Confessions of a broken heart
One would think that after a year, It wouldn't hurt as much. But It does. Time is supposed to heal all wounds. But this one isn't being healed. Perhaps its my own stubbornness that prevents this healing from occuring. Maybe its all the unresolved issues and the guilt preventing me from doing this. Maybe I'm just a drama queen. Or it could be a combination of all of the above.
It all still feels like a dream. Like some sick twisted daydream I had. That I dreamed it all up. Like I can still dial his cell number and hear his voice on the other end. I can make the two hour trip to his house, and he'll answer the door, faintly surprised, and pleased to see me. I have some shirts of his, from when I was like five. And they smell like him. I sleep in them, and the scent comforts me. Maybe that's all in my head, but I swear I can still smell him. Those Harley shirts still smell like him.
I have so many unanswered questions, so much anger, and hurt. And yes, I hate him as much as I love him. I can't wrap my head around the whys floating around my head. What on earth could you have been thinking, and feeling to put a fucking gun to your head and pull the trigger? Maybe if I believed in Heaven, this would all be easier. But I don't know.
All the if onlys, still float around my head, and I can't stop them. I do blame myself, I blame his job, I blame his wife, I blame the stupid asshole who gave him the fucking gun, (who I believe would be my grandfather), the stupid golddigger who took him away in the first place. But mostly I blame him for being so fucking selfish and not thinking through the consequences of his own actions.
Now my father was not by any means a perfect man. I know things about my father I wish I didn't know, things no one wants to know about the man they look up to, their hero. I remember things that didn't make sense until my mother and friends of the family explained to me.
I can barely remember the funeral. The memorial service. I remember bits and pieces, like pieces of a puzzle I need to put back together. Maybe if I can do that, it will all make sense.
I remember the drive up. My mouth hurt, having just had my stupid wisdom teeth pulled the day before. I was on meds, pain killers, and could barely eat solid food. We get there and Danny and Jermaine are there, outside. Danny's smoking a ciggeratte, and wearing sunglasses. Maybe he didn't want us to see he was trying not to cry. And he told me he couldn't go in. And I understood, because I didn't want to either. But my entourage was going in, and I was with them. I walked in, and the man who ran the funeral home hands me something, a card I still have next to the picture I have framed of him. And he starts talking to me like I'm just another guest. I was so furious that this man didn't know I was his daughter. I'm sure it showed on my face I was about ot say somethign biting, but Dana pulled me away, and then I saw him. Only it wasn't him, and it was all wrong. And I couldn't breathe. And some one kept saying, "I can't do this, I can't do this." over anf over again, slightly hysteric. I though it was my mom, but it was me. I thought shit like that only happened in books and movies. Apparently not. But the door was blocked and I couldn't escape. Then Sassy was there and helping me to sit and calm down.
We went in. I sat in the back, crying I think. And Shelley was there, up front in black, crying her eyes out. And I didn't care. This was all some huge twisted joke. He;d sit up in a few minutes, and we'd all have a huge laugh over it. But ten mins went by, twenty, and he wasn't sitting up. And then it hit me again. But I had to go up to him.
He was so cold, and wearing too mych make -up. All I can remember thinking was , "this isn't my father. Daddy isn't here."
I don't remember much more until the second day. I was making all the right noises, and all the right moves, but it was all feeling so mechanical. There was still something wrong. We went up to say good bye, and Dana and Taylor were with me. And i started praying, which I don't do very often. I knelt, and started praying to God. “Please God,” I prayed silently. “Watch over him.” But my thoughts soon turned to despair and anger. “How could you do this to me?” I sobbed. “Daddy…” I leaned against him, sobbing hysterically, gasping, all the emotions I felt tumbling out of me, anger, hurt, betrayal, despair, abandonment. I don’t know how long I lay on him, sobbing, while Dana was crying, and Taylor was supporting the casket’s lid, to keep it from closing on me. Someone went to get my mother, but my uncle was quicker, gently pulling me away, letting me cry on him instead. And I all I could think about was how much I wanted to hear his voice again, how much I needed him to hug, me, to sit up and tell us all it was a joke. I couldn’t understand how God could let this happen.
I still don't understand. I guess I never will. I still have nightmares. Horrible nightmares, that I can;t even talk about. I cry at the drop of a hat, and I hate him. And I love him.
And what am I supposed to do today? There is no grave, nowhere to go, to see or hear him, and the only people who could understand hate us right now over something so petty. Apparently money makes people show their true fucking colors. So fuck you.
It all still feels like a dream. Like some sick twisted daydream I had. That I dreamed it all up. Like I can still dial his cell number and hear his voice on the other end. I can make the two hour trip to his house, and he'll answer the door, faintly surprised, and pleased to see me. I have some shirts of his, from when I was like five. And they smell like him. I sleep in them, and the scent comforts me. Maybe that's all in my head, but I swear I can still smell him. Those Harley shirts still smell like him.
I have so many unanswered questions, so much anger, and hurt. And yes, I hate him as much as I love him. I can't wrap my head around the whys floating around my head. What on earth could you have been thinking, and feeling to put a fucking gun to your head and pull the trigger? Maybe if I believed in Heaven, this would all be easier. But I don't know.
All the if onlys, still float around my head, and I can't stop them. I do blame myself, I blame his job, I blame his wife, I blame the stupid asshole who gave him the fucking gun, (who I believe would be my grandfather), the stupid golddigger who took him away in the first place. But mostly I blame him for being so fucking selfish and not thinking through the consequences of his own actions.
Now my father was not by any means a perfect man. I know things about my father I wish I didn't know, things no one wants to know about the man they look up to, their hero. I remember things that didn't make sense until my mother and friends of the family explained to me.
I can barely remember the funeral. The memorial service. I remember bits and pieces, like pieces of a puzzle I need to put back together. Maybe if I can do that, it will all make sense.
I remember the drive up. My mouth hurt, having just had my stupid wisdom teeth pulled the day before. I was on meds, pain killers, and could barely eat solid food. We get there and Danny and Jermaine are there, outside. Danny's smoking a ciggeratte, and wearing sunglasses. Maybe he didn't want us to see he was trying not to cry. And he told me he couldn't go in. And I understood, because I didn't want to either. But my entourage was going in, and I was with them. I walked in, and the man who ran the funeral home hands me something, a card I still have next to the picture I have framed of him. And he starts talking to me like I'm just another guest. I was so furious that this man didn't know I was his daughter. I'm sure it showed on my face I was about ot say somethign biting, but Dana pulled me away, and then I saw him. Only it wasn't him, and it was all wrong. And I couldn't breathe. And some one kept saying, "I can't do this, I can't do this." over anf over again, slightly hysteric. I though it was my mom, but it was me. I thought shit like that only happened in books and movies. Apparently not. But the door was blocked and I couldn't escape. Then Sassy was there and helping me to sit and calm down.
We went in. I sat in the back, crying I think. And Shelley was there, up front in black, crying her eyes out. And I didn't care. This was all some huge twisted joke. He;d sit up in a few minutes, and we'd all have a huge laugh over it. But ten mins went by, twenty, and he wasn't sitting up. And then it hit me again. But I had to go up to him.
He was so cold, and wearing too mych make -up. All I can remember thinking was , "this isn't my father. Daddy isn't here."
I don't remember much more until the second day. I was making all the right noises, and all the right moves, but it was all feeling so mechanical. There was still something wrong. We went up to say good bye, and Dana and Taylor were with me. And i started praying, which I don't do very often. I knelt, and started praying to God. “Please God,” I prayed silently. “Watch over him.” But my thoughts soon turned to despair and anger. “How could you do this to me?” I sobbed. “Daddy…” I leaned against him, sobbing hysterically, gasping, all the emotions I felt tumbling out of me, anger, hurt, betrayal, despair, abandonment. I don’t know how long I lay on him, sobbing, while Dana was crying, and Taylor was supporting the casket’s lid, to keep it from closing on me. Someone went to get my mother, but my uncle was quicker, gently pulling me away, letting me cry on him instead. And I all I could think about was how much I wanted to hear his voice again, how much I needed him to hug, me, to sit up and tell us all it was a joke. I couldn’t understand how God could let this happen.
I still don't understand. I guess I never will. I still have nightmares. Horrible nightmares, that I can;t even talk about. I cry at the drop of a hat, and I hate him. And I love him.
And what am I supposed to do today? There is no grave, nowhere to go, to see or hear him, and the only people who could understand hate us right now over something so petty. Apparently money makes people show their true fucking colors. So fuck you.