When I started this blog, I wasn’t in a good place financially or romantically. I was struggling to re-build my life. This was a tool for me to express myself so that I didn’t over-think my life to death. I … Continue reading
I was walking on the treadmill tonight while watching TV… I had PVR’d My Girl and it was at that heart-wrenching part where Thomas J. passes away.
Something about that part of the movie triggered a recent memory in my brain.
I can’t believe that I didn’t recognize the thoughtfulness in this immediately, and that it’s taken three days for me to clue in to how special it was.
On Sunday morning I was laying in bed with my boyfriend, discussing what we were going to do for the day. I told him that my friend who’s visiting from Florida wanted to get together to meet him after she had Father’s Day brunch with her Dad.
…and he ever so gently, out of nowhere (no really, we haven’t even talked about the fact that my Dad is dead yet- I’ve been doing good at avoiding the subject) asks me, “do you want to go and visit your Dad today?”.
Of course, oblivious me pipes up with “What do you mean? He’s dead.” to which he replied “I know that, I meant the cemetery”.
Of course I had to explain that we had my father cremated and we’ve yet to spread/bury his ashes so there really isn’t any place to visit just yet, but that it didn’t matter because I feel like he’s with me everywhere. I told him that it sounds silly but that I talk to him all of the time and sometimes I even ask him for a little privacy (if you know what I mean).
Well… that thought had my boyfriend squirming right under the covers, staring up at the ceiling apologizing to the ghost of my father profusely for violating his daughter right in front of him. It was quite hysterical actually… and somewhere in the midst of our laughter, I failed to realize the significance of what he’d asked me.
His intuition is remarkable.
I’ve made small comments about my Dad here and there to let on that he’s passed (I haven’t figured out yet how to bring this up with the men I date), but I’ve never come directly out and said “my Dad died last November” until he overheard me respond to his friend a few days ago when she asked if my Dad lived with me.
I’ve never mentioned that I’m hurting, I’ve never told him that it’s hard managing his estate, I’ve never let on how much I’m missing him (well perhaps I did unknowingly)… but he picked up on all of that, and he asked me one simple little question that had a world of significance, “do you want to go and visit your Dad today?”.
I decided after my workout that he deserved to be thanked, and so I phoned him and I did just that. I was nervous about bringing it up, and nervous about being so sentimental, but I took a deep breath and I thanked him for being so thoughtful and sweet… and when he told me it was no big deal, I told him that it was to me.
He says we can go see Dad anytime. We don’t need an occasion. :)
How did I get here? I keep asking myself that. How did I make such a bloody disaster of my life?
You’d think ones mother would be a caring & sympathetic shoulder to cry on after the loss of the other parent, but instead our blowout ends in me shouting that I wished she was dead and not him. Words I regret, but that are not necessarily untrue.
I never want to be a mother, to have the opportunity to screw my children up so badly that they hate me.
I was so worried that I would end up regretting the decision to move home, and I do already. I was a fool to think that the tension created between my mother and I in my teenage years had dissolved. If it has, it was marginal. I’ve only learned to tolerate her better and she’s learned to back off, but that was all a front that was very quickly removed. My mother does not understand why I can’t stand to be around her. She does not see the tornado of chaos and disorganization that surrounds her. She doesn’t realize that getting anywhere near that tornado makes my head spin and my gut clench and drives me towards insanity. She doesn’t know that any successes I’ve had in my life have been a direct result of my desire to be nothing like her, alone, broke, unhappy, and incapable of expressing any sort of positive emotion.
Perhaps we bring out the worst in each other. Perhaps there is a reason I’ve always envisioned moving away and cutting myself off from my family. All of my own unhappiness starts here, at the core, with her.
We don’t like each other. That much is clear. I resent the way she’s always depended on me and how selfish she can be. I resent her so much that I hate the way she talks, how making a public scene never seems to phase her, and her poor money management skills have always provided me with feelings of burden and anxiety.
I moved in here because I felt guilty watching her struggle. I had high hopes that her, my brother and I could become some sort of family again.
I was wrong. The dysfunction runs too deep, and now I don’t know what to do.