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Aug. 28th, 2015 04:33 pmThe month winds down. My father is still dead, his ashes still sitting in a cardboard box in my dining room. (I don't know what to do with him. I am paralyzed with indecision.) The sun is still burning, the grass dying, the drought cracking the ground and making monsters of us all.
I'm trying not to hate myself, to give myself space for the difficult feelings. It's very, very hard when the hate is still so physical. As much change as I've made, it never feels like enough.
Today a stranger addressed me as a man, and I can't express the simple relief I feel every time that happens.
A couple times, my father expressed his regret about not having a son. I don't remember his exact words. But it was a thing he said, and I remember the moment, the table in our dining room on Barrington, the color of the light, the shadows of the kitchen. The only thing I really regret is that he felt he didn't have a son, when I was right there. Just in disguise.
I'm trying not to hate myself, to give myself space for the difficult feelings. It's very, very hard when the hate is still so physical. As much change as I've made, it never feels like enough.
Today a stranger addressed me as a man, and I can't express the simple relief I feel every time that happens.
A couple times, my father expressed his regret about not having a son. I don't remember his exact words. But it was a thing he said, and I remember the moment, the table in our dining room on Barrington, the color of the light, the shadows of the kitchen. The only thing I really regret is that he felt he didn't have a son, when I was right there. Just in disguise.