3-6-2006

"Elizabethtown" was a good movie. I want to own it and watch it over and over until I stop crying.

The world has graduated to "He would wants..."
"He would want you to be happy."
"He would want you to laugh."
I'm very clear on what he would want. Aside from me being happy, he would want my mother to not hurt, my brother to be successful, my sister to be well....and a few other things.
Mostly he would want to be here with us.
Mostly he would want to not be dead.
Just like the rest of us.

I realize, quite clearly, that I am sinking into a sea of depression.

"It was Sorrow like cholestoral, and if you think that's funny or weird, be grateful."
"I had lost my place in things and couldn't find it again."
"Your basic thousand-yard stare. Want the truth? You look like someone who's caught on something and can't get loose."
Stephen King's "Bag of Bones."

Yes, this hideous, indulgent self-pitying sees no end. I loath it in myself and yet wrap myself in it's ugly shroud. Only there do I find comfort.... comfort?
Only with the warmth of tears sliding down my cheeks do I feel relief. Each one seems to offer hope of passing the pain.
Only the tears seem right in all that is wrong.

I know I am allowing myself too much grief.
The idea was to "choose a time and place" and do this daily. 5 minutes. Write it down and put it in the box. Don't let it be an all day affair.
And that seemed hopeful. I bought the box. I bought pretty paper.
I bought candles of sandlewood to comfort.
And I tried. Twice.
But then Saturday came and my five minutes went on for two days.

I can't think of any good memories.
I know there were billions. We were a happy, fun lot.
I feel like laughter died with him.
Real laughter anyway.

I want to call him constantly. I want to hear his voice and I ache...ACHE...from the reality that I never will again.
His voice in my head isn't enough. His voice in my head is the sound of his last three months. Whispered, strained.
I wonder if he had more to say...but couldn't. In the end he could barely speak and could no longer write. He had trouble just telling us what he wanted to eat. "Better" beef patty. B E T...we couldn't read what he was writing.
We were all so fucking helpless.

I can't remember anything but the last three months of his life.
I can't move past that.
"Your father is not going to survive this!" she screamed.
and I said flatly "I know."
but hope still held when I said that. I didn't know. I certainly didn't fathom.

His hands lay curled, dry, old. 40 years older than they were. His skin was yellowed...unrecognizable.
I held his hand and he let me....for as long as we could.
I miss my father's hands.

I've stopped calling my family. Not out of any dislike for I worry about them every second. I worry about them more than myself.
But when I call them....the pretending is just too hard.
"I'm ok. You ok?"
"Yeah."
and then on with the smalltalk....TVs and phone calls and friends that came by.
I think "what if they are feeling like I'm feeling" and I think "they probably aren't" and I think "I'm the one who always talked us through pain." I can't help this time.
If she takes a hundred sleeping pills and we find out later, that will be my fault. I haven't taken an interest in her suffering.
Only my own.
That's a sin.

"...but I hadn't the energy" I'll tell St Peter. And then I'll kick him in the nuts.