in ketchup. Eventually, after a few years of watching 30 Minute Meals, he bought a Rachael Ray cookbook and began making incredibly delicious frittatas for dinner on dance class nights. We’d work on home repair projects together, which mostly involved me noticing crucial mistakes he was making and him defensively continuing on anyway—cursing loudly, kicking the project, and eventually rebuilding it correctly with me in the silence of his shame. He preferred for me to simply hold the flashlight or level in silence, but I struggled to just watch him misread directions. I had a bad habit of assuming my advice was helpful. I was often called a “SMASK” or a Smart-Ass Kid for my habitual backtalk (otherwise known as opinions/thoughts/feelings). He would try to make degrading comments about random women to me, complain about my mom, say ignorant things about minorities, and all kinds of other insane shit. I never held my tongue with my thoughts on his disgusting commentary, and that always enraged him extra. No matter how much he hoped, I’d never be the son he yearned for and his name would die with his daughters.

I learned early that my father wasn’t fully capable of parenting. I distinctly remember correcting him when he was trying to help me with potty training, as he couldn’t even describe wiping in the safe direction for my anatomy. He didn’t take kindly to being (accurately) corrected by a toddler. My family used to laugh about how I’d stop crying whenever my father entered the nursery. They said it proved I was manipulating my mother into coddling me. What it actually proved was that I already knew he wouldn’t comfort me. By the time I was five, my mother had to quit the HOA board because I would bang on the front door each time she left, screaming and crying, “Don’t leave me alone with him!”

Nine times out of ten, my dad would say no to family pool trips even though the neighborhood pool was a hundred yards from our front door. On that one rare chance he came with us, he’d throw me in the air across the pool as much as I asked and “Tigger Bounce” me while doing his loudest impression of the character. Without fail, I would always pee just the tiniest bit from how hard I was giggling. I’d always beg him to come with us, praying for fun family pool time instead of listening to my mom talk the entire time.

During the first few walking years of my life, I sprinted to the door at the first sound of his keys. I was so excited just to hug him, ask how his day was, and ask today’s date. Five days a week, he’d tell me the date and I’d say, “No, no—I meant the week day.” I spent every day looking forward to the answer of Friday because it meant two days with him around and maybe some activities as a family. Eventually, I started school and stopped asking, but I still desperately yearned for weekends. They held soccer games and church always (both family-wide command performances), and, on really great weekends, we went to the movies or played a board game. The latter was my weekly request that was granted maybe thrice a year.

I wish I had blatantly told him how much more I needed him around and how badly I wanted to feel at home. I wish I had said it back then.

Something else that I wish I had said today, with the entire family gathered, would be that it wasn’t just him that was the problem. I always felt I was born into an already-complete family and I was an extra person who didn’t belong. Some of my earliest memories involve all three of my family members teasing me relentlessly until I cried, while I sat alone in the third row of the minivan. I remember them gaslighting me about my own experiences, constantly. Having family-wide affirmations against my better knowledge messed with my head quite a bit. My sister was my first bully. She physically abused me, as early as my infancy (this I don’t remember, but I’ve seen the family videos). She was two and a half when I was born, so I do blame the parents behind the camera, once again. I blame her for mental and emotional abuse that followed in later years. I don’t think my sister understood what any of us were becoming to each other any more than I did.

And, my god, I could write books about everything done by my mother, but I don’t want to follow Jeannette McCurdy so directly.

In many ways, I am like my father. I can be stubborn, neurotic, hard-headed, arrogant, and a sarcastic asshole. I make jokes at the wrong time, I don’t always read the room, and I tell many stories and fun facts far too often. I inherited a large portion of my taste in music, movies, and television from him, my love of thrift stores and yard sales, a foolishly relentless belief in the kindness of strangers, and the ability to make home repair projects remarkably precise but three days slower than estimated. My neurodivergence came from him, obviously. My blue eyes, susceptibility towards skin cancer and alcoholism, tragic gut health, and — I suspect — the hypermobile joints, too. There is far more to me than just what I inherited from him, but he is always part of me in ways varying in virtue. In the nature and nurture of it all, as much of who I am exists in spite of him as because of him. I refused to learn and absorb behaviors from him that I deemed horrifying, and thankfully I was born with a strong sense of justice.

There are many things about my father that I will never make excuses for or guess at explanations. I don’t understand the racism he exhibited when I was young, and I don’t know if he grew out of it or grew quiet about it. I don’t understand how he could be so homophobic when I was young and then be such an ally now. I won’t try to understand cruelty or hatred within him. I would say, though, that I understand he wasn’t emotionally mature enough to be a parent at the time he became one. Or perhaps he just wasn’t prepared for life with a second child. And I don’t really fault him for that, but I do fault him for not doing anything about it. I fault him for leaving me to be raised entirely alone by an emotionally unstable mother. I fault him for openly favoring my sister and creating alliances in our household. I fault him for hurting me. I fault him for creating a flinch I can’t grow out of and a relentless shrinking each time I hear a man raise his voice. I fault him for teaching me to fear large rings, the passenger seat, and apathy.

I fault him for ending my lifelong friendship in his pathetic attempt to end his marriage. He cheated on my mother for several years with dozens of women, and one turned into a ‘committed’ affair with my best friend’s mother. Her mother was my Girl Scout troop leader and my mother’s best friend. Her husband was my soccer coach and my father’s best friend. My best friend and I both knew that my father and her mother had a weirdly boundary-crossing friendship and it made things really strange between us for about two years. Finally, my sister and I found his unlocked phone on family vacation and photographed all the evidence we could find. We presented it to my mother, who declared she would never leave him because she needed his work-provided insurance. She did make the house unlivably hostile and forced him to get involved in the church. She also sent aggressively accusatory Facebook messages to my best friend’s mother, and I never really heard from her again. After twenty years of friendship, I lost the best friend I’d had since I was in diapers. I fault him for every part of that multifamily drama and for all the waves of impact. I fault him for spending years lying to everyone.

I looked back into his eyes, more tired than I remembered them, as he apologized to me, and I felt how deeply he meant it. I don’t reach for his hand anymore when I cross streets, but he reaches for my arm. He calls me more often now, so I don’t answer with, “Who died?” I text him when I find things I think he’d enjoy and on days I sense he’s struggling. We’re both sober, forgetful shells of who we once were and that may be a blessing for him. I sit my conflicting feelings toward him at the same table, but I still don’t know where I fall on the scale of forgiveness.

I don’t have the heart to say most of these things to him, at this stage of life. I fear breaking him with my words. I pray I feel brave enough to say some of it while we both have time.

I worry about my father constantly.

And, despite every reason not to, I love him.

[E. Carry, 5/10/2026]

[figmentsfragments]

Actual Text from my Actual Mother

[remanence-of-love]

[paper-wounds]

[remanence-of-love]

[road-killfawn]