Too many questions; not enough answers
It's been 17 days since Papa killed himself. I've been through each emotion, each mood you want to name. Sometimes, I just sit and think, and feel numb.
The viewing was a nightmare. The funeral was awful. All I see is my great-grandmother being helped up to the casket, sobbing, while Aunt Margaret held her up. "You were a good man...You raised those kids right", and was led away. It's still unreal, it will always be unreal. No matter how many nights I lay awake wondering, asking WHY this happened, what kind of a sick joke did God play on us, why NOBODY at his job spoke up when he was talking about it the week it happened, why he was in so much pain, and didn't reach out to us. Billy has listened to me cry and comtemplate each night. He has been so good through this, gently telling me that it will all be alright, staying up with me when he had to get up at 5:30 a.m. Telling me his theory of life and death,which was beautiful, and made me cry, because he had a point. Sometimes, it is too much to grasp though.
But it won't go away.
Why? He was only 59 years old. He was too good for this world. Why didn't you say "Help me"? Why did you pull that trigger? Did you mean to? And are you in Heaven, waiting for us? Or caught in Limbo, doomed. People can say that if you committ suicide, you go to Hell. It can't be true. That is for people who have NEVER dealt with it, to watch your grandmother fall apart, to watch a family shatter, to watch your grandfather being wheeled out in a body bag from the house, knowing what is really under it, even though that still form cannot be the person who played dolls with you when you were younger. We don't know how much pain he was in, how deep the hurt. Only God knows, and that is probably why he let him know it was Time.
And now, we try to piece it together, to get of family members who are sniffing after money, the same ones who came to both the viewing and funeral in JEANS AND BASEBALL HATS. How the FUCK can you disrespect you father like that? And you talk about what you get out of it? Meeting with people AT the VIEWING about what kind of MONEY he had at work? FUCK YOU. Did you care that your family was hurting? No. As long as you could stake claim to money, it was fine. People wonder how other people can hate? Look in front of you. And when you realize that there is nothing for you, you leave, wihtout asking if your mother would be ok.
And you know what sickens me? Teenagers making suicide pacts. It's "romantic". Bullshit.
And when I go to Nana's, I still expect Papa to be sitting at the table, in his white shirt and blue jeans, holding a cigarette in his hand, telling me how much I've grown up.
And I cry all the way home.
The viewing was a nightmare. The funeral was awful. All I see is my great-grandmother being helped up to the casket, sobbing, while Aunt Margaret held her up. "You were a good man...You raised those kids right", and was led away. It's still unreal, it will always be unreal. No matter how many nights I lay awake wondering, asking WHY this happened, what kind of a sick joke did God play on us, why NOBODY at his job spoke up when he was talking about it the week it happened, why he was in so much pain, and didn't reach out to us. Billy has listened to me cry and comtemplate each night. He has been so good through this, gently telling me that it will all be alright, staying up with me when he had to get up at 5:30 a.m. Telling me his theory of life and death,which was beautiful, and made me cry, because he had a point. Sometimes, it is too much to grasp though.
But it won't go away.
Why? He was only 59 years old. He was too good for this world. Why didn't you say "Help me"? Why did you pull that trigger? Did you mean to? And are you in Heaven, waiting for us? Or caught in Limbo, doomed. People can say that if you committ suicide, you go to Hell. It can't be true. That is for people who have NEVER dealt with it, to watch your grandmother fall apart, to watch a family shatter, to watch your grandfather being wheeled out in a body bag from the house, knowing what is really under it, even though that still form cannot be the person who played dolls with you when you were younger. We don't know how much pain he was in, how deep the hurt. Only God knows, and that is probably why he let him know it was Time.
And now, we try to piece it together, to get of family members who are sniffing after money, the same ones who came to both the viewing and funeral in JEANS AND BASEBALL HATS. How the FUCK can you disrespect you father like that? And you talk about what you get out of it? Meeting with people AT the VIEWING about what kind of MONEY he had at work? FUCK YOU. Did you care that your family was hurting? No. As long as you could stake claim to money, it was fine. People wonder how other people can hate? Look in front of you. And when you realize that there is nothing for you, you leave, wihtout asking if your mother would be ok.
And you know what sickens me? Teenagers making suicide pacts. It's "romantic". Bullshit.
And when I go to Nana's, I still expect Papa to be sitting at the table, in his white shirt and blue jeans, holding a cigarette in his hand, telling me how much I've grown up.
And I cry all the way home.