Haven't looked at this site in a while. Haven't wanted to. Haven't felt like writing at all, not even in my journal. It disturbs me. I used to write all the time. Whether I was happy or sad, angry, or upset, even if I wouldn't fully go into detail about what was wrong, I would write. I was compelled. And now, it doesn't matter.
No. It does matter. I'm just too ashamed to write. And to write of where I am now, in life, is something I can't seem to do. I can't describe it, or maybe I'm not willing to describe it. I've never been in this kind of situation before. There was always something ahead, something to guide my life by, some structure, some meaning, and now there isn't. I don't even voice it inside my own head. I just go find another distraction. But it's always there, behind everything. Even the rare, good things. Always there.
Dad's got esophageal cancer and I'm down in Texas, living with him. I'm no caregiver, especially not to this man. But someone needed to be with him, he couldn't be alone, and I was the one with the least amount of commitments. And I wanted to help Julie too, relieve some of her stress/anxiety. And I wanted to see her. And I wanted to get out of my mom's house. But, obviously, jumping onto a plane and coming to a place with such crushing memories, to be on the other side of ten years, didn't fix my problems. Rather, it made it worse. I can't stand this. And I can't stand myself. And I hate the past, I hate the present, I hate the ever looming future, years and years of emptiness just waiting.
Just today, just for a taste, I learned that Dad thinks women determine the sex of their children and he thinks tums or his anti-nausea pills are going to help with an intense allergic reaction to food (Julie had one tonight)...And that was just today. Last week, I learned that he is still as controlling, irrational, and paranoid as ever. No blow-ups, but they sometimes seem just under the surface. I've learned more about his weird girlfriend, Candy--god, they were made for each other. It's revolting, to see a woman kiss my dad, stroke his arms, call him sugarbear. It's contradictory, I know, because a small part of me wants him to find what happiness he can, but then again, I'm seeing with the eyes of experience, and I am completely horrified to see anyone want to be around him. He may not be abusive anymore (so far...), but he is dang strange, disgusting, and I can't believe I thought THIS would help me figure out my problems. I'm as cut off here as I was in Washington. And I don't know what I want. I love seeing Julie, but I'm so tired of what I am. There's this huge gap inside of me, a void, and though I'm reconciled now to what happened, there's nothing as rich or as beautiful or tender to fill it with.
It's hard to remember that I need to forget myself, to ignore dad's weirdness, to not snap back at some ridiculous assertions he proclaims as truths, and just help out. Find ways to make myself useful. I'm selfish, and I can't believe how easily I shift into that irritated frustration I lived with until my parents' divorce. I don't like feeling that anxiety and almost-hate that I felt as a teenager. Do I have no control at all?
Been watching films like a crazy person, trying to fill the void. The Last of the Mohicans, First Knight, Sommersby, and The Horse Whisperer (cried a bunch with that one--curse you, Robert Redford and Scarlett!). All great movies. Now, it's time for bed, and another empty tomorrow.
