Hey Dad,
I haven't been writing to you lately, but it's not because I haven't been thinking about you. If you want to know the truth, I still think about you all the time. Constantly. Things just seem to be getting worse instead of better. Everyone uses 6 months as a very rough framework for grieving - the first six months are the worst, they say. But you know what? We're into the second six months now, it's been 7 and a half months since you died, and I would say right now is the worst. Right now, and yesterday, and the day before that and that and that. The cocoon of numbness that shock provides is completely gone and I'm just raw and exposed to the elements. And the elements hurt, the heat hurts, the air hurts, everything hurts.
I think I've entered into the angry stage of grieving, because I feel angry all the time. I picture punching people in the face when I'm out on the street. I am so sorry -- I know you would absolutely not approve of that, but it's not like I'm going around actually doing it, it's just what I feel like doing. I feel like smashing glass against walls screaming, and then screaming more, and breaking down into a pool of mush and just crying. Just giving up.
If we ever broke a glass in the house on Thompson Street, you acted as if toxic chemicals had been released into the atmosphere. You'd immediately banish everyone from the room, sweep, vacuum, and then insist that shoes were worn at all times in case any tiny little slivers of glass were left lurking, waiting to kill us. If I smashed a glass now, I'd probably just let it lie. I feel listless and sad and I just don't want to try. I want to run away and not face things and not acknowledge your death at all. So, denial, then? Anger and denial together, is that how the stages work?
You know when you feel yourself doing the wrong thing, the unhealthy thing, the non-productive thing? And you can acknowledge it, but you can't change it. Or you don't want to change it. Or you just don't care. You are always always always going to be gone, aren't you?
a
I haven't been writing to you lately, but it's not because I haven't been thinking about you. If you want to know the truth, I still think about you all the time. Constantly. Things just seem to be getting worse instead of better. Everyone uses 6 months as a very rough framework for grieving - the first six months are the worst, they say. But you know what? We're into the second six months now, it's been 7 and a half months since you died, and I would say right now is the worst. Right now, and yesterday, and the day before that and that and that. The cocoon of numbness that shock provides is completely gone and I'm just raw and exposed to the elements. And the elements hurt, the heat hurts, the air hurts, everything hurts.
I think I've entered into the angry stage of grieving, because I feel angry all the time. I picture punching people in the face when I'm out on the street. I am so sorry -- I know you would absolutely not approve of that, but it's not like I'm going around actually doing it, it's just what I feel like doing. I feel like smashing glass against walls screaming, and then screaming more, and breaking down into a pool of mush and just crying. Just giving up.
If we ever broke a glass in the house on Thompson Street, you acted as if toxic chemicals had been released into the atmosphere. You'd immediately banish everyone from the room, sweep, vacuum, and then insist that shoes were worn at all times in case any tiny little slivers of glass were left lurking, waiting to kill us. If I smashed a glass now, I'd probably just let it lie. I feel listless and sad and I just don't want to try. I want to run away and not face things and not acknowledge your death at all. So, denial, then? Anger and denial together, is that how the stages work?
You know when you feel yourself doing the wrong thing, the unhealthy thing, the non-productive thing? And you can acknowledge it, but you can't change it. Or you don't want to change it. Or you just don't care. You are always always always going to be gone, aren't you?
a
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