When I was 19, the bottom sort of fell out of my world. It was mostly my own fault, but it was partly because I'd never had access to healthy relationships and I followed examples and intuition and it was all wrong and so there I was and...
Anyway. I was severely depressed. I was never suicidal. I thought about it once in a while, but not seriously. I don't know why. In as much as people deserve to be suicidal, I was there for about 4 years.
Regardless, like anybody in that particular position, I fought to find something that would help me get up in the morning. Something that would help me get through one more day. I wished then, and sometimes wish now, that is was fiscally reasonable for me to crawl into bed and never get out of it. I'm not particularly depressed anymore, but everybody has a down day. (Plus I really hate my job, but that's something completely different.)
The reason I found to get out of bed every morning was, in the end, the Beatles. Don't ask me how it happened. But suddenly I had every album, every book I could find, every movie and video available at the time (before pirating and rereleases, et al), every conspiracy theory that was available. I particularly enjoyed the songs and movies that were the most nonsensical. I honestly tried to decipher them all, even if, like I Am the Walrus, they flat said that it didn't mean anything. Sometimes I still wonder if Paul McCartney is really alive.
Now I'm to a point where I really love them. They're still my favorite. Tattoos and wallpapers and key rings and jewelry--it's all part of my day to day that I don't even think about anymore. Sometimes, though, I listen in a particular frame of mind, and I grow really nostalgic for when they were my entire reason for continuing. I don't miss needing them to help me through another day, but I do miss having that passion for them. I still have the books, all the albums, the movies, etc, but it's not all consuming like it once was.
I realize that this is an indication that I'm healthier but without something to fixate on, I feel unfocused. I try to rekindle my need for the Beatles but, while they're always with me and always my go-to, I'll never need them as much as I did in my early 20s. And that makes me a little sad.
I'm feeling a little restless. I learned yesterday morning that my dad died. His service is on Monday morning, I have to have the rental car back by Tuesday at noon, I'm sitting here by myself contemplating the 16 hours worth of driving I have left to do and really...I'm just restless.
This time was not a shock to me. It wasn't sudden and it didn't take me by surprise. I've been watching his deterioration now for just over 3 years. At first it was his heart. He couldn't walk too far, but he tried. Then he went to bed and just...never got up. He started declining pretty rapidly after that. He stopped being able to get up and down by himself, he stopped being able to bathe himself, he stopped driving.
He started drinking ALL the soda. Like, a twelve pack at a time. He wouldn't drink anything else, and if they couldn't afford to buy it, he would pester and pout until I broke down and bought it for him. My bad.
Then the stuff he was eating. Mostly fried southern foods and Hamburger Helper. Exactly what ever heart patient needs.
Then he started skipping doctor's appointments. That's where I stopped giving a shit.
Anyway, the doctors finally managed to convince him to make his health a priority, but by then it was too late. His kidneys started failing, his developed cirrhosis (how can I know how to spell "cirrhosis," but spelling "kidneys" threw me?), he couldn't sit up straight...
So I knew it was imminent. And I'm a terrible person because my first thought was, "God, he couldn't have kicked it at a more convenient time?" I just started a new job, my car broke down, I'm out of money. Then my second thought was, "Well, at least I can get my magnets I forgot."
I haven't cried yet. It's almost not quite real. And I have a feeling I'll always feel like it's a little unreal. He's being cremated (probably already has been) so that final proof has been taken from me. Will I cry? I did for Mom. In private. Had a couple of really horrifying dreams. So probably. We'll see.
My mom died in January. One of my cats died in August. I moved three weeks ago and can't find a job.
And now I've noticed that my teddy bear, which I know no 32-year-old woman should still be attached to, has a giant rip down his back, rendering one of my sources of emotional and tactile security too fragile to handle regularly.
I've been sitting here sobbing. I'm devastated. I know it's life, but things need to get on an upturn really fucking quick.
It's not really about the bear, fyi, though that in itself is bad. It's that so far 2014 is fucked.
I feel like an asshole, sort of, but I can't help but appreciate the way that my life has improved in the past couple of months. I missmissmiss her. Her passing really didn't affect my day-to-day life, but sometimes I have to remind myself that she's not just at the other end of a text message.
But I can't honestly say that this money was unwelcome. I've bought a new car, I can put some in savings, I can take my cats to the vet, I can pay off my student loans...I mean, wow. This ability to be a functioning adult is just amazing. I've never had the means to get myself on track. But here I am.
And soon I'm going to go to Birmingham and I'm going to talk to her. I never understood that before, but I will. Even though she knows what's happening, I'd like to have a conversation with her.
I'm having a hard time today.
My first dream was that she was drinking heated formaldehyde to keep herself alive.
The second dream was a repeater. It's always my first car miraculously running again. I'm driving it to the house I grew up in. Always. This time, though, my mom was waiting on me there. My subconscious has already packed her away to that part of me that keeps the mourning at bay. I'm only able to mourn these things in my sleep.
So, twice I've woken myself up crying. I'm supposed to be a stoic.
I miss my mom.
Last week, my mom died. Mostly it's all right, you know. Generally speaking, my life hasn't changed all that much. But once in a while, it hits me.
I'm never going to hear her voice again. I'm never going to get a text at 3am asking, "Are you working?" I'm never going to smell her again.
She'll never make anymore promises that she can't keep. She'll never take me up on my offer to take care of her. She'll never have to worry about the dwindling supply of her discontinued antidepressant. She'll never again inform me that her long-term goal is to live at the homeless shelter for the next year.
At least, though...at least I'm not my brother. I'd spoken to her. I'd listened to her ramble. We'd made jokes about her inability to go to the bathroom by herself. He told her to disappear. He told her that he'd see her at her funeral. And then she had an aneurysm.
I keep checking her Facebook. I keep hoping that there's something there to make it easier.
In the end, it's sort of a relief. I'm a son of a bitch, but Jesus if it isn't a relief to never have to worry about her again.
I'd rather have her here, though.
Sometimes I realize what a truly miserable person I am. I'm an absentee sister and aunt and daughter. The only person I regularly give the time of day is my best friend, and sometimes even that's stressful.
And I did it to myself, I know. I isolated myself because it was easier than trying to repair the relationships I'd already destroyed. And I sincerely want to begin fixing them, and I should, but sometimes admitting I'm wrong is terrible. Especially for problems that are ten years old already.
