you always said thinking was bad for me
It's been a long time. I know I promised better. I seem to have a chronic inability to keep that promise. *shrugs* Anyway...
It feels like the middle of the night, though it's only a quarter to eleven. I guess it's just been one of those really long days. It started out well enough, really. It just... kinda made a downward spiral. Kobe, my sister's cat, didn't get the memo about daylight savings, and woke me up at six thirty this morning. But he's a love and I really don't mind; he keeps me warm and purrs in my ear every night. Then Mom and I went to the coffee shop in Hiawassee to teach our weekly class on making greeting cards. Everyone loves it, and it is a good chance for me to get out of the house and see humanity, since I still haven't been able to get a job. (Not talking about that today.) Halfway through the class I realized that I was getting a nasty headache, but I didn't know if it was a migraine or a massive sugar crash from the triple espresso I'd just finished. By the end of class, I knew it was a migraine but was too far gone and spacey to remember that I have pills for that in my purse, until Mom reminded me. I managed to make it home in one piece, but the pill that usually has it knocked out and gone in five minutes wasn't helping all that much. I took my other pill when we got home, but it didn't help much either. I couldn't even manage to talk with Paul without getting even sicker. So I went to bed early and figured I'd just sleep it off. It worked out fairly well except for the sleep part. So I'm laying there just thinking about things and start thinking about Dad. I remembered how when I was really little he'd take me to a local restaurant and order two Cuban coffees with our breakfasts, and shock the wait staff when they found out the coffees were for me. And I just started bawling. I miss him so much. I go weeks sometimes without thinking about the suicide. And sometimes it's just a passing thought. But every now and then, when I'm lying in bed thinking, it just hits me that he's really gone and he's not ever coming back. I still have dreams that he's alive and actively participating in our lives, and when I wake up it takes me a long time to remember that he's dead, and not just currently absent from the house. Sometimes it takes a few days before I remember. My brain seems to have a really hard time registering that he's gone for good. Even after all these years.
I wish so much that he had been around to meet Paul. They would have been immediate buddies. Between their love of cars, video games, and model rockets, there would have been no separating them. He would have loved Paul. And loved him more for how happy he makes me. But they never got to meet, and that just kills me sometimes. Well, a lot of times, since I'm being honest here. He won't be there to give me away when Paul and I get married, and I still haven't gotten used to that. He won't be there to teach my kids how to fly a kite. He can't tell Paul embarassing stories of things I did before we met. He won't ever give me another rib-crushing hug, or tell any more lame jokes I've heard a thousand times. He'll never again sing along with the radio to all the stupidest songs and hit all the wrong notes. You'd think after all these years I'd know all this and be used to it. But I keep just... sort of forgetting that he's dead. I know that seems really stupid. How could I possibly forget such a thing? But he was sort of absent from our lives for so long, and then he left so suddenly, that sometimes I just plain forget that he's not ever coming back. So I spend nights like this one, remembering him and crying myself to sleep.
Mom told me tonight, after I started crying, that she had found empty bottles of antidepressants when we cleaned out the house, but that they were all old and long expired. I never knew that before. I had always just figured he'd never sought any help, or maybe didn't even know he had a problem with depression until it was too late. I guess maybe he just ran out of pills, or money. Maybe both. I know what it's like to be at the end of the rope... Even with the pills. I just wish he could have talked to me. Maybe asked me for help, if he couldn't ask anyone else. I could have at least tried to convince him there was at least one more reason to keep living. But I didn't get that chance. Maybe if I'd realized how far from normal our family situation had become, I could have reached out to him. Let him know that he was still loved. Still needed. Instead I doubted him and allowed the distance between us to become solid. I didn't even call him or send him a birthday card that last year. And I can't help thinking that maybe if I had it would have made a difference. And I've taken enough psychology courses to know that that kind of thinking is futile and useless, but it doesn't change anything. I'll always wonder.
And now, as I've cried enough to expend every last ounce of energy, perhaps I'll find sleep. And perhaps I won't have any dreams tonight that Daddy is helping remodel the house. And perhaps I won't forget in the morning that he's gone forever. Perhaps this will be the last time I repeat this episode. But I know better than to rely on "perhaps." So I'll just settle for a little sleep. Maybe Kobe will keep me company until then.