Thursday, August 1, 2013

Nothing much

I didn't get much sleep last night.  I got home at 1ish and flopped onto the couch, needing just a few minutes to not be at work, to not be rushing to get to work and to just be in the darkness, in the silence, to process everything that's going on.  I mean, yes, I've had a few months to come to grips with the very real possibility that this was going on but ... now it's like 100% confirmed.  It's in the books.  It's my life now.  

I wanted to not hear the things that irritate me.  I wanted to not hear a thing.  I played on my phone, I sat in the dark and watched the nightlight change colors, casting pastel hued auras on the wall.  My cats curled up on my stomach and shoulders. I heard purring and in the distance, Dan snoring in the bedroom.  It was quiet, it was peaceful.  It was just me and my thoughts. 

I want to talk to my Dad.  This thought popped into my head as I lay there.  Because, as I lay there I flashed back to laying on the couch in my dad's house. My dad had an oxygen concentrator that was positioned in the living room and the tube was fed through the wall into his bedroom.  But, the concentrator was loud, hummed and had a rhythm to it like a breathing machine in a hospital.  It soothed me.  It had a rhythm to it that just rocked me to sleep.   I remembered this, and the safe "home" feeling I had while lying there.

I want to talk to my Dad.  Oh. I can't.  Because, 13 years ago today he left me behind.  It doesn't feel like 13 years at all.  In fact, it feels like it just happened.  If I allow myself to truly think, the tears instantly fill my eyes.  Sure, I can talk about him and joke and remember the good times with people but, if I "talk" about him, I'm a goner.   But, I allow myself to open these wounds on the day he left, and his birthday.

I miss him more because I want to know how he handled having a chronic condition.  When he was first diagnosed did he talk about it all the time?  Did he want to talk about it all the time?  Did he keep it to himself?  What was he thinking?  How did he feel?  Did it constantly weigh on his mind at every waking minute?  Did he feel that he was somehow different than everyone else?  Less than everyone else?

I don't remember these things.  I was still very much a child when he died.  Sure, I was 20 years old.  But, I was a child in every sense of the word.  I was immature, irresponsible, etc.  I wasn't ready to lose him.  I wasn't ready to fly out into the world and be without him.  But, I also didn't talk to my dad about his condition.  I didn't even know much about it until I did research on it long after he died.  Somehow this makes me feel like a bad daughter.  I know this ....

What my daddy had was extremely rare.  Huh ... that sounds familiar. 

Yes, before you ask, I was tested for my dad's condition and I do not have it.  Part of me wishes I did, because I would feel closer to him.  However, I know what he had was horrible.  I know he suffered a great deal throughout his life and I don't want that.  I know with mine, I can achieve a sense of normalcy from time to time.  I can live my regular life as before.  I don't have to make the changes that he did. 

I want to know if he battled depression.  Because, I'll be honest.  I am.  I am fighting hard against it but there are days it kicks my ass.  It's stupid too because most of it has to do with the fact that I was losing this god awful weight, I was eating healthy, I was working out.  And then ... I stopped.  I had no choice.  Sure, when I'd miss an appointment here and there my trainers probably thought I was lazy.  No.  I wish that was it.  And ... it began the slow weight gain.  I found the 30 lbs I'd lost ... and now, with Uncle Prednisone ... I've found some extra. 

And now, everyone around me is on a fitness kick.  It's like the non stop conversation around me and I don't fault those people. NOT AT ALL.  By all means, talk about it, share.  Be proud, you've earned it!  That's not what I am saying.  I have a hard time not getting very angry inside, very angry and horrifically sad.  Because, I feel like the "fat friend".  I feel like the "fat wife".  I feel like an embarrassment, I do.  I feel like a failure. 

I didn't do anything to make this happen. This is NOT my fault.  It isn't like I did drugs, or did ANYTHING to make my immune system misfire.  It happened.  But, it does't mean I don't feel like I failed because I gained weight.   Believe me.  I feel like I failed. 

I miss my dad because it wouldn't matter if I weighed a 1000 lbs.  He'd still love me just as much and think I was the greatest thing in the world.   He'd be mad I let myself gain that much weight but ... he would love me just the same.  The rest of the world isn't like that. 

No one has judged me (not outwardly, there are a few I suspect are having a good snicker about it because that's just how insecure and pathetic they are) and I have a great group of people around me.  These are not the people I am talking about.   It's just the world, it's society, it's how people look at others.  I wish people would remember there is more to a person than how they look.  I know people who are horrifically ugly because of their personality. 

  I'm just being venty again.  I feel like this is one of the only places to truly unload. 

Is it time for bed yet?  I really just want to pull the covers over my head and hide for awhile.

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