Thursday, July 1, 2010

What Sleep?

I can't sleep. Again.

I've tried but ended up watching yet another Nicolas Cage film (Lord of War, courtesy of Hulu). Despite his singular tone of voice, I find him compelling and convincing as an arms dealer. I think it's the hair. His eyes, too. He's got good actor's eyes.

Closing my eyes does nothing but bring up terrible things, increases the awareness of memories I'd rather keep pushed as far back into the recesses of my messed up mind as I can. Fights with my family, mistakes I've made, old feelings of doubt and self-hatred that I thought had finally been conquered. Am I really that embarrassing? Had I really done so much to break your heart? Did I? Why couldn't I make mistakes without it coming off as the end of everything? Why did there have to always be a goddamn ultimatum? Why? Why was it always a case of 'have what we offer you or have nothing at all'?

When I'm not cycling through my psyche and regurgitating my most glorious moments of mental self-abuse, I am suffering from images of myself being stabbed. I have been stabbed tonight repeatedly, from all sides, all angles, all places, from all sorts of pointy and wicked knives. Kitchen knives, pocket knives, even those stupid fucking over-sized four-pronged fantasy knives with the hand guard you find on the top shelf of one of those dimly lit 6-month rental shops in the corner of a mall with the faux asian name that has "lucky bamboo" lining the windows. With each stab I feel that part of my body. It's like it's being poked by a tiny finger. I don't know why. I want it to stop, and it only stops if I open my eyes.

Staring hopelessly into the dark, counting down the remaining three hours until I have to get up to get ready for work...even that is better now than pretending to fall asleep as phantom fucking fingers nudge and prod me as my mind tries to convince itself that I'm really being stabbed to death by nothing.

I am seriously fucked up. I am seriously tired. I am seriously fucking tired of being fucked up and reliving every bullshit failure moment of my existence over and over and over and over and over. Why can't I move on?! Why can't I just "get over it" like everyone else and just fucking move?

A letter came in the mail today. It was a follow-up and thank-you letter from Anatomy Gifts Registry, the company through which mom's body was donated. They wanted to extend their condolences once more for the loss of "Mrs. Hill", but thank us again for her gracious donation to the advancement of medicine. At a couple points they called her "Lucy" to try and make it more personal, as though they knew her in some way. If this were the case, they would have said "Katherine," or "Kathy," but not "Lucy". Not that. That's what chilled me over for the rest of the letter, the one nagging thing I still can't get over. That same, automated effort that companies just can't quite perfect when trying to seem anything other than cold, automated, systematic, businesslike about death.

At any rate, they went on to mention what research has been aided through mom. Spinal injury research was fitting, given her spinal injury from an accident many years before I was born. Her heart went toward studies into arterial matters. Diabetes research, given family history and what she was fighting against anyway, and so on. It was hard to read the letter - brutally hard. Mom's gone, and was now in fact in many separate places on top of this. I am happy that she was able to help one last time in a field that she so loved to work, but goddamnit it's hard to read that she's being used for studies, no matter how many years she's told you herself that she wanted to be donated.

Christ...one day I'll be able to do this without having to fight back the tears and failing. I wonder how much longer until I can no longer cry, until I'm all dried up, and then new leaks spring up. Why are we made up of so much damned water?

Friday, June 4, 2010

An Update

I guess it's time I try to do another update.

I read and read and re-read that last statement I made to you, for you...for anyone... It still tugs on my heart. Every time. Every week.

I can still feel, strong as ever, the emotions that came with writing it. I hurt. I get angry. Even though I swell up with fury and want to scream a blood-curdling scream to try and console myself in some way, I still feel hollow. Deep down inside, there is a growing emptiness, as though I'm fading away from within. No matter what it is I feel, it will soon go, back into the recesses of my fucked up mind, lying in wait, just waiting for the next time I read it again. For the
next time I spend just a little too much time thinking about you.

Not a day goes by where I don't wish I could ask you something, anything. What was it that you put in your squash casserole that made it taste just...perfect? Dad made it the other day. It wasn't yours. You used cheese. It was still good, but it wasn't yours. Even if I made it, exactly word-for-word as you made it, still not the same. Not even close. I miss your hands. Seeing them work away making little kitchen miracles, flower miracles. Just making things work and keeping them working. But in the end you couldn't even help yourself. There were no miracles for you. There was nothing I could do, but stay in denial. I could keep telling you "See? The doctors lied again, you don't have cancer! It'll be okay. Even if you're sick for a little while, you'll be home at least. We'll be fine, then. You'll be home..."

I haven't been to the graves since I put the flowers out. I took some photos...they came out good. Strange to be taking pictures of the graves, maybe, but I guess it was just a token to keep. Something to say "Hey, I did this on my own. I can actually do something on my own. I can do things for you still." I'm hoping they'll still be there when I go back soon. June already...I don't know what flowers make for good summer decorations, but I'll put some out soon. Another
promise for you.

Work has been going good. I've managed to get myself two jobs, now. I'm sure you'd be proud, seeing me work hard, plugging along from one place to another, all responsible-like. When you died I was basically fired from my last job, no longer needed since Christmas was over. What an unceremonious departure that was. So cold, so...business-like. It still makes me angry. The couple of times I've been back, I can't even look Joe in the face, when it should be him who shies
away...not me. I gave everything I could for them, and he picks the other guy to keep on, simple as that.

I'm sorry...no ranting. It's strange to try and talk to you now, when we never had the best communications. I never really opened up and spoke with my true voice, my regular and natural style, for either of you. I still can't with dad, and it's worse now. We hardly talk, even though he's home now more than he ever was. Apparently I'm not responsible enough and can't handle simple tasks around the house well. I don't know.

It's been a year...since me and Kate have been a couple. A year and a few days. I know you never liked her, and it came to the point where you basically hated her, and I still can't see why. I honestly, truly, wholeheartedly swear to you I have no idea why. I have no intentions of rubbing anything in your face, any plans to go "Ha! I've proven you wrong!" or anything. All I wanted was your unconditional love, and unconditional support, and Kate's love and support. I loved all of you...still do. It still doesn't make sense to me that I could not have it all. No matter what I go over in my mind, the pieces just don't fit. That will never leave me. Maybe if I can find all the pieces and put them together, maybe I'll see what I'm missing. Maybe I can find my peace with it all.

You're always on my mind. I don't want to forget, but I hate having to remember every day. Every day, just about, I feel bad and then good, or utterly useless and then like I could do anything in the world. There are very few days when I can truly be one set mood. Saturday...Sunday...one of the two happened to be one of those days. I honestly don't know when I've felt like that. One solid, unchanging mood throughout the entire day. It was wonderful. It was so peaceful. Kate thought I was acting strange, but I couldn't really explain it...

I can pretend that every day is like that for you, now. I know for a fact that you're gone, gone for good and there will be no traces of you anymore, except for memory and a few fleeting photos. Almost no audio. Nothing for your grandchildren to listen to...almost no video for them to see you smiling, moving around. But I still pretend, despite knowing better, that you're in a better place, happier and smiling down on me like the caring, loving, attentive mother you were. It's moments like these that make me wish I were dead, just so I could stop crying again. It's selfish and unfair to think and wish that, but dammit...

So, here I am again, near blind with tears and choking back the sobs and snot and being a miserable wreck. Dad's asleep, still, hopefully so. It's 4am and I'm crying
like a little kid again.

I love you.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Miss

Soon it will be two months since you died.

Even on the day you died, I could say it with a straight face, and felt like I could accept it. I don't know why it was so easy so soon for me. I guess I had to take care of dad that day, and the days that followed. He was no longer able to take care of me. I haven't done as good a job at that lately, and the tension between us is pretty much back to where it used to be. Though it's probably just me thinking there's tension - he wants us to have a good relationship, but it's so easy to be irritated at him.

The day before yesterday I cut my thumb while cleaning a knife I used to cut up some onions. Not a bad cut, just...you know, enough to bleed a little. Dad got some anti-biotic stuff and a bandaid, and fumbled through the wrapping and eventually tore the bandaid. Even little things like that make me think of you, and how you could get the damn thing open with one hand pretty much, and be squeezing out some ointment with the other. It was like you were a walking medical station. Now I can't even get a damned bandaid on without messing things up.

It's getting so much harder to think about you. Every day I have to fight off wave after wave of emotion. Sometimes I feel OK, and I know I have to move on. Other times I don't want to get out of bed, just waiting and hoping that I'll hear you downstairs frying bacon and calling me down for breakfast. You haven't yet.

I can barely see as I'm typing this, but I just have to do something...say something or else I'm going to scream and pull out my hair. This probably isn't going to help anything, but I can't bottle up my feelings anymore. It's become too toxic.

I miss you so much. Dad isn't himself, even though he's doing the same old routine we were used to. He's gone overboard with the Easter decorations, and I'm terrified to think what he'll have prepared for Easter Day. He's trying to keep the house cheerful and lively, but it doesn't do much good when 4.5 days of the week there's only one of us here.

I was going to Bennettsville tomorrow to put out the flowers, but the landscapers are coming back to finish what they didn't get done today. I'll get the flowers out there, though, I promise. The graves will look as pretty as ever.

I've got to go. Sorry

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Now

I am still restless. My eyes hurt, and my head is swimming, and my body is begging me to try and sleep...but I just can't.

My mom's aunt...which I guess makes her my great aunt...died Sunday morning. After being in the hospital for two weeks, after being put there by negligent staff at physical therapy. They let her fall. That is NOT supposed to happen, and if anything, they should be sued to the point that the facility has to fucking shut down.

She was perfectly healthy and was trying to build up muscle strength in one foot.

Read that again.

One foot. Just a little weak and was beginning to drag a little, so she went to build it back up in strength. And now she's fucking dead. That is beyond appalling.

The funeral is Wednesday, and I am a pallbearer. I've never done this before, and I don't know if I will again.

I'm nervous as hell. I'm upset at a lot of my family (not parents for once). My mind is just swimming.

Now, here I am. Without you, awake. I need to drink myself out of this week.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Right...

Did that last post seem typical and emo-y of me?

Probably.

Am I going to keep that post to remind myself yet again of things that need doing?

Yes.

Is there anything else I have to say on the subject right now?

No.

Is that unusual?

No.

Why am I still asking questions?

No clue, but I don't seem capable of stopping.

Will I stop now?

Sure.

Long Times Again

It's another restless night where I don't know what it is I need to say, or should say. Anything would do at this point, but nothing comes out, as usual. I want to talk to you, and I do to an extent. Still, even then my words feel so empty and routine.

It's the same old story, though. The same lines, the same pattern, the same go-around that we always do and it ends the same way: me sorry and you irritated because I've yet again done nothing to change things for the better.

You're dozing off now, looking quite content. You said you were tired, and you flopped over on the bed so that it looked like the weight of the whole day had come down with you. I can't stop watching you, wishing so much to hold you again, to kiss you and tell you I love you as we both happily drifted asleep.

I can say these things, sure, but it's just flattery and adoration, things I always throw your way. But why can't I go on about other things, keep our talks lively and...I don't know, be here the way you need.

But now, here we are, these long times again being spent in silence, only adding tension. Only taking away from our time.