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Wildly Inappropriate Journal
7 years ago
My dad is dead.
Just looking at those words makes part of me want to cry. I've shed tears on and off all afternoon. I have no idea how long it will continue.
However it occurs to me as I slowly but surely drink my way into oblivion tonight that I am, in fact, a horrible person. Every thought I have about my father comes laden with self-analysis.' As a writer, how would I describe this feeling?' 'So this is what it feels like when people write 'hot tears.' This is how it really feels.'
What kind of son thinks like that? Even as another wave of tears threatens to fall I have to ask myself, "How would I write this?"
What kind of SHIT human being thinks like this?! Why can't I just bawl and drink and rage and sleep like a normal human being. I wonder, am I sick? Am I a sociopath? I can't even see these words clearly through a haze of water in my eyes but still, I wonder, is this relatable? Could I describe this feeling? Is there verisimilitude? Does ANYONE relate? Does ANYONE feel this way? Or am I sick? Am I the one destined to not understand? Am I insane?
My father is dead. I loved him despite his problems, despite his weaknesses and his temper and his arrogance. Insofar as I am capable, I loved my father. I truly respected him. I learned from him. I am who I am today BECAUSE of him. Why can't I just cry for him?
Why must I write? why must I analyze? I know why. It's because I don't relate to people. I don't really understand why people do the irrational, stupid things they do. I wish I did. It would make me a better writer if I knew. If I could see.
So I sit here in the midst of my tears, wondering how I can get closer to the human condition. Wondering if people who lose the people precious to them actually spend some time thinking about how their experience relates to the experiences of others.
This isn't new. This isn't unique. In fact it's the opposite of unique. It's practically universal. All children lose their parents, who live long enough.
My parents divorced when I was four years old. My dad cheated, my mother didn't take it. I still remember being sat out in front of a movie while they went into the back to fight. They fought about everything. Money is the thing I remember most. It's the thing I remember. They fought about money. I wonder if my memories are right. I wonder if I could recall clearly if I would remember hearing accusastions. I can't even spell anymore. I just tried accusations ten times and I still have that squiggly fucking line... and then I got it right in one. Fuck it. Moving on.
Yet still I loved my father. I felt the fear of him when I did wrong, and I rememeber wishing I was half so strong as he was. Two full tours in Vietnam as a scout. Purple heart, who knows what other medals. I'll never be able to hear all his sstories. He hated talking about the war.
Right now I'm listening to Cats in the Cradle. It's on repeat. It's a cover though. Ugly Kid Joe. Fuck Cat Stevens, that god damn commie shit. Back to my father.
They changed the rules during Vietnam. Did you know? My father went through what you'd see in Full Metal Jacket. It was worse actually, back then. When he came back though, some boots had died during training, and public opinion had turned against the war, and the military. His third tour was supposed to be at Paris Island as a DI. He slapped the back of the head of a recruit who was bouncing in formation. Two weeks later he was in Guantanamo Bay. His country fucking betrayed him.
They trained him, asked him to train others, then stabbed him in the fucking back, and he never lived it down. You know how they say, "Once a marine, always a marine?" Yeah, no. I wanted to join the marines when I decided to join the military. I asked my father about it. I'll NEVER forget what he said.
He said, "Son, they don't make Marines anymore. These days, they just teach you to die in a different language. Join the Air Force. At least then you'll have some skills you can use after you get out."
So I did. I did just what my father suggested. I joined the Air Force. I've never looked back with regret on that decision. I did well. I served my country, and after I got out I banked on the skills I got. My dad was right. He wasn't always right, but he didn't steer me wrong. I learned from him. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be half the man I am today, and goddamn it, I'm a MAN. I SUPPORT MYSELF. I SUPPORT MY WIFE. I OWN MY OWN FUCKING HOUSE. I don't make any god damn excuses. That's the kind of man I am. And I'm just a pale imitation of the kind of man HE was.
My dad is dead, and I can't even really see the screen right now, so I'm going to stop before I get myself in trouble. I hope I can live a life that he would be proud of. I hope that someday I can say I understand people. I think he did, and he hated them. He HATED people, it was obvious just listening to him, but he'd give the shirt off his back to anyone he thought needed it. I'm not half so empathetic. I don't understand.
I went to war, but I didn't bleed. I never, not once, saw the face of my enemy. Not like he did. He lived life in a way I never could. In a way I probably never will.
I miss my father. I'm crying for him right fucking now. I can't stop myself. I'm a fucking mess, sitting on my front porch and happy to be hidden by the bushes in my garden. I'd be ashamed to be seen right now.
I love you dad. I'm so thankful that it's not up to you where you wind up. Because I know you went to heaven. It kinda makes me laugh to think about you sitting in front of St. Peter. Saying, 'This can't be right. I shouldn't be here.'
You should be there Dad. You really should be. You're the only reason I ever made it. All your mistakes, all your arrogance, and courage, and bitterness. All if it made me who I am to day, and if you go to hell, Fuck it I'll fallow you. If you don't make it, no one should make it. I get to be selfish just this once. You made me, and because of you, I'm gonna make it, so thank you.
Thank you dad. For everything.
Just looking at those words makes part of me want to cry. I've shed tears on and off all afternoon. I have no idea how long it will continue.
However it occurs to me as I slowly but surely drink my way into oblivion tonight that I am, in fact, a horrible person. Every thought I have about my father comes laden with self-analysis.' As a writer, how would I describe this feeling?' 'So this is what it feels like when people write 'hot tears.' This is how it really feels.'
What kind of son thinks like that? Even as another wave of tears threatens to fall I have to ask myself, "How would I write this?"
What kind of SHIT human being thinks like this?! Why can't I just bawl and drink and rage and sleep like a normal human being. I wonder, am I sick? Am I a sociopath? I can't even see these words clearly through a haze of water in my eyes but still, I wonder, is this relatable? Could I describe this feeling? Is there verisimilitude? Does ANYONE relate? Does ANYONE feel this way? Or am I sick? Am I the one destined to not understand? Am I insane?
My father is dead. I loved him despite his problems, despite his weaknesses and his temper and his arrogance. Insofar as I am capable, I loved my father. I truly respected him. I learned from him. I am who I am today BECAUSE of him. Why can't I just cry for him?
Why must I write? why must I analyze? I know why. It's because I don't relate to people. I don't really understand why people do the irrational, stupid things they do. I wish I did. It would make me a better writer if I knew. If I could see.
So I sit here in the midst of my tears, wondering how I can get closer to the human condition. Wondering if people who lose the people precious to them actually spend some time thinking about how their experience relates to the experiences of others.
This isn't new. This isn't unique. In fact it's the opposite of unique. It's practically universal. All children lose their parents, who live long enough.
My parents divorced when I was four years old. My dad cheated, my mother didn't take it. I still remember being sat out in front of a movie while they went into the back to fight. They fought about everything. Money is the thing I remember most. It's the thing I remember. They fought about money. I wonder if my memories are right. I wonder if I could recall clearly if I would remember hearing accusastions. I can't even spell anymore. I just tried accusations ten times and I still have that squiggly fucking line... and then I got it right in one. Fuck it. Moving on.
Yet still I loved my father. I felt the fear of him when I did wrong, and I rememeber wishing I was half so strong as he was. Two full tours in Vietnam as a scout. Purple heart, who knows what other medals. I'll never be able to hear all his sstories. He hated talking about the war.
Right now I'm listening to Cats in the Cradle. It's on repeat. It's a cover though. Ugly Kid Joe. Fuck Cat Stevens, that god damn commie shit. Back to my father.
They changed the rules during Vietnam. Did you know? My father went through what you'd see in Full Metal Jacket. It was worse actually, back then. When he came back though, some boots had died during training, and public opinion had turned against the war, and the military. His third tour was supposed to be at Paris Island as a DI. He slapped the back of the head of a recruit who was bouncing in formation. Two weeks later he was in Guantanamo Bay. His country fucking betrayed him.
They trained him, asked him to train others, then stabbed him in the fucking back, and he never lived it down. You know how they say, "Once a marine, always a marine?" Yeah, no. I wanted to join the marines when I decided to join the military. I asked my father about it. I'll NEVER forget what he said.
He said, "Son, they don't make Marines anymore. These days, they just teach you to die in a different language. Join the Air Force. At least then you'll have some skills you can use after you get out."
So I did. I did just what my father suggested. I joined the Air Force. I've never looked back with regret on that decision. I did well. I served my country, and after I got out I banked on the skills I got. My dad was right. He wasn't always right, but he didn't steer me wrong. I learned from him. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be half the man I am today, and goddamn it, I'm a MAN. I SUPPORT MYSELF. I SUPPORT MY WIFE. I OWN MY OWN FUCKING HOUSE. I don't make any god damn excuses. That's the kind of man I am. And I'm just a pale imitation of the kind of man HE was.
My dad is dead, and I can't even really see the screen right now, so I'm going to stop before I get myself in trouble. I hope I can live a life that he would be proud of. I hope that someday I can say I understand people. I think he did, and he hated them. He HATED people, it was obvious just listening to him, but he'd give the shirt off his back to anyone he thought needed it. I'm not half so empathetic. I don't understand.
I went to war, but I didn't bleed. I never, not once, saw the face of my enemy. Not like he did. He lived life in a way I never could. In a way I probably never will.
I miss my father. I'm crying for him right fucking now. I can't stop myself. I'm a fucking mess, sitting on my front porch and happy to be hidden by the bushes in my garden. I'd be ashamed to be seen right now.
I love you dad. I'm so thankful that it's not up to you where you wind up. Because I know you went to heaven. It kinda makes me laugh to think about you sitting in front of St. Peter. Saying, 'This can't be right. I shouldn't be here.'
You should be there Dad. You really should be. You're the only reason I ever made it. All your mistakes, all your arrogance, and courage, and bitterness. All if it made me who I am to day, and if you go to hell, Fuck it I'll fallow you. If you don't make it, no one should make it. I get to be selfish just this once. You made me, and because of you, I'm gonna make it, so thank you.
Thank you dad. For everything.
This was back when I could draw and write, the thoughts of "How would I paint my feelings? How would I sketch this?" and similar kept cropping up.
I didn't cry when either of them passed away, I had to be strong for my mother who was going through chemo at the time, and then my brother when mum died...
I broke 3 years later when I was at work. Not broke down... broke. All the pain, sorrow, anger, everything I had bottled up just exploded out of me...
I digress.
Ceb, you're not sick, not insane, not shit. You're a writer, and your writing is what is trying to rationalize your grief and loss.
I understand your present state as I, myself have been there twice.
I'm sorry for your loss.
There is nothing wrong with you. You are tired. Sad. Grieving. You don't know what to do so you do what you know. I wish I could offer more. But remember you are you. Not someone else, not even a copy of someone else. Your life is unique and no one can take that away.
is only a marginally useful thing, but wutthehell, said anyway. There's a tsunami of
grief landing on top of you. Here's a tea cup. Nice Wedgeworth, dontcha think?
Yeah right, condolences. Naturally, that's frequently followed by people speaking of their own
heart-shredding events, whatever they are. I know what you're going through. Take strength,
mon brave. We've been there too. This too shall pass.
As if we're talking kidney stone here? Growl. I remember a flash or two of pure homicidal rage,
back in 1997, at hearing things like that and spoken entirely genuinely. No, no, don't do it,
Brown, people will talk. Besides, all the tears, just spoil your aim, you'll go through way
too many reloads.
Sincere condolences? Does that add some weight to a weak word, at best? Mmmm, a little. Hafta
do. For more I'd have to get up and make more coffee (writer fuel). Although complimentary
on you, you've written one king-hell of a strong obituary there, and sonofabitch are they hard
to do. Got journalism training; the whole class sweated over obits.
Don't recall I did half as well when I had to write a Big One. Then deliver it, and in front of a
crowd drowning in eye-water as much as I was. Although I could've gone Buh-buh-buh--felt
like it--and the audience would've bought it.
Throw an *ENORMOUS* friggin' wake. My only immediate advice. Like, the kind that shows up in
stratospheric fallout measurements. Clearly, you had a Dad who earned a blow-out like that.
(Come to think of it, mine too. And as an ex-engineer he would've known how to assemble the
plutonium bricks for the fireworks. Wonder, did he leave any notes...? :- ) )
Semper fi [as best as possible],
You're right, I'm getting really sick of hearing any variation of any phrase that includes any of the following: condolence, loss, sorry.
My father and I were not as close as we might have been, but he was my father and dealing with his death will be matter for the present and coming weeks.
As for the wake ... probably not. That side of the family and I don't get along, to the point where I wasn't even notified of the funeral. I had to find out from a family friend.
now. And the trouble in some families can definitely be up there in the multiple Alces range,
'nuff to challenge even Super Proctologist (Superman's far more obscure younger cousin).
Forget the family counselors, sometimes you gotta call in the experts and take the bull
by the, er, whatever. OR: Since some family troubles are bat-shit intractable, there's damn
little that can be done at all short of brutally invasive brain surgery on all parties
concerned. Or surgery somewhere.
In the really tough cases cattle prods may prove therapeutic (Lordy, I've been tempted a few
times). Don't rule 'em out as useful if fun negotiating tools. Or has my metaphor just taken on a
sadistic note? Mmmm, I fear so.
On the other paw, if I've raised a small smile then my work here is done, as the vicar said
to the prostitute (or was that the other way around?). Humour: Crucial point I make here, glom
onto all the yuks you can find--until you don't need 'em anymore--ideally derived from
reminiscing about your Dad. And 're-seeing' things about the past.
Tall order, I know, but as said, crucial. I got an easy one: The summer my Dad the inveterate
handyman/nuthin's-impossible-craftsman built an excellent 14-ft rowboat in the basement. As we
all hooted that he'd never get it out. Laugh on us: He did, and it was a good boat. Bloody
heavy oars; hardly deterred Dad. My brother and I were *not* cut out to be galley slaves,
and proved it. We could barely move the scow.
Lousy sail design, too (Dad wasn't that good as a nautical engineer). Then an Evinrude was
installed. But for a coupla Mk-48 torps we could've taken on the Yamato, if the Yamato had
ever been dumb enough to sail up the St. John River. Banzai, eh? :- )
And now I attempt the death-defying closer. Family as may be, and I'd suspect there's little
productive to happen about that; a read-between-lines don't sound optimistic. But in the immortal
words of Gilda Radner, never mind.
A proper-Irish, raucous-riotous, whiskey-swillin', scandalize-the-Pogues wake may not be possible.
With or without the fireworks to frighten SAC.
Do something anyway. A ritual, of some kind. To sub in for that funeral you were denied. Stuff the
ceremony with all the symbolism you can think of. Print out a ton of your writing and burn it as
offering to him in a molten see, while vixen stripper groupies in ultra-hot lingerie dance around you.
Burnt offering, bushy tails; watch it about that. Then burn the lingerie too; that marks the start of
the cathartic 'n symbolic jello-wrestling competition.
Give your wife a whip to keep those naughty vixens in line. I'm just throwin' out ideas here,
see what sticks to the wall. :- )
Did I start with a rant on 'condolences?' Yah. Hearing it leaves you in the same state as before:
Not knowing what to *do* about this thing that has happened. Other person doesn't have a clue
either (but out of politeness they gotta say something).
Funerals, with all the bleating sky pilots, with all the crepe and the sackcloth, with all the
screaming agony right out there in public, with all the sonorous droning hymns (whatever the
religion): Gawd, it's all just band-aid on multiple 120mm APFSDS tank rounds to the heart, blood,
blood everywhere. And no way to know when it'll stop bleeding.
And do we have anything better? Nope. Ritual. In the face of this thing, for which *nothing*
can be done, we pull ritual outta the hat, pretend it's holy, and then try to carry on. And in
the ritual, maybe we find ways to not forget. Meaning ways to remember that don't tear us apart
all over again. Dat's the tallest order of all, y'know?
(Why yes, I just had my first coffee of the day, hot enough 'n strong enough to jump-start a
dead moose. Perhaps it shows? :- ) )