mourning my father
Frankly, if you guys don't comment about the following, you really fucking suck and you are obviously a shitty friend. My dad is fucking dead and I still don't know how to cope.
My dad is why I am in counseling and take antidepressants. I don't hate him, although I probably should. I love him and I wish I did not. My father was basically the male, introverted version of me. He never really loved me because he couldn't love himself. He saw me as a reflection of him. When I was in 7th grade, my father suffered a minor injury to his ankle. However the minor injury turned into a unending illness that ended his life. By the end of 7th grade, my father was paralyzed. That summer everything spun out of control. Dad was given dozens of meds, from valium to zoloft to whatever. My father was already a voatile asshole, with the meds he was frightening, dangerous and paranoid. He would accuse and threaten so much, the words lost their harshness and my skin toughened. However, the memories are still bad. It was an ongoing balance of coping with him being in the hospital and then coping with him being at home. He was never healthy and he was never truly pushing forward. Then on Valentines day of 2001 at 9:30 pm. He died. If I am being elusive about the illness, its because no one knows exactly what killed him. I still feel as if I'm dreaming all this and its just, a long silly affair. That my eyes will open. I just want to get out of bed. My dad was a brilliant, interesting, and capable man who couldn't parent for shit and lost his health sooner than he deserved.
My dad is why I am in counseling and take antidepressants. I don't hate him, although I probably should. I love him and I wish I did not. My father was basically the male, introverted version of me. He never really loved me because he couldn't love himself. He saw me as a reflection of him. When I was in 7th grade, my father suffered a minor injury to his ankle. However the minor injury turned into a unending illness that ended his life. By the end of 7th grade, my father was paralyzed. That summer everything spun out of control. Dad was given dozens of meds, from valium to zoloft to whatever. My father was already a voatile asshole, with the meds he was frightening, dangerous and paranoid. He would accuse and threaten so much, the words lost their harshness and my skin toughened. However, the memories are still bad. It was an ongoing balance of coping with him being in the hospital and then coping with him being at home. He was never healthy and he was never truly pushing forward. Then on Valentines day of 2001 at 9:30 pm. He died. If I am being elusive about the illness, its because no one knows exactly what killed him. I still feel as if I'm dreaming all this and its just, a long silly affair. That my eyes will open. I just want to get out of bed. My dad was a brilliant, interesting, and capable man who couldn't parent for shit and lost his health sooner than he deserved.