Primal scream

A therapeutic primal scream to the world at large, referred to hereafter as the informal You.



I'm going to tell you the truth. It might hurt one of us. Get the Band-Aids.

I'm going through a crisis of sorts. It has nothing to do with the topics that normally create a swarm of activity around a blog entry. It has much more to do with being the child of a shitty parent and dealing with the aftermath.

*waits for sounds of crickets*

I have a lot to say and there is no one around who seems to want to listen. Oh, sure. Go ahead and pretend you want to lend me an ear so I'll play you a song, but we both know it will be more out of tune than that 30+ year-old guitar sitting in my basement. I think I've reached the point of stopping the feeling-sorry-for-myself routine to just becoming numb and silent. Is this that "acceptance" stage of grief? Acceptance sounds so nice and calm, when really it is just numb and silent. Silent and numb.

Silent and numb does not create many blog entries. It also doesn't invite one to read about other peoples' lives and then pretend to care. That sounds harsh, I know. Alas, it is true.

I'm tired of people asking me how I am doing and then glazing over and/or changing the subject when I actually give them an answer. How am I doing? The only answer you want is, "Fine. I'm great. How about you?" It isn't true. When I do talk about the difficulty of dealing with my father's death and the horrific aftermath of it -- from somewhere around $300,000 of hospital bills, to caring for my mother, to staving off the vultures who want to rape and pillage my family home -- along with my own inability to digest the emotions of it, that is when you turn away. You've done it, and you know it. Everyone from neighbors, friends, Internet acquaintances, to various family members have done it.

And you know what? You really suck for doing that.

And screw me for knowing that my sadness is big and scary and justifiably frightening to anyone outside of it.

You know what I don't want to hear? I don't want to hear how difficult it is for you to react to my grief. It's not like I'm crying in front of you, begging for a tissue. No, I just matter-of-factly declare what I'm going through, and you still turn away.

I don't care that you aren't able to come up with something to make me feel better. I didn't ask for you to do that.

And fuck you for making me feel like I'm the one who should make YOU feel better. I don't give a shit that my situation is too harsh a reminder that someday you will lose a close family member and deal with the dirty details.

I don't care.

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Upon reflection, perhaps I am still stuck in the anger stage of grief management.

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I can imagine it must be one hell of a task to try to ease my burdens over a loss, when the real burdens started decades ago. Poor you.

If you have any ability to read between the lines, past blogs clearly indicated that my dad was a total shit to his family. To his colleagues, however, he was a god amongst men. I have letter after letter from his co-workers, talking about how wonderful he was and how he did this or that for their careers without hesitation. I don't respond. They write to me again to see if I received the first letter because, by God, it is so important that they know that a daughter of the great god of workplace received their touching words.

You know what? I don't have a damn thing to say to that. My version of that person is not the same, and telling me how great he was when he was away from his family does not improve the situation. I didn't see that person. I saw the person who blamed others for his own mistakes. I saw the person who neglected his health, wanted to die, and then yelled at everyone around him to fix the problem and "get involved, God damn it!" I saw the person who admitted that he was "one cold jackass" for most of his life, and then expects me to relish his assessment of my own: "You were always too emotional."

I don't want to hear about how sick people become mean sometimes. Because, you know what? Total shits become even shittier when they are sick, and telling me that does not improve my outlook. I already know that.

Stick this feather in your cap: Fuck everyone who thinks that you should not speak ill of the dead.

The dead left me to clean up the mess.

For a moment, I considered going to a therapist. After all, that person would listen because I'm paying them to listen. Thing is, no therapist is going to tell me what I don't already know. I already know how to deal with this. I already know the process. I already know that it's not my fault and that what I'm going through is a difficult, long, drawn out procedure. I already know that.

I know that I should talk about my feelings. I tell Phil about them all the time. He takes the brunt of the ugliness that you aren't willing to share. I already know who is the real god amongst men.

I still see the images of him dying. I still can hear the long, labored breaths and the hands reaching to the hospital ceiling for unseen things. I can hear my sobs as I recited The Lord's Prayer in his ear, still trying to desperately create a loving end for someone who hadn't shown me much. I still see the bloody bruises on his hands that were covered by makeup for the viewing, which failed and began to show the blood bruises again on the day of his funeral. I see his coffin being lowered unsteadily and on a tilt because the funeral director wanted to hurry up and get to another service. I see my idiot brother smoking a cigarette beside the grave, knowing full well that smoking is what killed his father.

What I can't shake: I still see the emaciated body that one doctor described as a "concentration camp victim."

Victim. Seeing him as a victim is not what I'm capable of at this juncture.

So, you sit there and wonder why I don't write much, answer your calls, read your blog, or leave you witty comments. To tell you the truth, it isn't my job right now to make you feel better. I'm not capable of that. It's my job to pick up the pieces and move on. As much as it sucks, it is taking a lot of time to get there. It would have been nice if you had helped. Don't EVEN start in on me and my inability to accept help. Blah blah blah. I don't want your advice. I just don't, and you've already shown that you don't want to listen to the problem in the first place.

I don't know what the point of this entry is, other than to tell you the real answer to the question you don't want answered. I'm still a happy person. I laugh all the time, albeit less than I did before. I still enjoy life. We've been going hiking every weekend and breathing in the wonders of nature. That, more than anything you could have said to me, has performed miracles on my soul.

In short, I'm learning how to do this without you, Dad. You always wanted to teach us about fierce independence. You've succeeded by a landslide, I'd say.