On grief
I started this blog as a way to document the days after my Dad's passing, and just to document my random creative writing urges.
It hasn't really been either of those things, has it?
As it turns out, the days (and months) after my Dad's passing have had me less and less inclined to write anything at all. I've been hard pressed to jot down so much as a shopping list, much less an introspective blog post.
In order to let a wound heal, you have to stop touching it.
For me, that meant learning to breathe moment to moment in a world now without my Dad in it. And in all honesty, over the past 11 months and 9 days there were some days when breathing was all I did.
There were days when I didn't want to breathe at all.
I beat myself up for feeling too much on the bad days,and on days where I managed to smile and concentrate on something else for a few hours I would inevitably beat myself up for not feeling enough.
Grief is a bitch.
There is no guidebook, and there are no rules. It is different for everyone.
I've been severely depressed since sometime last summer. I can't tell you when it began, because it wasn't all at once. It was realizing I hadn't showered in 2 days, or that walking the dog suddenly seemed like an insurmountable task. One minute I was soaking in the sun and patting myself on the back for continuing to live life like Dad would have wanted, and the next minute I was staring into the sink where dishes I hadn't washed in months sat festering. They were dishes I'd used last when I had a Dad on this planet. I knew it was gross and I was disgusted with myself, but I was powerless to do a damn thing about it. It wasn't all at once, but once it was here it made itself comfortable.
And on the heels of that came a rift in my family. On days where I was doing good to brush my teeth and put a bra on, I also had to choose a side among people who have known me my whole life. I dealt with malicious comments and slanderous behavior. I woke up, I existed, I waited until dark and I took an Ativan to slip into blissful sleep. Those were my days,
I put on a fake smile and a brave face because it felt selfish of me to grieve. There were too many other things going on that needed my attention for me to fall apart.
The days were agonizing. For a long time I chose to sleep them away; getting out of bed was not something I could do. Matching clothes and combing my hair was right up there with the probability of me sprouting wings and flying. The days were brutal, but they passed.
11 months and 9 days.
He was here. He was real. He loved me. I was his baby girl. I held on tight and let him go 11 months and 9 days ago.
I have 3 voicemails from him that I keep re-saving. They are all from the month of April 2015; the last one is dated April 20th. Tomorrow.
He's calling to let me know he'll be in the hospital another day or 2 so they can put in a drain that we can empty at home so he can have some relief from the fluid build-up in his abdomen.
I, of course, got online the night we got him admitted to the hospital to do my own research. The reason he was having so much fluid collecting was because the cancer was shutting down his internal organs. His liver was failing. They wouldn't just flush the fluid and solve the problem. It wasn't going to stop; this was just another step. Another misery I had to watch my Superman suffer and stand idly by unable to help at all.
When I check the voicemails, an automated voice tells me they well be saved for 21 days. I dial in religiously every 19-20 days and hit 9 to resave them all.
"Hey darlin, it's your Daddy..."
He was real, and he's not here anymore.
In my mind I like to think of grief as an ocean; it ebbs and flows. High tide and low tide.
I've been having a few really good days; I almost hate to say it out loud for fear of jinxing it but it's true. I feel like me. I've missed me.
Which is why, hours after checking the voicemails on my phone earlier and making sure they were safe, I was shocked to find myself staring into the fridge and sobbing.
I don't know what brought it on. My heart was broken from thinking that the last voicemail I have from him will be year old tomorrow, but I'd forced myself to get up. I've learned that if I get up and straighten my environment, it clears my mind. I was putting away dishes and had peeked in the fridge to figure out lunch and suddenly I can't see for the tears filling my eyes.
Grief pushed it's way through my defenses. Bitch.
Some days you can look at grief like it's a museum; it's there on display in front of you. An exhibit of human emotion-- you can even reach out and touch it, but it doesn't consume you. You can relate to it and understand it but it doesn't roar inside your ears and stream from your pores.
And some days you sit yourself down on the kitchen floor and cry your guts up.
What matters is that you keep going.
11 months, 9 days down.
It hasn't really been either of those things, has it?
As it turns out, the days (and months) after my Dad's passing have had me less and less inclined to write anything at all. I've been hard pressed to jot down so much as a shopping list, much less an introspective blog post.
In order to let a wound heal, you have to stop touching it.
For me, that meant learning to breathe moment to moment in a world now without my Dad in it. And in all honesty, over the past 11 months and 9 days there were some days when breathing was all I did.
There were days when I didn't want to breathe at all.
I beat myself up for feeling too much on the bad days,and on days where I managed to smile and concentrate on something else for a few hours I would inevitably beat myself up for not feeling enough.
Grief is a bitch.
There is no guidebook, and there are no rules. It is different for everyone.
I've been severely depressed since sometime last summer. I can't tell you when it began, because it wasn't all at once. It was realizing I hadn't showered in 2 days, or that walking the dog suddenly seemed like an insurmountable task. One minute I was soaking in the sun and patting myself on the back for continuing to live life like Dad would have wanted, and the next minute I was staring into the sink where dishes I hadn't washed in months sat festering. They were dishes I'd used last when I had a Dad on this planet. I knew it was gross and I was disgusted with myself, but I was powerless to do a damn thing about it. It wasn't all at once, but once it was here it made itself comfortable.
And on the heels of that came a rift in my family. On days where I was doing good to brush my teeth and put a bra on, I also had to choose a side among people who have known me my whole life. I dealt with malicious comments and slanderous behavior. I woke up, I existed, I waited until dark and I took an Ativan to slip into blissful sleep. Those were my days,
I put on a fake smile and a brave face because it felt selfish of me to grieve. There were too many other things going on that needed my attention for me to fall apart.
The days were agonizing. For a long time I chose to sleep them away; getting out of bed was not something I could do. Matching clothes and combing my hair was right up there with the probability of me sprouting wings and flying. The days were brutal, but they passed.
11 months and 9 days.
He was here. He was real. He loved me. I was his baby girl. I held on tight and let him go 11 months and 9 days ago.
I have 3 voicemails from him that I keep re-saving. They are all from the month of April 2015; the last one is dated April 20th. Tomorrow.
He's calling to let me know he'll be in the hospital another day or 2 so they can put in a drain that we can empty at home so he can have some relief from the fluid build-up in his abdomen.
I, of course, got online the night we got him admitted to the hospital to do my own research. The reason he was having so much fluid collecting was because the cancer was shutting down his internal organs. His liver was failing. They wouldn't just flush the fluid and solve the problem. It wasn't going to stop; this was just another step. Another misery I had to watch my Superman suffer and stand idly by unable to help at all.
When I check the voicemails, an automated voice tells me they well be saved for 21 days. I dial in religiously every 19-20 days and hit 9 to resave them all.
"Hey darlin, it's your Daddy..."
He was real, and he's not here anymore.
In my mind I like to think of grief as an ocean; it ebbs and flows. High tide and low tide.
I've been having a few really good days; I almost hate to say it out loud for fear of jinxing it but it's true. I feel like me. I've missed me.
Which is why, hours after checking the voicemails on my phone earlier and making sure they were safe, I was shocked to find myself staring into the fridge and sobbing.
I don't know what brought it on. My heart was broken from thinking that the last voicemail I have from him will be year old tomorrow, but I'd forced myself to get up. I've learned that if I get up and straighten my environment, it clears my mind. I was putting away dishes and had peeked in the fridge to figure out lunch and suddenly I can't see for the tears filling my eyes.
Grief pushed it's way through my defenses. Bitch.
Some days you can look at grief like it's a museum; it's there on display in front of you. An exhibit of human emotion-- you can even reach out and touch it, but it doesn't consume you. You can relate to it and understand it but it doesn't roar inside your ears and stream from your pores.
And some days you sit yourself down on the kitchen floor and cry your guts up.
What matters is that you keep going.
11 months, 9 days down.
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