Showing posts tagged loss

And so…

And so the dreams persist where I physically attack my father’s wife for the cruelity she imposed upon my sister and I.

I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it but Bermudian law dictates that when a spouse dies the surviving spouse is legally entitled to all their personal belongings. So this cunt of a woman who was in my father’s life for 4 years, and married to him for 4 months, has all his personal belongings. Including his signet ring my mother gave to him on his 50th birthday, photo albums from my childhood, a lamp my maternal grandfather restored, a drawing my sister gave my father for father’s day, my grandmother’s suitcase, a portrait my mother commissioned of my father with a love letter in the back of the canvas, in other words, nothing, at all, relating to her.

She refuses to give us anything that was in the house. Including my university diploma hanging in my sister and I’s bedroom.

The signet ring is what kills me. Ever since my mother gave it to him he always told me that my sister would get his pocket watch, handed down to him through the generations, and I would get the ring. Since I was ten years old, I always knew I’d get the ring.

Except I won’t. 

And every night, or every other night, or every week, I dream that I see her, still wearing the damn thing, and I physically attack her and rip it from her finger.

It’s quite scary because I do not trust myself NOT to do that in person if I ever see her again.

People. Why are you so damn cruel?

Lately I’ve had this uncontrollable rage over the fact that I can’t, and will never again, be able to talk to my father.

I keep talking about how unfathomable is that he’s not here. That I still believe one day he’ll come back, that this emptiness and distance is not permanent. And then I dream. I dream that he is back, and I hug him so tight knowing never to let go. That for only a brief moment I can touch him, FEEL him, hear his voice. It seems so cruel these dreams. I wake up in a rage that I can’t. I can’t ever get another hug, or see his baby blues, hear him call me “bunny”, or argue with him about the state of tourism on our dismal island.

That I will never again tell him that I love him, that I will never hear that from him either. 

It just seems IMPOSSIBLE that that’s true.

Will I ever believe it?

Lately I can’t seem to stop talking about my father. I try to stop myself, remembering not to overwhelm, but I can’t seem to.
I always feel like I’m making the person I’m speaking to about my father very uncomfortable. I don’t cry, or tear up, I generally enjoy sharing stories of him. It triggers other memories, happy or sad. It keeps him alive, as I know he would love to tell these stories himself.
This has been building momentum for months now. The stories come easier, faster and more frequent. I’ve been trying to figure out why this is happening. This uncontrollable need to talk about him.
Last week, I had the most amazing sail on a 420. I trapezed without a harness, smiling from ear to ear, feeling the rush of wind and salt on my face. After dragging the boat on the dock, I passed a group of men, some were friends of my father. One stopped, said hello, and mentioned how great I looked. I thanked him, and continued on to the bar. Before I made it, I stopped straight in my tracks and had a thought.
The reason why I love sailing, being a member of his alma mater, and seeing his friends on a weekly basis, is because it is a constant reminder of him. Of a time where we as a family had fun. The building holds copious amounts of positive, lovely, scary and frustrating memories. 
I am unable to enter his home, so that is where I mourn him. I mourn him in the club he helped build, grow, where he reached legendary status, where everyone knew his (and as a consequence) my name. Where I constantly hear “I knew your father, he was a fantastic man, we miss him very much.”
It’s a place where he still lives. Where I can feel him, remember him, and keep his memory alive.
21 days and it will be an entire year without him.
How is that possible?

Lately I can’t seem to stop talking about my father. I try to stop myself, remembering not to overwhelm, but I can’t seem to.

I always feel like I’m making the person I’m speaking to about my father very uncomfortable. I don’t cry, or tear up, I generally enjoy sharing stories of him. It triggers other memories, happy or sad. It keeps him alive, as I know he would love to tell these stories himself.

This has been building momentum for months now. The stories come easier, faster and more frequent. I’ve been trying to figure out why this is happening. This uncontrollable need to talk about him.

Last week, I had the most amazing sail on a 420. I trapezed without a harness, smiling from ear to ear, feeling the rush of wind and salt on my face. After dragging the boat on the dock, I passed a group of men, some were friends of my father. One stopped, said hello, and mentioned how great I looked. I thanked him, and continued on to the bar. Before I made it, I stopped straight in my tracks and had a thought.

The reason why I love sailing, being a member of his alma mater, and seeing his friends on a weekly basis, is because it is a constant reminder of him. Of a time where we as a family had fun. The building holds copious amounts of positive, lovely, scary and frustrating memories. 

I am unable to enter his home, so that is where I mourn him. I mourn him in the club he helped build, grow, where he reached legendary status, where everyone knew his (and as a consequence) my name. Where I constantly hear “I knew your father, he was a fantastic man, we miss him very much.”

It’s a place where he still lives. Where I can feel him, remember him, and keep his memory alive.

21 days and it will be an entire year without him.

How is that possible?

Missing.

Missing my father is almost impossible to describe. It’s like missing a limb, or an ear. You have another, but you work best with both. 

I mostly try to ignore the fact that he’s no longer here. Instead I fantasize that he’s sailing across the ocean, with no means of communication, having the time of his life. It is sometimes impossible to acknowledge he’s just not coming back. 

Lately the thing I miss the most, if that’s possible, is telling him new things I’ve experienced, learned, signed up for. How he’s never tasted my spaghetti made from scratch, or my attempts at successful indian and korean curry, witness my new found love affair with red wine and most importantly, see me tie a bowline or renewed interest in sailing.

I think about how certain things would be easier, like organizing my membership to the yacht club, his alma mater. Almost everyone else I know my age who is a member got their parents to take care of it for them. I like to imagine he would have “taken care of it” for me also.

With the missing comes unexpected joys. Like contacting a member of the yacht club and if he remembered “JT’s” daughter, would sponsor my membership. The response is “Of course. I would have done anything for your father, and I’ll do anything to help. He would have been so proud to have you become a member. I miss him every day.”

It’s nice to know I’m not the only one missing him too.

I haven’t written much on here lately. Mostly because I don’t really know how to sum it up in words.

Moving home has been completely different than what I imagined. I felt so broken in NYC that I imagined it would take months to recover. Get to some sense of normalcy, create a balance. 

Instead I have found an immense sense of peace, and dare I say it happiness. I haven’t felt any version of happiness in such a long time that when I laughed, out loud, completely from the heart for the first time in years, I took a moment to actually savor it completely. It has since happened many times over.

I just remember one specific day in NYC. I felt so empty, hollow shell floating through life. I felt an incredible sense of loss, of self, of life, that I could have just laid down on the sidewalk and not care how long I lay there. I just couldn’t imagine taking one more physical step forward in what was my realty. It was days later that I had my shut in break down and came to the realization that I had to get out of NYC. If I didn’t, I knew it would kill me.

Coming home I felt it would take months to find the drive, ambition, and motivation to work. Find friends. Go out. Join a club. Within weeks I had managed all, to my complete and utter astonishment. 

I am not “done”, nor is this “over”. This battle within my head will always be with me. But I can’t put into words how I feel that the decision to move home possibly saved my life.

And for right now, I am, dare I say it, the happiest I have been in a long time.

And it’s about fucking time.


Embarrassing Confession Time

I’ve had a hard time letting go of the most recent boy. Mostly because there was nothing really wrong with our relationship, he was just deathly afraid of it. Instead of embracing it, he ran away (literally - ran away - as in no longer in NYC). You’d be proud. I called him the coward he is, the idiot he was and constantly said his decision was stupid. Regardless of the harsh truth I tried to reflect, he still ran, and fast. And although you’re shaking your head muttering under your breath “He’s just not that into you…, it is the truth. I’m a stickler for it, even if acknowledging it hurts me. He’s not ready, for me, for us, to be emotionally involved with anyone. And he might never be.

Part of me desperately clings to the thought that maybe, one day (soon), he’ll come to his senses, and when he does, he’ll remember me, us, and come running. Instead of ignoring the reality that when he does realize he’s “ready” for a relationship he’ll probably just leach on the first girl that drifts his way. (Timing’s a bitch)

So I decided to email him, randomly last week, just to say hi. I hope you’re ok. I miss you.

Crickets.

I started contemplating sending another, sometime in the future, if the words still rang true. Just to remind him I existed. I was still here. That I wouldn’t let go of him, our potential, that easily.

Then I stopped. He knows I exist. He doesn’t need to be reminded. I don’t need to tell him I miss him, or wonder about him. He should know, or if he doesn’t, then he doesn’t care anymore. And neither should I.

It’s time to put on my big girl pants and move on.