I got a dog.
My father died, and I got a dog.
I am sure there is some sort of psychological term that can be applied to the act of rescuing an animal when you are madly trying to function through the grieving process – and I don’t really give a shit what the psychologists would say.
It’s nice to have her around.
And now, rather than aimlessly driving around the still-sleeping city, I drive to the dog park, and walk around in the snow and warm yellow haze from the street lights. I have taken to spending an awful lot of time inside my head, and as I sit here in m explicitly private cubicle, I realized something inherently simple about me. I discuss the things which I do not understand, and never make mention of the things that do. There are people and lost loves in my past that hardly ever get a honourable mention in these pages; despite the fact that they probably should. But, when I understand why things ended as they did, or happened as they did, I feel no reason to further discuss the subject.
Yet, despite my silence on the topic, those people are more than merely significant. They provide clear markers of growth. The rest – the ones I never let go – only offer markers of potential growth, or growth-in-process. The ones about which I can say, “this happened and that happend as a result and then I changed this way” are the ones who matter more, because with out them, I wouldn’t be who I am today. But they hardly ever are mentioned here, and that seems a little shameful these days. I have to remember, during this passage of grey, that eventually things have answers and events make sense.
I write this, as I am sitting in an airport, thinking about an ex that still has my heart and missing my dog.
/J
I spent my quiet weekend think a lot about the past.
I used to walk my dog, George, in the park that this video is filmed. That was a long time ago, when I thought I would be a in a completely different place by now. Life is funny, isn’t it? I thought that I would be married by now and happily in love and pregnant. Now, I don’t even know if I want kids, and I am pretty sure I don’t really give a shit about weddings. The things you used to want loose their luster over time.
Last night, over a friendly dinner with some kind hearted friends, I heard that my waste of gas was hiding out in a book store. I had to laugh, just a little, because that’s where I choose to hide out when I need to. It makes me oddly silenced when I hear about him. I can hardly remember what it was like to want him, because now all I ever want is for him to get over it. I want to be a friend, and I don’t want to be something worth fearing. It makes me oddly silenced because I am embarrassed and disheartened at being something worth fearing.
Like I said, it’s funny how time grows on you. How time changes what you want into something different.
Anyway, this is a lazy Monday post.
For the sake of posting.
/Jane
I am dismayed. I am perpetually uncomfortable because I am perpetually trying to figure out how to answer that question.
I am struggling to hide my socially awkward self more than I usually do. Crowds make me anxious and extended periods of socializing make me exhausted. And perhaps the worst part is that I find myself seeking comfort only in the places where comfort came so easily.
I simply don’t know how to answer that question. I am struggling to keep it all together, and that’s the honest truth. But this world isn’t built for falling apart, and when you are finally given a perfectly valid reason to fall apart, the world looks at you as if you are diseased. Showing your true self, especially in times of mourning, it seems falls under the scope of “disgraceful”.
I don’t know. Losing a parent is like living in retrograde for a while. Spinning in the opposite direction from that which you are comfortable in. Sprinting to return to normalcy, only to snap back to the point at which you started when stop to catch your breath. I suppose the answer then is to stop breathing. Metaphorically, of course. I am not that bad….it’s just….well….awkward.
I hate awkward with a passion.
So again, I state, I am returning to all that made me comfortable before my dad died. All 5 feet of it. And that, in turn, makes me uncomfortable.
So, how am I, really? I don’t know. I am awkward and uncomfortable at the best of times and all of this just feels like an echo.
Does that answer your question?
/J
I have all these stories to tell about my dad’s death, the funeral and all the paper work in between, and I have been avoiding writing them down. I have been avoiding it simply because writing it down would have to ultimately be some kind of awknowledgement that I am not sure I am ready to make.
It’s been hard the past couple of weeks. I have been having these dreams where my dad and I are sitting in a coffee shop shooting the shit like we always used to, only to wake up having to remind myself that he is dead. I have these moments where I remember random shit about my dad and all I want to do is crawl into a hole and stay there a while. I go through these waves of sadness for no particular reason and it is starting to get a little frustrating.
But perhaps, what is bothering me the most, is that I now feel like I am part of some secret club but I don’t know where the club meetings are. I feel like I have this knowledge now that only few people get to have, but I don’t know what to do with it. It’s all just making me feel like more of an outsider than I usually feel. I mean, even the people who usually accepted me without problem are now looking at me like I have a disease. And the worst part about that is that I don’t know how to describe how that makes me feel.
I think it just makes me feel more lonely than it should.
/J
It has come to my attention that I don’t take vacations. I don’t travel places to enjoy the sunshine, and I don’t go places to randomly be a tourist. I have traveled places and seen some pretty spectacular sights – but all travel had a purpose. Travel to Switzerland to see the world guiding house; travel to Italy to dig up roman burials; travel to Ontario to bury my dad. I have yet to travel somewhere for the hell of it. Sure, I have taken weekend visits up into the mountains, but that’s nothing new nor terribly exciting. And I certainly do not go to be a tourist – I usually go to visit family.
So why then, am I so adverse to going somewhere sunny, sitting on a beach and working on my tan? Oh yeah…because that is a pointless waste of time. I know there are people out there who easily argue that taking the time to pause is a necessary part in life, and I agree. But, I dunno….I can pause in my daily life and not spent over a grand doing it. You see, the real answer to this vacation part of things is that taking a break and going on vacation is for those who are relatively extroverted. Those that are easily social need to recharge at times, and those of us that use a lot of energy in our social outings recharge on a regular basis. I don’t need a vacation when I have Sundays.
And of course, stumbling across ads for the Hedonism Resort and Spa sure helped my cause of staying in town.
Having said that, I do appreciate going places and seeing the world, but I can’t just go without purpose. It all stems back to my inherent need to be useful. A purposeless vacation is simply counter-intuitive. Indulging on nothing but myself seems…..pointless and wasteful. I suppose, deep somewhere in my psyche I just can’t buy into being that special that I need special attention. And I know that there are those Depak Die-Hards who would tell me otherwise and spout some kind of awkwardly stated fluff, but I jhave never swallowed that shit very easily, and I ain’t starting now. But that’s a rant for another day.
So, recently it was brought to my attention that I don’t go on vacations, and while I was initially upset by the comment, I have come to accept it as yet another idiosyncacy to wear with pride.
/J
I know that in the end, I will settle for what is best rather than what I want.
There is an element of attraction that I pine for that has only been found in the worst of opportunities. Some people call it passion, while I have learned to call it dangerous. So far, and I am going to be strictly honest about this, there has only been one love that meant anything real at all. All 5 feet of it. And in hind sight, the way it ended was so unassuming that I still find I am waiting for the other shoe to drop, knowing full well that it probably never will.
He still called numerous times while I was dealing with the paper work of death. He checked in on me. He phoned to wish me a Merry Christmas. I never answered. I couldn’t. The tease I put myself through it just about as bad as sitting across the table from my beautiful sea blues as he told me that he stopped talking to me because he liked me too much.
A string of words and sentiments that seem nice when spoken, really aren’t so great when you realize that they are just simply words shared to comfort and are void of honesty. But, being a rational person, I am pretty sure I stopped by his place of work because those empty sentiments were exactly what I wanted at the time. I needed to hear something nice, even if it wasn’t true.
Don’t gawk at me, I know you’ve done it too. Walked into an emotionally tricky situation just because the outcome will make you feel something. And that feeling something will verify that you didn’t waste your time.
You feel to remind yourself that the passion you have learned to fear may not be so wrong after all….
/J
At 3am this morning, I crawled out of bed and out into the frozen world in my pjs. I stepped into my car and drove around the still sleeping city. I played my music loud enough to drown out the the thoughts in my head and I sang along to stop new thoughts from entering in. I got some coffee and drove around some more. It was kind of like I was checking in on the city; driving past all the houses of people I know, and driving past all my old apartment – just making sure that everything is exactly how it should be.
I came home planning on writing a variety of things down, but instead I sat down and watched a movie about a girl, looking for love, and whose father dies in the end. A real fucking smart move, don’t you think?
All the stories I wanted to write about have left my memory now, and the moment is far too gone to try to reclaim it. The truth is that I am still trying to process the situation as it stands now. I am trying to process the decisions I made between that fateful Saturday morning and now.
Dearest, I connected with two rather significant exs I have while I was out east, and both depatures left me feeling the same sense of calm sadness that you only expierence when you know that the paths you are on are the right ones. That kind of bittersweet sensation that only happens when you grow up and realize that your day-dreaming is nothing more than a pleasant way to kill time. Both men, blessed with beautiful blue eyes, looked at me with the same tender sorrow in their eyes. It was almost sweet, it was almost endearing, but something stopped me from falling for it again. One asked me to kiss him, while the other told me he just liked me too much and all the false sentiments made me sick to my stomach.
These exs, who speak of love and passion as if it was an easy thing to honestly come by, tried to illicit an emotion from me, that I simply could not show them. I reserved the emotion, apparently, for the ex who phoned the day after my father’s death to check in and shoot the shit. I saved my own sentiments for the ex who dumped me only because he was afraid of his own emotions.
I suppose, in some fashion, I orchestrated these tragically romantic scenarios in an effort to boost my emotional reserves while I tried to deal with all the loose ends that happen when someone dies. I needed to hear that I mattered to someone, I needed some kind of validation of strength, so I saught it out in those who are too easily read and forced on to someone who fumbles the ball when tears are involved. I looked in all the wrong places, and left feeling unsatisfyed and slightly dirty.
heh…like I’ve said before though: When in death, anything goes. Greiving is an entirely subjective process.
/J
I arrived in Ontario the same day my father died – slightly drunk, and totally unprepared to be there. I managed to suck up most of my tears in an effort to ensure that what needed to get done, got done properly. I sucked it up through the jazz funeral, and opted to sit quietly while the three piece band played a quiet rendition of Bye Bye Blackbird. I put a smile on and stepped forward into my old home town. I watched TV shows with Sin, I compared love stories with an old friend; I shared bread with exs in moments that can only be described as tragically romantic, and passed off my father’s death as if I was surviving it just fine. I smiled my way through the visiting, and calmly responded to questions regarding my new life. I was trying desperately to reconnect myself to my heart, and at the end of each day I would deflate from the effort put forward.
There are a variety of stories to tell from this whole expierence, and I am sure there will be more as time goes on, but I wanted to check in with you dearest, and let you know how I am truly doing. And in all honesty, I can say that I am ok – but what I really need to do is let some air out of this situation. I need the vacuum of sounds, sights, and feelings to release it’s grip on my heart and return to an equilibrium of body and mind.
But…I have to get through Christmas before that can happen though.
Merry Christmas, by the way. If it weren’t for the carols and oddly placed lights, I wouldn’t have remembered it.
Love you always,
/J
At 10:20 am (9:20 Saskatoon time), my father passed away in his sleep.
He was alone, and quiet.
He didn’t suffer much. I supposed, if you are going to go…that’s the way to do it.
Minus the alone part maybe.
So….
Dear God: If you are listening….give me SOMETHING I ask for or fuck right off.
/Jane
I ain’t never gonna get my first choice.
