Lost

Yeah, this was not the next blog I expected to be writing. This was supposed to be the blog about how well I have done in the past year, where I started, where I am now, and where I want to be in the future. That kind of thinking is still a little bit beyond my capabilities right now, and if you've ever suffered the loss of a parent, or anyone as close to you, then I'm sure you understand. 

My daddy died three weeks ago. September 15, 2021. It was a Wednesday. Momma called me at 6:58am. I did not have a good feeling when I saw Momma on my caller ID. Daddy had just been put on hospice on Monday. The doctor said he could last two hours, or two months. They started him on a morphine drip on Tuesday. 

I was going on my morning walk and Ash was with me. I called Olivia, Payton, and my older sister, Angie. Momma had called my sister, Shay-Shay, and Shay-Shay called our sister, Jesi, and our baby brother, Mooglie. I'm not sure who called our brother, Scott, or our nieces. It was the worst phone tree I have ever been a part of. That was just the start of the whirlwind. I made or received a total of 51 calls that Wednesday. On Thursday, I wrote my Daddy's obituary. Friday I finalized the funeral arrangements and drove home to Quinter. 

Even now, writing this, I'm struggling. I can't put my thoughts into order to write anything cohesive. I feel like I lost my tether. Like, I am not connected to the world in the way I used to be. I am so lost right now. 

Anne just texted me her quotes for the week. They are both good ones, but I feel like the first one was all for me. 

Boy do I feel that right now.

Every day is a roller coaster. I'm trying to be functional and reasonably happy. Some days are working better than others. None of them are working well. Functioning at a base level takes so much energy right now. I feel drained. I've been forcing myself to do things that need to be done for everyone else. I don't know how to take care of me. I don't know what that even means. 

This past Thursday, 23 days after Daddy finally died and all hope of seeing glimpses of him in the pod person created by Alzheimer's were lost, I had no fucks to give. I have no better explanation. I had sushi and a long john with inch thick frosting for lunch. Both things I have no business eating. I drove around with no destination. I couldn't figure out where to go. I made dangerous driving decisions and barely was able to talk myself out of turning left in front of two oncoming cars that would have had no time to stop. I just didn't have it in me to care what happened to me. 

I don't know what it means to grieve. I don't know how to grieve. When my best friend was murdered by his step-dad my freshman year of college, I didn't know how to grieve either. I was mad at the world. I could function, but I didn't like it and I made sure every one else knew it. When I finally realized what a bitch I was being, I knew I had to do something different. I gave myself about a week and a half to get a grip on my anger, or I was going to therapy. That acknowledgement and plan of action was enough to help me watch my anger and get it back under control. That is not to say that I dealt with the cause of my anger. I didn't deal with the sudden loss of my best friend, I just learned how to act "normal" again. 

I can't even do that now. Not all of me even wants to. Part of me wants to pretend everything is normal and go back to life as it was before. Part of me wants to be happy that Daddy is no longer existing in a life he would have despised. Part of me feels guilty about wanting to be happy. But mostly, I have blown the master fuse in my fuse box. All of the connections that are supposed to be firing are not firing. The parts that are supposed to make me give a damn, are just not working. 

I don't know how to stop this. I don't know how to fix it. I can't seem to get a grip on this new reality. Even when I am able to distract myself with work or games with friends, as soon as the diversion is over, the crushing weight is back. My chest physically hurts. It feels like one giant hand is on my sternum and the other is mirrored on my back and they are trying to crush me. The pain alone would be exhausting without the emotional trauma. Maybe it's just the emotional black hole trying to make me implode that I'm feeling.

I know that getting back into my routines will help me, but I can't seem to do it. I don't remember the last time I brushed my teeth. I don't remember the last time I took my blood pressure med. I'm so disoriented. I'm wandering in the forest in a heavy fog. When DJ makes me laugh, or Dan gives me a hug, there's a flash of light. I try to move towards that connection, but when the moment is over, it's gone and I can't seem to remember where I saw it. I feel like, every time I take a step, I'm being spun around to play pin the tail on the donkey and I don't even remember which direction I was going on my last step. Am I moving forward? Am I spinning in circles? Am I moving out of the fog? Or deeper into it? I try to move, take a step, spin, step, spin... I run into tree trunks, trip over rocks, get clotheslined by low branches, until I'm afraid to move anymore. I am hearing scary noises but I can't tell where they are coming from. Do I run, risking hurting myself and leaving myself at the mercy of the monsters I can't see? Or do I stay and hope they can't see me in the fog? 

I just want to curl up in a tiny little ball and wait for the fog to lift. I know I can't do that. I have shit to do and people who need me. I have to function. I just don't have the fight in me anymore. I started back on antidepressants yesterday. I hate it. I didn't want to do it, but my therapist said it was the practical thing to do. I just got a book about dealing with grief that my therapist recommended. I don't want to read it. That sounds too hard. 

My body has no reserves. The back of my neck and shoulders are hot and cold at the same time, telling be to get my shit together or I will be sick. My aching body wants rest, but my brain is too raw and exposed to relax. I am trying to hold up a wall to protect me from the hurt, but the hurt is inside and the wall is heavy. I can't hold this wall up much longer. The wall might be the grief, but it will crush me. I am scared of what happens then.