(no subject)
I am not a band-aid ripper. I peek. I carefully lift the corner and slowly peel back part of it, just enough so I can see the wound. If I don't think it's ready, I'll replace it and wait a few more days. If it is, I'll slowly peel it the rest of the way off, fold it in half twice and toss it.
Right now, I'm living my life wrapped in a giant band-aid. It's amazing what the mind can do to protect itself from trauma. My mind has wrapped itself in a layer of fog via shock. It doesn't allow me to rip it off and confront the full severity of the wound, which is incredible. Right or wrong, this band-aid will not be ripped away in one fell swoop. It's going to be peeled back, layer by layer by layer until my mind and my heart are fully willing, able and ready to accept what happened. It's going to be a long, slow, painful process, but it will be the only way I'll be able to confront this and deal with it. Doesn't really work with the hustle and bustle of our society, does it?
My mom, on the other hand, is a ripper. She isn't a very sentimental sort, unlike me. She has already sorted through some of his clothes to donate, and tonight she threw away the leftover stuff from his office and his tea jug. "It makes it look like he is here, but he's not, so I'm throwing it away." I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded and listened to the loud thunk the heavy glass jug made as it hit the bottom of the trash can. My mind was screaming at me to grab it and put it back, to tell her that's EXACTLY why it needed to stay, because it was his and it made it feel like he was still here. Each piece that we throw away is like taking an eraser and slowly blurring him into oblivion. It's like grabbing the edge of my shock layered band-aid and ripping it away from the wound before it's ready to be revealed. Everything in me screams to grab all of his things and hold them tight, refusing to let myself physically eradicate him from the world.
We visited my grandparents tonight. It was weird to see that box in front of their television. My dad is in that box. Originally, they had planned to buy the plot next to my dad on the tree ring his ashes are buried in. I found that idea to be extremely comforting. Should it really matter? Not really. It's not like that's him in the ground. But it was. The idea gave me a sense of security. It doesn't make sense, but there it is.
He had a visitor yesterday. One of my mom's friends visited his grave and said a prayer over it. She sent mom a picture of the tree ring, too. It's a very nice spot. It's under a tree and it's facing a bunch of trees. Dad always sat out in the back yard and watched the wind blow through the trees, so it was very fitting. We're going Wednesday to figure out his grave marker. I'm not looking forward to it. Visiting the funeral home and grave yard further tugs at that band-aid that I'm just not ready to remove.
Right now, I'm living my life wrapped in a giant band-aid. It's amazing what the mind can do to protect itself from trauma. My mind has wrapped itself in a layer of fog via shock. It doesn't allow me to rip it off and confront the full severity of the wound, which is incredible. Right or wrong, this band-aid will not be ripped away in one fell swoop. It's going to be peeled back, layer by layer by layer until my mind and my heart are fully willing, able and ready to accept what happened. It's going to be a long, slow, painful process, but it will be the only way I'll be able to confront this and deal with it. Doesn't really work with the hustle and bustle of our society, does it?
My mom, on the other hand, is a ripper. She isn't a very sentimental sort, unlike me. She has already sorted through some of his clothes to donate, and tonight she threw away the leftover stuff from his office and his tea jug. "It makes it look like he is here, but he's not, so I'm throwing it away." I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded and listened to the loud thunk the heavy glass jug made as it hit the bottom of the trash can. My mind was screaming at me to grab it and put it back, to tell her that's EXACTLY why it needed to stay, because it was his and it made it feel like he was still here. Each piece that we throw away is like taking an eraser and slowly blurring him into oblivion. It's like grabbing the edge of my shock layered band-aid and ripping it away from the wound before it's ready to be revealed. Everything in me screams to grab all of his things and hold them tight, refusing to let myself physically eradicate him from the world.
We visited my grandparents tonight. It was weird to see that box in front of their television. My dad is in that box. Originally, they had planned to buy the plot next to my dad on the tree ring his ashes are buried in. I found that idea to be extremely comforting. Should it really matter? Not really. It's not like that's him in the ground. But it was. The idea gave me a sense of security. It doesn't make sense, but there it is.
He had a visitor yesterday. One of my mom's friends visited his grave and said a prayer over it. She sent mom a picture of the tree ring, too. It's a very nice spot. It's under a tree and it's facing a bunch of trees. Dad always sat out in the back yard and watched the wind blow through the trees, so it was very fitting. We're going Wednesday to figure out his grave marker. I'm not looking forward to it. Visiting the funeral home and grave yard further tugs at that band-aid that I'm just not ready to remove.