Rejection and Self Love
I am the daughter of a serial killer.
My suffering and self-inflicted guilt and shame went beyond my father’s name in national news, his creepy smiley faces left on letters to the detectives who were looking for the crazed murderer. They would find out later all of it was unmotivated by money, greed, jealousy, or passion. All murder is senseless, but without any motive, the trail of women’s bodies found along wooden paths didn’t add up to much of a pattern that could help detectives determine if the murders were linked. Finally, their work would become a lot easier. The authorities had the wrong people in custody for one particular murder, and my narcissistic father just couldn’t take it. He wrote letters to authorities begging them to notice him. Who knows, if his ego didn’t get in the way, maybe he’d still be driving his truck on long-hauls, dropping into my house to rustle the hair of his grandkids.
In 1995, my father was arrested and is now serving multiple life sentences at the Oregon State Penitentiary.