You're on your own, kid
you always have been
This is part seven of a series. Here is part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, and part six.
Years ago, long before the popularization of the Instant Pot, Eric and I tried out a different kind of pressure cooker. I was familiar with larger varieties from my mother's years of canning preserves from our garden, but this one was smaller, meant to be used for every day cooking.
We had a big garden of our own by then and had probably attended some kind of preparedness meeting at the church where we learned about the device. Our ward did group buys for products like solar ovens, 72-hour kits, and hand crank wheat grinders (for when the electrical grid failed in the last days prior to Jesus's return, of course).
We tried out the pressure cooker by following one of the provided recipes for chicken and rice. I don't know what went wrong, but that lid sealed itself like it was the last thing standing between us and the center of hell. It was terrifying.
The red needle on the gauge was spinning wildly, steam was screaming from the seams, and the whole thing was rocking and rattling--trying to walk itself right off the counter. If I remember right, there was some kind of pressure release, but it wouldn't open, or had malfunctioned, so pressure continued to build and build.
Eric had me get the kids out of the house while he cut the power source and tried to figure out how to release the pressure without turning the appliance into a bomb.
From outside in the backyard, I heard an explosion, told the kids to remain on the swing, and ran back inside to make sure Eric hadn't blown off a limb. Chicken goo was everywhere and we had a dent in the ceiling from the pressure cooker lid! Eric was standing in the kitchen, covered in chicken and rice, holding a gigantic plumber's wrench. It would have been hilarious if it hadn't been so scary.
I don't care how popular those Instant Pots get. I'm going to stick to my crock pot and air fryer, thanks.
When I started this newsletter, I felt like that awful little pressure cooker just before it detonated in my kitchen. Writing this series has opened up that vital release valve. Thank you for being a part of the MacGyver team defusing my ticking time bomb.
A final note before I delve into part seven. As is my wont, I continued to edit part six after it had already gone out, and added this:
I will say this: Growing up with my dad was hard. Very hard. But it could have been so much worse. He did not lay a hand on us. He did not perpetuate the sexual abuse he was subjected to. I am deeply grateful he broke that cycle, though I am devastated that he internalized so much shame and continues, I believe, to shoulder the trauma alone.
It felt important to share; it should have been in there from the start. ❤️🩹
Part Seven
As ever, it's tough to write about my dad. He has some narcissistic tendencies, has a truly bizarre optimism bias even in the face of repeated and devastating failure, he displays concerning levels of paranoia, and lives his life inside a magical worldview propped up by delusions of grandeur.
But he's also gentle and kind, seems delighted by his grandchildren, never yells, is never violent, and appears to be trying to make up for his demanding parenting style when we were young by (awkwardly) complimenting his grown children & their spouses at every opportunity.
During our forced conversation about the origins of my faith crisis and the subsequent and seemingly abrupt change in my relationship with my parents, my dad expressed sorrow that his own issues with worthiness and perfectionism bled over to his children. With tears in his eyes, he told me he wanted to go back in time and help me when I needed it, rather than withdraw even further.
As though the universe wanted to test his expressed desire, I began experiencing house crisis after house crisis after house crisis.
During the first one, a period where we had no water pressure and pipes full of sand from the well, I spent weeks schlepping laundry to a laundromat and driving the kids to a hotel to shower. We brought water in from the well in buckets (Oh, Pioneers!), and kept taking apart faucets in an attempt to blow out the sand with a steam cleaner.
I kept a spreadsheet of the 80+ plumbers I called, trying to get someone to come out and help. Plumbers told me they wouldn't service my town and only worked in the larger neighboring city, some ghosted me, others had full voicemails and never picked up, some were out of business. Completely out of my element without Eric, and not six months out from losing him, I was beside myself.
I ended up paying over $12,000 for a new well I'm still not sure I needed, and endured not one, but two house floods that caused almost $60,000 total in damages, hiked my home owners insurance rate, and resulted in a still-ongoing legal battle with the restoration company.
Somewhere in the middle of all of this, I called my dad and asked for help.
I had learned, long ago, that he was not the one to ask when I needed help. He often couldn't organize his ADHD brain to make time, often didn't have money for gas, often didn't have a working vehicle, often couldn't tear himself away from church responsibilities, and often couldn't prioritize me over his "work" responsibilities that never seem to result in a paycheck.
But I was desperate. The first time I called, I was hoping he could come up and fill a concrete hole in the basement floor for me and be an adult-male person in the house when the well company came.
It ended up being a team effort to get him up here. My siblings offered their vehicles for his use, we all offered gas money, and one sibling offered to drive him up here herself. I cried a lot, waiting for the verdict as my dad marinated on whether or not he could work in a three hour trip up to Idaho in between all of his very important "business" things.
At last, he agreed to come. When he arrived, I was in an extended shattered state of mind. My husband was dead, my house was falling apart, and though I had tried very hard, I had not been able to secure any local or reliable help. He went in for a hug and I said, my voice muffled in his shoulder, "Thanks for coming."
He beamed and said, "Of course!"
But it wasn't of course. It was a very tense period of covert back and forth between siblings and our mom that went on for days.
He did fill the hole in my floor, and he did stand around like a hopefully intimidating man while the well guy was here. He also helped me rehang a piece of house siding that had fallen down. I sat on the driveway while he did the latter, and was so moved that he was here, actually helping me, I took a sneak photo. He doesn't like his photo taken--it's the paranoia; the government might steal it. But I took it anyway, cradled it in my hands, and wept. My dad had shown up. I mattered.

He went home and several months later, the first of three basement floods happened. I was once again in hell.
Though it took a while to figure out, the breaker the grinder pump was plugged into tripped, and without the pump regulating (?) the water levels, the septic backed into the house through the drain in the basement utility room and through the basement bathroom toilet & drains.
Though the water appeared clean, it wasn't. The restoration company called it "black water" and deemed it a biohazard situation, which meant I couldn't ask my friends or neighbors for help in clearing out the basement.
Sobbing, I drove to the rented shop (I still owned part of Sun Tails) to borrow some boxes so we could more easily move books and other belongings out to our shop. My kids remained home, trudging belongings either to the shop or to the laundry room.
I didn't feel like I had the energy to try to call my parents, then await the week long back and forth between siblings that only might get my dad up here. So I called my in laws. Eric's dad was not handy but I thought he might at least be sympathetic. I cried about the flood, and about how Eric probably would have noticed and fixed whatever was wrong a long time ago, preventing this disaster.
I don't know what triggered my father in law, but he hollered at me for fifteen minutes. He told me help was waiting if I'd just call (or let him call) my bishop. Stunned, I tried to explain the black water situation. This wasn't an anti-church thing, this was a biohazard thing. Even if my ward (new during the pandemic due to boundary changes; I didn't know a soul) wanted to show up and help, there wasn't anything they could do.
But my father in law forged on, convinced I was being tested by god so I would humble myself and return to church. He went on to tell me that we could fix Jake's depression (Jake had been hospitalized with Major Depressive Disorder and had made an attempt on his life) by sending him on a Mormon mission. He told me I was grieving wrong, that I needed to stop talking to Eric and start praying to my Heavenly Father. I was still praying then, but I guess if you're not attending the one true and only church regularly, it doesn't count.
I asked him to stop multiple times, but he continued to push and push and push. I was an hysterical mess by the time I pulled up to the shop. I could barely breathe, I was crying so hard. I had called, desperate for a little love and understanding and had received a dressing down instead. At last, I hung up.
I continued to cry, collecting boxes in the shop Eric had set up, worked in, and loved, then returned to pack up our belongings with the kids, septic water sloshing over our shoes.
My father in law never apologized and has never brought it up again, though he did seem to speak directly to me and my kids during his homecoming talk after he and my mother in law returned from their second Mormon mission. It was very, "return to the covenant path" and "all you need is Jesus" in flavor. So that's cool. Next time my basement floods, I'll see if Jesus has a biohazard suit and can stop by with a shop vac and some fans.
The process with the restoration company was rough. And at some point, I caved and called my folks. My dad attempted to help by getting on FaceTime and talking through a wide range of potential solutions I did not have the skills to implement. He did the ADHD folder-dump thing, wherein he tried to pour all of his knowledge into my overwhelmed, grief-addled brain. I cried and cried and cried while he talked and talked and talked.
Stressed to breaking, I finally broke down and begged him to come help. My dad, like Eric, was extremely handy. He built our house, wired electricity, installed and fixed plumbing, poured concrete, and shingled roofs.
I said I would drive down, pick him up, and drive him up here myself. I offered to pay him whatever I'd pay a plumber if I could get one to come out (the restoration company was having similar trouble and had only been able to send out a drain cleaner guy who shrugged and said he did not have the knowledge I needed). I offered him more than whatever a plumber would charge. I offered to give my dad my Yukon XL as a gift so he could have a more reliable vehicle.
He wouldn't come. He claimed he had "work" and was far too busy. It was crucial, he said, that he launch a crowdsourcing campaign for one of his inventions. He had been working on this crowdsourcing campaign for over a year, had taken none of my advice to show the prototype in the video and demonstrate what it would actually sound like, and eventually launched. The campaign was an abject failure, receiving only a single backer.
I tried appealing to his religious side, stating that he taught us it was appropriate to help widows on Sundays. Couldn't he come up on a Sunday when he wasn't working? But no. That might require the expenditure of gas (we did not spend money on the Sabbath) and he would not be able to buy any needed supplies at a hardware store without breaking the fourth commandment.
My siblings intervened again. But still, he wouldn't come.
My mom, probably feeling caught in the middle since we had to go through her to talk to my dad, said a few days later that dad was still hoping to figure out how to make it up here. They never sent me a hard no, so I spent weeks emotionally on edge wondering if he might show up.
He didn't.
I did my best to handle the flood and the restoration company on my own. I had a mental breakdown but I handled that on my own, too.
And two months later, when the basement flooded again because the restoration company failed at their job, I didn't tell anyone about it. When my home owner's insurance agent was fired for mismanagement and when the new one had to start all over before pursuing legal action against the restoration company, I didn't call my in laws and I didn't call my folks. When we finally got a decent plumber out to replace the grinder pump and an electrician to fix the breaker, I didn't share the news with anyone.
But I did find out that while my basement was flooding repeatedly, my dad found the time, energy, and money(!) to tear out my grandma's basement storage room and install a brand new bathroom. He and my mom had moved in because they were homeless. This project included fixing the house's 65 year old plumbing and installing a new grinder pump (almost exactly what I had needed help with!). He installed a shower, a toilet, and a sink. He drywalled. He painted. He put in a new floor. He did the wiring and hung a light. A garage light. But still. It's a completed project.
And while I'm real glad my mom does not have to ride up the slow stair lift with her broken knees every time she needs to use the toilet (they are living in the basement), it hurt to know that when he wants to, he can show up.
Several months later, my mom and I had the briefest of conversations about dad's failure to help me when I needed it. I thought I'd saved the texts, but I'll have to paraphrase. After I laid it out because she was bafflingly confused as to why I was even more distant, she acknowledged that it must have been disappointing to hear that dad would start showing up and killing spiders for me, only to find that he wouldn't. Not even with the offer of a new car and money. Not even when I sobbed and begged.
She also said that if any further "big" conversations were needed to sort out our family relationships, it would have to be me that initiated them. Because they just weren't very good at this stuff.
Cool, but nope. I'm done.
And listen, I know this is not the worst story in the world. I just finished I'm Glad My Mom Died by Jeanette McCurdy, and my god, I want to give that girl a hug. I think my dad tries in his own way and in his own head. I think there are good intentions there and a real difficulty to step back and prioritize.
I'm ashamed I trusted any part of the forced conversation and thought things might actually get better. I'm ashamed I reached out and asked for help when I should have known. I should have built bigger, stronger walls. I shouldn't have let myself believe that the death of a husband and 60k in property damage was enough of a problem to rank high enough on anyone's help list.
Eric used to be so good at putting the in-laws & his parents on a 'need to know basis.' He wasn't calling them every single time a kid needed an x-ray. It was always me, oversharing and setting myself up for disappointment. So I've finally learned, grossly behind schedule, that I'm on my own and always have been.
Title from Mama Taylor, of course.
xo,
J