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another 90 days and we can see the end
Mar. 25th, 2014 10:07 amFor once, something went smoothly. Despite some jerky moments last week we made it to court yesterday morning. We were the first case on the docket so it all went faster and better than I had hoped. My father's friends showed up, all the papers were signed, the judge signed off on it. So now I can administer the petty bureaucratic details of my father's death. In another 90 days or so, this should be over. Our lawyer laid out the plans for dealing with his medical debt, posting appropriate notices and such.
Relief. This is going to end. The shitty paperwork side of things at least.
The court date has brought home the fact that I have dealt with everything by not dealing.
But it took me a long time to deal with the grief of other wounds, other deaths. I'm hitting the anger buttons hard right now. White hot, visceral anger about so many things - how my father and I failed each other, the complete fucking disaster that is family. How is anyone supposed to go back to a high pressure work situation after spending days cleaning out an apartment that smells like rot and decay and death? There are still things in my garage six months later that have that sickly sweet whiff of death to them. Anger that my father died in really fucked up circumstances, that so much in his life was tragedy. Anger about all the things I will never be able to understand or explain or deal with.
My father was angry I didn't call. I was angry that my father never called, that the burden of keeping things together always fell on me. I don't remember the last time my father mentioned my birthday. It was sometime in my twenties. I always bought him birthday presents, always marked that date. It was always my responsibility to contact other people and I'm a terrible son for not doing it. But when the fuck did anyone ever reach out and ask if I was okay? When did anyone make the effort to see me? Fuck.
I need to go to the gym and lift some heavy weights and then run until I can't anymore. This rage and sadness needs a physical outlet, and the gym is probably the safest way to deal with that.
I really don't know how to get better, just to keep moving.
Relief. This is going to end. The shitty paperwork side of things at least.
The court date has brought home the fact that I have dealt with everything by not dealing.
But it took me a long time to deal with the grief of other wounds, other deaths. I'm hitting the anger buttons hard right now. White hot, visceral anger about so many things - how my father and I failed each other, the complete fucking disaster that is family. How is anyone supposed to go back to a high pressure work situation after spending days cleaning out an apartment that smells like rot and decay and death? There are still things in my garage six months later that have that sickly sweet whiff of death to them. Anger that my father died in really fucked up circumstances, that so much in his life was tragedy. Anger about all the things I will never be able to understand or explain or deal with.
My father was angry I didn't call. I was angry that my father never called, that the burden of keeping things together always fell on me. I don't remember the last time my father mentioned my birthday. It was sometime in my twenties. I always bought him birthday presents, always marked that date. It was always my responsibility to contact other people and I'm a terrible son for not doing it. But when the fuck did anyone ever reach out and ask if I was okay? When did anyone make the effort to see me? Fuck.
I need to go to the gym and lift some heavy weights and then run until I can't anymore. This rage and sadness needs a physical outlet, and the gym is probably the safest way to deal with that.
I really don't know how to get better, just to keep moving.