I've become incredibly reckless this last month. I'm letting all things slide by, my schoolwork, my work ethic, my relationships (the few I have--hah!), my joy, my anger. None of it really matters right now. And it almost feels like a weight has been lifted off of me and a cold, vibrant wind is blowing past and through me, enlivening me, chilling me, but still touching me...
How was that for free writing? Free-writing is actually pretty fun. It's where you keep on writing, not worrying about punctuation, grammar, or having a plan, you just type and continue to type for a set about of time without stopping. It's fascinating what can come out.
Last week at work, I was in a major slump and couldn't will myself to work my stupid accounts. So I started free writing for a little bit. Here's what came out then, in trying to write about my dad. And yes, I went back and corrected the grammer/punctuation, but not the phrasing!!
I thought
that it was something I could write about if I tried to do free writing.
But as soon as I set my fingers on the keyboard, the words sounded so distant,
pretentious, futile. I entered the front
door to that house of whispers. Everything was familiar, but the hush was
tangible and oppressive. But on second thought, just reading it over, it doesn't sound half-bad. Originally, what I meant to write had sounded
different. But then again, I didn't quite free write that, I paused between
phrases and adjusted a word or two. Let me just make sure you understand I’m guilty….one
of my many, many, many problems.
I don’t know
if being there brought any kind of closure, but it would have been
strange/wrong to have been the only sister not there. I’m still amazed that
Nikki convinced Char to fly down. I’ve never been able to reconcile that raging
creep with the goofy, just as controlling, weirdo that Dad managed to evolve
into after the divorce. And I will never be able to reconcile either of those
characters to that moaning, sad heap rolled up in blankets, with blood and bile
spilling out of him so slowly, so constantly.
Eyes glazed over, hands constantly agitated, skin hanging off his bones,
no recognition, all helpless struggle against something I don’t think he ever
acknowledged was happening, even that last week with Kjerstie and Nikki when he
was still conscious.
Whatever. It's a start, right? I still really can't make myself write about it. Some days, I'll be at work and look at my hands and see the similarity that have to my dad's hands and then I picture him as he was dying, that last morning, when I got to spend most of it alone with him, except for Char, who was in and out of the room. God, my throat is suddenly dry and pinching and my eyes are already filling up. And this is what happens at work when I'm looking at my hands and suddenly seeing my dad's hands flailing mindlessly and him moaning in his room, on the hospital bed provided by hospice.
I can't write about this. I've been crying for five minutes and I just can't do it. So here.
