So, this is my lamp. It’s on my bed’s headboard. It’s super weird, I know. But this lamp and I have a long, complicated history.
My father, whom I also have a long, complicated history with, bought me this lamp when I was a baby. Well, not this lamp, I’ll get to that in a moment, but this lamp. My mother told me, and that she was pissed that he spent the fucking electric bill money on a lamp. For a baby. And we wouldn’t have electricity for said lamp. My dad was a real gem. But she was deeply touched by his impulse. And so was I, when she told me the lamp story.
I’d always had this lamp. We moved. A lot. But this lamp came with me. I was attached to it, before she told me the story of it. I think I was in college when I heard the story of the lamp.
So I’ve hauled this lamp around through my gypsy-esque life. I moved 9 times by the time I finished high school. I moved at least 20 times all around San Francisco as an adult. I moved to San Diego once, to a Yoga Community. Yikes. A harrowing 6 months of my life. At the end of it I was in a rage. I abandoned the lamp.
This fucking lamp is the thing that makes me know my dad loved me. Once. When I was a baby. Because after he left when my parents divorced he showed his love less. And less. I lived with him for 1 year when I was 12. A harrowing year in my life, maybe the most harrowing I’ve ever had. That’s another post. But that lamp. I look at it and the story plays in my mind and I have hope. That my dad loved me. Even though he never told me. And showed me otherwise with his words and actions. And objects hurled with great force at my head, barely missing by this much. I guess I’m supposed to be grateful they didn’t connect. And of course I am. But fuck.
I abandoned the lamp. In a fit of rage. Then later I found another one on eBay. Then I abandoned that one. Another fit of rage. I inherited my temper from my dear ol’ dad. (I have made leaps and bounds in managing my temper since this time, be informed.) And though the magic of eBay I have yet another lamp. Identical. The music plays better than the original, honestly it’s an upgrade.
I’m never gonna let go of this lamp again. It’s precious to me. Precious.
I know this is insane.
And it’s a 70’s Raggedy Ann & Andy musical lamp. With a nightlight. On my headboard. Over the bed where I fuck men. Weird.
I actually put it away when Benedict or the Englishman are coming over. They both have small children. I can’t exactly say why I feel compelled to hide it. Maybe I just don’t want to explain it. Is there a bigger boner killer than “my daddy never loved me” tears?
There is a new man. Sk8 dude. AKA “Andy”. Not his name, he looks too much like “Andy” from weeds to ignore it. We have an inside joke, formed on our first date/meeting. And I am just not worried about what he’ll think of this fucking lamp. At all. It’s a pain in the ass to hide it when sex is imminent and take it out when they leave. I do use it. As a lamp. To read in bed. Because it is fundamentally a lamp.
I could/should/surely will someday buy a new lamp. Maybe vintage, but new to me. Not a replica of a childhood heirloom. A cool one. That I don’t need to hide when I’m gonna get laid.
But I love that lamp. My dad loved me. For a time. And maybe he was hurtful and hateful and gave me a motherload of daddy issues. Maybe I don’t fucking love him either. But that lamp soothes something broken in me, just a little bit, but it’s enough.