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.
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.
posted by Agnes at 4:53 AM
6 Comments:
Have you seen that therapist you were talking about for a while?
I'm asking, because I think you might be in the need for someone neutral...someone who you don't feel like you need to listen to.
I know I've said this before, but I'll nag a bit more about it just coz I can.
Grief doesn't have a time limit, it doesn't have a schedual and it doesn't have any guidelines we can follow. We all need different amount of time to get over that worst part in the beginning.
As for your family...well, there's not much you can do no matter how often you call and how many questions you'll ask them. That goes for your mom too.
Without knowing either of you (we're practically strangers when it comes to this, really) my guess is that you could all need some help along the way.
When someone close to you die like this, within such a short time and during the circumstances that you all went through, there's more to it than "just" a loss. I can imagine that you still carry a lot of anger about how your dad was treated by the doctors...or maybe I should say NOT treated. Your mom probably feel something similar.
Then you have the changes...the chock...something is missing and it's not just a person. When we lose someone, all the things that went along with them disappear too. Like you said, laughters...the real kind.
And much more.
Get an appointment for yourself with that therapist, Agnes. You cannot help anyone else before you've helped yourself. But I think you already know that.
:hugs:
Hi Christa,
Yeah. I've seen the therapist. She's a kind, good person. She went through this and all the admin that follows with both parents. She gets it.
And I always feel better after I talk to her....for about a day. I'll see her again on Wednesday and so Thursday will be good.
The box and the time limit were her idea. They seemed like good ideas a the time. I just can't seem to stick to that.
I know there's no time limit. I'm just really fearful that my time may be very very long.
I'm hanging in there...for the most part...but I'm watching myself drop out of the daily world and hide in TV or books. They don't help. Every utterance of death, pain, missing etc is amplified like it's directed right at me...and damned if there isn't a lot of it.
Someday, something is going to break and I'm going to get may laughter back. I don't know what or when but it's bound to happen. So there's that.
I'd fill you full of "thanks for being you" but I know you already know. As much as we're strangers, we have some sort of kidred heart.
Thanks for hanging onto my sanity. :)
So sorry, Agnes, truly feel for you and hope things get easier soon.
Christa covers anything else, I could have said so very well.
Love and hugs, x
Tell your therapist that you can't stick to that box and time limit. A lot of times therapists are using these things to find our limits and that might be just what she's doing. So tell her that the time limit she's given you ain't enough.
It wouldn't surprise me though if she says it's ok. We learn throughout our entire life how to deal with things, and this is a period when you're learning a lot about yourself and your relationship with those around you.
So the box and the time limit might seem to be too small and your grief too big right now...but in a month or so they might as well fit like a hand in a glove.
And yep, there's a lot of sorrow in the world, and believe it or not, but it's there to make us aware of what happiness is about. I know I'm stating the obvious here...slap me around with a frozen cod or something if you want to ;) It might help :D
:huggggggggssssssssss:
I hope Tuesday will be a better day for you :)
(((((((((((((((HUGS)))))))))))))))
to all three of you for taking the time to read my rants.
Frozen cod? How very Monty Python. :) There will be no slapping for statiing the obvious because I do it constantly. Last night Mom was saying "I need a new dryer and there's all this other stuff I want to buy but I just can't let go of the money." And I said "The time will come when you're ok with buying a new dryer and with spending the money. You'll get comfortable with that idea eventually."
I'm stating the obvious...which oddly, isn't so obvious just now. :)
I know that I am learning. I know that I need to learn. Sucky lesson though. hah.
So much love to all of you.
hehe...there's something special about Monty Python ya know ;)
And yep, most lessons in life seem to suck big time. But there's always sunshine after the rain...never stop believe in that :hugs:
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