I wonder if I think about death too much right now
[From around 11 this morning. LJ/DW is one of the things actually blocked and filters on the schools internet.]
I wonder if I think about death too much right now, or if it's the absolutely normal amount given the circumstances of my life revolve about 85% of the time around death and the remembrance of the recent death of my father. Everyday I come home and check the mail I have forward mail from him, and another one to four accounts I need to cancel for him.
Saturday I got the second half of his ashes in an urn and all his death certificates.
But thinking about death. I think about it right now. I think because there's no way for me not to end up thinking about my father dying recently in my daily life right now. No matter the coping mechanism I end up using in a day from watching tv shows, to making icons, to being restless about not having anything to write.
I think about how my father was supposed to have four or five years, but poof and he was gone, whether that was personal choices or not. I think about how he left nothing in place. Nothing but a hearsay about where he wanted his ashes scattered. But no will and no even inklings among any of us about what he wanted done with his things.
I think about how I'm probably more numb, and not actually depressed, because I'm on this medication I've been on since last summer. One of which is a high-grade anti-depressent, and one of which is a super low-grade bipolar medicine, and how the combination made my life turn upside up and made me able to be deliriously happy for months with my drastic new turns into teaching.
I think about how maybe it's, also, why I can't fall fully into depression now.
I think about what would happen if a car slammed into me, or I took my wrong medication, with the worst, most serious, warning side effect at the wrong time in the day and forgot I can't have a single sip of alcohol on it, and, and died. No will. No words. The only thing someone might remember at all, at the moment is that "I want[ed] to having a living will in the next five or six months" and "I want[ed] 'She loved words' on my grave stone/marker."
But my things? My memories. My messages I wanted my family and dearest friend to have. There would be nothing. No one would know what I want given to Earl. To Laura. To Carrie. Donated to the religious community I love to pass down. Or to my step-sisters husband, because he would take such care and find such love in my geeky things. That Laura, and then the kids should get the Disney collection. Which, very very specific, books and dvds should to which, very very specific, people.
The same with jewelry. Mementos. Even the tea cabinet, and the china.
It probably doesn't help that I'm reading "I Was Here" right now, either. But I've wanted to read it forever, as it's by an absolute high up there favorite author, and I finally got to get with a monthly credit on audible.
[This entry was originally posted at http://wanderlustlover.dreamwidth.org/2295804.html. Comment on either at your leisure.]
I wonder if I think about death too much right now, or if it's the absolutely normal amount given the circumstances of my life revolve about 85% of the time around death and the remembrance of the recent death of my father. Everyday I come home and check the mail I have forward mail from him, and another one to four accounts I need to cancel for him.
Saturday I got the second half of his ashes in an urn and all his death certificates.
But thinking about death. I think about it right now. I think because there's no way for me not to end up thinking about my father dying recently in my daily life right now. No matter the coping mechanism I end up using in a day from watching tv shows, to making icons, to being restless about not having anything to write.
I think about how my father was supposed to have four or five years, but poof and he was gone, whether that was personal choices or not. I think about how he left nothing in place. Nothing but a hearsay about where he wanted his ashes scattered. But no will and no even inklings among any of us about what he wanted done with his things.
I think about how I'm probably more numb, and not actually depressed, because I'm on this medication I've been on since last summer. One of which is a high-grade anti-depressent, and one of which is a super low-grade bipolar medicine, and how the combination made my life turn upside up and made me able to be deliriously happy for months with my drastic new turns into teaching.
I think about how maybe it's, also, why I can't fall fully into depression now.
I think about what would happen if a car slammed into me, or I took my wrong medication, with the worst, most serious, warning side effect at the wrong time in the day and forgot I can't have a single sip of alcohol on it, and, and died. No will. No words. The only thing someone might remember at all, at the moment is that "I want[ed] to having a living will in the next five or six months" and "I want[ed] 'She loved words' on my grave stone/marker."
But my things? My memories. My messages I wanted my family and dearest friend to have. There would be nothing. No one would know what I want given to Earl. To Laura. To Carrie. Donated to the religious community I love to pass down. Or to my step-sisters husband, because he would take such care and find such love in my geeky things. That Laura, and then the kids should get the Disney collection. Which, very very specific, books and dvds should to which, very very specific, people.
The same with jewelry. Mementos. Even the tea cabinet, and the china.
It probably doesn't help that I'm reading "I Was Here" right now, either. But I've wanted to read it forever, as it's by an absolute high up there favorite author, and I finally got to get with a monthly credit on audible.
[This entry was originally posted at http://wanderlustlover.dreamwidth.org/2295804.html. Comment on either at your leisure.]