TBT

“Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl. And her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.”

 

I fell to these words when finding the correct way to describe my connection when writing the eulogy. Except it was me wanting to answer his laughter.

 

I woke up this morning after having a dream where my dad had made a cameo – but being a dream it wasn’t actually my dad, it had to be a lot more intricate and contorted then that. Someone had entered the house, someone strangely familiar but estranged nonetheless. He played a game of impersonation,

 

“Who do you want to see me play next?”

 

“Dad.”

 

I remember he started to fade into his looks, his hair grew sparse like my dads. His face became more round, the words that came from his mouth were his. His voice belonged to my dad. His eyes, were blank.

 

“Your eyes need to change. You’re not him. Your eyes are black.”

 

I grabbed the sides of his face staring, hoping the harder I look, that maybe I would see the blue grey come out. The same blue grey of my own. The same blue grey he gave to me.

 

I saw them flicker and slowly haze into the colour. I grew excited, but it never quite got to the point were I saw him. He sat down and started saying things my dad must’ve once said and my subconscious clung on to.

 

I felt soothed, I felt relieved, I felt anxious.

 

Sometimes you see things in a dream and at the time feel lucky that you get a chance to see someone again, and there are times in which you know it’s a dream, and the time you have is scarce. So scarce you try not to get any happiness from the moment to avoid the impending disappointment. I think that’s how I live my life now.

 

My alarm went off.

 

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling… stretched out my arm to stop the noise. Closed my eyes in the naïve hope he might come back… which I knew wasn’t going to happen. Once I’m awake, I’m awake. Falling back only greets me with sleep paralysis.

 

I stretched out my arm again to get my phone, the motion reminding me I had to get up to go to the airport. I did my usual routine of scanning the notifications, this time slightly more sceptical than usual.

 

One read, “Why aren’t you at LTZ tonight?”, the bar I frequent so often half the population believes I’m on their pay roll.

The next couple in green that historically gave me excitement, this time led to a feeling of suspicion and tiredness.

 

I went on to check my blue notifications, which led to confusion and guilt.

 

I had 40 minutes to get ready to leave to catch my flight, oh how I miss those butterflies.

 

I wish I knew what happened to them. Did I kill the butterflies? Did I send them away? …did he poison them? Did I give them to someone else?

 

A million crazy and abstract thoughts can travel through ones’ mind when they’re on a plane. 40,000 ft above the world, among the clouds and the sky which I spent my child hood staring at thinking of amazing possibilities.

 

I either looked at the sky looking out for planes, imagining it was carrying my dad and he was going to come home to surprise us all. Or I would imagine others things, usually involving something happy and exciting… like my toy pink bunny coming to life and being my partner in crime, or imagining if Pokémon were real.

 

Now I don’t look at the sky as much, I look at the ground, or the drink in front of me. I don’t think of happy things; I imagine the worst possible scenarios for everything. I have this compulsive idea that if I play out the scenarios in my head they won’t happen in real life. Or at least if they do, I’ve come prepared.

 

I think it’s this new way of thinking that’s made the butterflies disappear. I think I’ve poisoned them all. I think this is why I can’t ever feel happy with something, because I can’t be content with happiness. I didn’t prepare for happiness, I prepared for the worst.

 

I used to think the only person I wanted to impress was my dad.

 

Thank you x

 

Twenty minutes later…

Some people prefer numbers, I prefer words. But in the same way you can spell numbers, you can count words.

I found myself counting my fingers at work today.

Thumb, index, middle, ring, small. Thumb, index, middle, ring, small. Thumb, index, middle, ring, small. Thumb, index.

December. January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December. January, February, March, April.

I was trying to put a mathematical reason to explain why the amount of times I cry per day goes up as each day goes past.

Whilst standing behind my bar, surrounded by empty chairs awaiting to be filled I continued to stare at my fingers.

…Still 1 finger off 18 months. I assumed a mile stone date might of explained why I subconsciously was getting more upset for no reason. Back to the drawing board.

 

Obviously it was the lack of drugs. If I looked back at my fingers I could work out its been well over a week… or maybe it hasn’t. It must be? Trying to think about the last time I had them doesn’t make me feel any better…

 

Then there’s the other thing. But thinking about him right now aggravates my mind more than the dexie count down. From the start of this sentence, 7 minutes until he promises to message again. Drinking again, out at a bar. With clients. Every time I go up to see him he’s fifty shades of hung over…

 

No no no, there are must be more. There’s my mum. Paranoid, conspiracy obsessed mother. I came home yesterday to see the kitchen sink tap had black tape around the piping. I went to pull up the handle to fill up the kettle to realise that black tape had a purpose. It definitely was a DIY job.

 

“Mummmm! What happened to the tap!?”

 

“Oh! Last night, it burst and water went everywhere. Spooky really, I was thinking about what would happen if you moved to Sydney, and WOOSH! It blew! You see Caitlin. It’s obviously a sign…”

 

I awkwardly acknowledged her words and turned around to place the now full kettle on the electrical foundation. Obviously a sign? Obviously she heard my phone conversation with Matt moments earlier and heard me mention the only good job I found was in Sydney…

 

I can’t deal with this right now. I have things to do…

 

2 minutes.

 

 

1 minute.

 

Back to the distraction. There must be many reasons, or maybe it’s the collective that is creating the problem.

 

 

Lots and lots of little things…

 

 

And the clock strikes 12.

 

 

Well he’s with clients anyway. I know how it is, to have to drink for your career… and speaking of drinking. That’s my cue.

 

Until next time x

The difference between Alcoholism and Dipsomania

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Alcoholism

vs

Dipsomania

Both are mistaken as being synonymous, but the difference I feel like is best explained by their histories, like any other thing or person – it’s where they were born and in what culture they were immersed in.

First I’m going to ramble on about some things that don’t seem to have any relevance and at the end hopefully I’ll find a way to magically connect them all like the end of a good mystery, not leaving any piece of evidence without a role.

When I was born, it was a cesarean and it wasn’t just me being pulled in to the realm of the living, but I had the company of my twin sister. Although in reality, any of us could’ve been deemed the ‘elder’ of the twins, it really was the luck of the draw. And I won, with 40 seconds of additional independent oxygen and for the sake of record keeping, one whole minute more to my birth certificate I had become the oldest and would use that and will continue to use that whenever the opportunity arises.

Dipsomania happens to not just be the elder of the words, but possibly not even siblings. Before I make this too confusing:

alcoholism
ˈalkəhɒlɪz(ə)m/
noun
noun: alcoholism
  1. addiction to the consumption of alcoholic drink; alcohol dependency.
    “he had a long history of depression, drug abuse, and alcoholism”
dipsomania
ˌdɪpsə(ʊ)ˈmeɪnɪə/
noun
noun: dipsomania
  1. alcoholism, specifically in a form characterized by intermittent bouts of craving for alcohol.

Alcoholism, was first coined in 1852 by a Swedish Medical Professor by the name of Magnus Huss, before this it was usually referred to as habitual drunkenness or the like.  However, the same resource shows Dipsomania being cited in 1843 as the morbid craving of alcohol. It’s for this reason I don’t like the above definitions. I find it harsh to define something by its successor. A person shouldn’t be defined by who came after them, but for who they were.

Dipsomania is the uncontrollable urge for alcohol, an irresistible, typically periodic craving.

Alcoholism is a psychophysiological dependence of alcohol.

See the difference yet? How is it fair that one word falls victim to the next?

I’m not sure if its apparent in my blog, but I seem to find my therapy in discussing semantics. I feel like the way we chose to communicate to one another and express ourselves says more than the words we create can tell.

My favourite example is one that first immersed my interest,

Anorexia in where I grew up, is commonly perceived as the fear of food, the fear of gaining weight, the fear of being ‘overweight’.

This word however, does not exist in Germany – so my Oma told me in extreme stress and confusion at my diagnosis back when I was my sickly 16 year old self.

One morning when I was sitting at a school assembly enduring one of the usual guest speaker talking about her time in Germany, I found out what they actually call it, and what it actually means. Unfortunately I can’t quite remember what exactly the word was, but I do remember what she said it meant : the addiction to being skinny.

And although I grew up in Australia, and my diagnosis had defined me as being afraid, it was the definition from 16,000km which made sense to me, where my mother was born, to which I could identify with.

Its for this reason why I look at words, why I see them as more then the letters that form them, but as their own identity, with a history and a hometown, with their own story.

Till next time x

It’s happening again.

Post soon.

The best thing for being sad,” replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, “is to learn something. That’s the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn.
T.H. White, The Once and Future King (The Once and Future King #1-4)

x

Dear Diztraction.

So I just reread the Get Out of Jail Free Card, and it was pretty flawless. I used to be good, grief does well with me. Them words.

My honest feelings are… I agree with those words I wrote. I only wish you the happiest life. I want the glass to be constantly filled to the brim, I want every option to be unaware that gluten is or ever was a thing. I want you to look at all those lucky and ridiculous moments, and not see them as a statistically amazing moment, but just your everyday interaction with life.

Your question I think was how was my side of the hill. I woke up watching another one of those tear jerking videos which I’ll link and explain further in detail at the end. I don’t think there was any deep seeded issue to why I clicked on it other than it featured a dog that looked like a Husky, but it did leave me again with deep seeded tears. I just want to quickly point out before you read too much into that, I was sad before you, depressed for reasons that don’t involve you, and there should be no associated feelings of guilt.

You were there for my party week, following that has just been week one. I think the most interesting epiphany from it all has been my need to distract myself from distraction, which made me realise (and I suppose this was obvious) that you were never just a distraction at all, and you were right about my shitty monopoly metaphor.

I said that our relationship was like the utilities, it wasn’t like an individual property, it was continuous and constant, inconvenient but realistically essential. I was way off. Our relationship was playing monopoly. We had shit going on, and we had to distract ourselves. So we found a game, and a player. We rolled the dice, we went places and we had fun. Fast forward 8 months, and you won the game (and I just lost the game). You were always going to win the game, you got both blue properties on the first roll however were generous enough not to build hotels until the very end.

That said, I’m okay. I woke up yesterday and walked to the table to see a the deck of Archangel Michael Tarot cards next to my mums used and abused Marlboro deck. She said to give it a go, so I did. Opened the box, gathered the cards in my left hand and knocked it with my right, praying to the archangel as per the instructions on the back of the box. I didn’t have a specific question as I was shuffling, I was thinking about monopoly, life in general, Lok Tins predictions and the idea of other possible board games, but then back to monopoly. I felt the magnetism to the bottom card, and naturally, as life generally works, this is what I was dealt with.

tarrot

I laughed, wanted to tell you straight away then felt slightly pained when I realised I couldn’t, and that was something I need to get used to. But that’s completely okay, because it is what it is, it was what it was. I don’t regret one minute of it. It was a good game, and I refuse to walk away from the game as anything but a good sport.

I’m not sure if this helped at all, I can write more replies like this. I can delete it immediately. Or just leave it at this. You can comment, Yo or any choice of response. I don’t know the rules of this game, as it’s been mainly cards at this point with the need to keep our emotions and reactions to ourselves I suppose the closest thing would be poker.

Wish you the best, and thanks for playing,

Dizney x

ps. This was the video,

http://denali.littlethings.com/denali-dog-love-story/

I was totally insane with joy every time, even though I faked cool, calm and collected.

“How did you know it was me walking up those stairs and not a customer?”

“I guessed.”

Reality – because I was constantly on look out and would fake being pseudo busy to hide the fact I was embarrassingly excited, which worked 8/10 times because there were always the moments of failure when you asked me why I was nervous.

Love, the most painful way to die.

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So apparently it’s a thing…

Heart Break Syndrome –

Broken heart syndrome is a temporary heart condition that’s often brought on by stressful situations, such as the death of a loved one. People with broken heart syndrome may have sudden chest pain or think they’re having a heart attack. In broken heart syndrome, there’s a temporary disruption of your heart’s normal pumping function, while the remainder of the heart functions normally or with even more forceful contractions.

I’ve been waking up with chest pains a lot recently, a combination of reasons and unwanted events and situations. The lovely synopsis I got from Mayo Clinic above also reassures that it should work itself out in a week. A week.

I found that slightly humorous, mainly because I’ve always seen it as such a mentally derived phantom of a pain. However its so real that the cells in your body through evolution have formed a mechanistic approach to fixing it.

When I was younger I had two ‘Love Birds’, they’re beautiful parrots touched by every colour of the rainbow. Their story is that they have to be in a pair, the urban legend behind it was that, as the name suggests, they’re super affectionate birds and need to have a partner.

Unfortunately, as time passed, one of the feathered lovers outlived the other. We put a mirror in the cage, we gave it our love, attention and affection. However something very strange happened at the end of this couples tale. A week after the loss, this bird also died. The circumstances very strange, without sounding too blunt or graphic, it had quite literally pecked at its chest. Just where its heart was, all the feathers were absent, and it was lying at the bottom of the cage. It had pecked its heart out. Maybe trying to scratch its itch, soothe its pain – desperately and drastically attempting to heal its broken heart.

This always seems to come across as more of a fable when the story is told, but it most definitely happened. I was there, 7 years of age, and somewhat understanding of its Romeo & Juliette like ending. Because when we first got them, I asked, I was told, and I understood.

“Why are they called Lovebirds?? Is that why we have two!?” The annoying squeaks of a forever curious little girl.

“Because. That’s what they’re called. Because that’s what they do, they love. They’re love birds. Yes, that’s why there are two. Now be a good girl and leave them alone so they can settle in.” The tired murmurs of a parent regretting their choices instantly, why didn’t we just get a budgie?

So when the last one died, I knew why. Because.

I think about that sometimes when I feel this constant strain in my chest. Us humans don’t need to love to live. We can function quite fine, and we can even heal ourselves if we ever do fall in the trap of love only to lose it.

So this heart break is new and different, its shared with my existing pain but grown by another. That saying… Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all… Mmm… maybe. This ache argues otherwise.

Would you say its better to be wealthy, then bankrupt as opposed to just doing alright? Just having enough. But is enough, enough? Is it these ever rotating highs and lows that make us feel alive, or is it these stressors that are slowly taking our life away. Slowly making are heart more full, only to make it weaker.

When my dad passed, his heart was six times the size of the usual person. Did he love too much? Was it love that killed him?

Loss isn’t what breaks us, it’s not unfortunate circumstances, its not bad choices. It’s the absence of love. It’s a drug that we all abuse, with all the detrimental consequences, with all the highs and euphoria, the pinnacle of addiction.

It’s what we all want and crave, and its what will destroy us the most.

Apologies if this came across really harsh or negative, I meant it to be more observant, I don’t hate love at all, nor am I against it. I’m just as addicted to it as the rest of us.

Till next time x

Calm. Cool. Collected.

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I always prefer to write than to read majority of the time. I’d also rather talk than listen. Probably a very big flaw of mine. I’d prefer to make my own mind up about things than being told what to think or do. I like to be in control.

On the flip side of this, I prefer to make other people happy than myself. I’d rather spend my money on others and I’d rather spend my time pleasing others.

These in combination could be contradictory or balancing.

If someone is a hypocrite, and telling people to do other things whilst contradicting these very words. In some way, they’re balancing it out. Such a nonsensical way to look at it, but everything seems to balance itself out.

Even when things are completely horrible, in a big way. There are some small, tiny things that are glorious. In a way, in conjunction these two things aren’t adjacent enough to make up for one and the other. How ever you don’t need bright light to balance out complete darkness. If someone gave you a dim candle when you need a flood light, it can still make everything brighter. Because need isn’t always necessary. Most of the time ‘need’ is ‘want’, and realizing that sometimes second best is isn’t secondary at all. That in fact its the solution, can be so invigorating.

Currently I’ve been reading. It’s a book about making ‘goals with soul’, a few of you may know exactly what this book is. Someone gave it to me after hearing all the drama of my life and their response was,

“You need to stop thinking, and need to start feeling.”

I thought this was funny mainly because I don’t believe I hardly think enough or as much as most people do. I don’t stress nor worry much, but I do wonder a lot. I never realised that this wondering, this hypothetical thinking was the same. This ‘what could be’ which I thought was on the lower spectrum of stressful was just as time consuming. This whole blog was based on ‘how do I feel’ and ‘what should I be feeling’ when what I really needed to be concentrating on was ‘how do I want to feel?’.

I want to feel…

Happy. Energetic. Excitable. Confident. Calm. Loving.

For anyone playing at home, the books called ‘The Desire Map’ Danielle LaPorte

Highly recommend giving it a look over.

Til next time x

And the verdict is…

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I haven’t written in longer than a while. The reason I started writing was to try any make sense of my thoughts and feelings after my dads death, and the fact that I wasn’t sure how he passed away made understanding how I felt difficult. I thought I was going to find out this one piece of information a lot sooner than how its played out. Yesterday I received a phone call, 3 months & 3 weeks later.

17 weeks.

111 days.

2,664 hours.

He died 29th November 2014, the 333rd day of the year, sometime in the early hours of the morning, in a foreign country, in a hotel, by himself. His last message was a SMS to me. Wishing my mum a happy birthday and a money transfer number to give to her.

When he passed that bit of information destroyed me. That stupid and utterly detrimental voice in the back of my head saying that if I responded to his message maybe things would’ve been different? No logic or reason. Just a numb thought, sharp and painful. Brutal and unnecessary. Loud and consuming.

When he passed we were told that it was due to ‘terrible’ circumstances. That it was most likely foul play. However a second opinion was going to be made to ensure this was the case. At first that seemed perfectly appropriate. The only problem was that second opinion was going to take a lot longer then we expected.

The conclusion is that it wasn’t foul play. That apparently his heart was 6 times the size of a normal person, and that it was most likely something to do with the heart… A little bit of me feels like this might of been the easier option. That if it was the previous opinion that maybe some felt like it was too much work. That when we were given the coroners report there was some false information that made me second guess its legitimacy.

“Because of the nature of a second autopsy, it’s hard to come to an accurate conclusion due to the level of previous embalming.”

– He wasn’t embalmed after the first autopsy. Which is a fact, one because the country in which it happened doesn’t practice embalming because its against its religion and they don’t have the resources. Also because the funeral director told us.

There were a few other minor details, like the date of death was incorrect. The lack of evidence or information they got from the 4th world country which they said made it hard. Which makes me think, why bother with anything other than simple.

Heart attack is simple. Its more likely, and at the end of the day majority always wins.

When I first started this blog my initial post was about differentiating the two possibilities…

17th December, 2014

“So I’m about to experience a horrible day. Depending on what I find out, I’m also going to have a horrible week… and time is going to continue drifting by in a horrible manner for a horrible length of time. However, if what I find out happens to be the alternate outcome, time won’t pass by horribly, but terribly.

Horrible: causing or likely to cause horror; shocking. Similar to awful, dreadful, upsetting, nightmarish.

Terrible: causing or likely to cause terror; sinister. Similar to frightful, loathsome, hateful, monstrous.

If someone suddenly dies of natural causes, by himself, away from his loved ones, that is horrible.

If someone dies at the hands of someone else, away from his loved ones, that is terrible.

Those are my possible outcomes, and that someone is my father.”

So I have my answer, and the answer is horrible. Although I have to admit… I’m still skeptical, when you’re initially told something else its hard to accept something else. Especially when it took so long to find any shade of acceptance to begin with, something that altered my view on things. Shade to protect me from the radiating pain of the unknown, of the unwelcome and of the constantly changing moods and feelings that came with guessing, assuming and realizing.

Guessing what happened, assuming how it could’ve happened, realizing that in the end it doesn’t really matter. Because at the end it doesn’t change anything, he’s not here anymore. Although the plots and story lines are completely different and the genres are opposite – thriller vs. drama.

I’m writing not to feel, not to help myself understand. I’m writing because this blog helped me when I needed it, it was there when I didn’t let anyone else in. I feel like I owe it. What’s a beginning without an end. I feel like this blog needed closure as much as I did.

I’m not saying this is the last time I post. Just the end to a chapter.

Thank you.

Til next time x

For future reference…

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I’m in that completely unproductive mood when I just feel like playing with words and seeing what they say. Kind of like how people shake a bag of runes and throw them to a surface, or maybe how people drink a cup of tea and observe the predictive shapes left by the leaves.

At the moment I feel restless, I’m tapping on the keyboard lightly enough not to press down or produce anything other than a whispering sound of percussion. A tempo which can only be described as bored and anxious. When it becomes apparent that anxiety isn’t a momentary emotion, but a constant condition which becomes more or less apparent at times you start to realise how exhausting one emotion can be. My anxiety is pattering at the moment, made audible by the tips of my fingers…

T-t-t-t-ttt-t-t-t-ttt-t-t-t-ttt-ttttttttttt.

So I’m seeing a Chinese Astrologist on Wednesday, more than slightly excited, but of course nervous and that forever rampant undertone of anxious. My friend went the other day and there might of been reference to me in his reading. Does that mean this guy will already have a faint idea of who I am? I’d say that would make my reading biased, but I don’t think outside prejudice can really be of any effect in something which is highly reliant on a personal interpretation to begin with.

Ahh how my words become so easily tediously jumbled at times…

At the moment I have this heavy feeling that all the choices I’ve been making as of late are wrong. This is solidified by seeing the possibilities of what I would’ve experienced if I did things slightly differently. The missed opportunities, and the questionable current situation. I’ve always felt that everything happens for a reason, I’ve always firmly lived by this. It’s a nice statement, makes regret seem redundant and naive. Now however I feel like this impression is more relevant to me than how I felt about regret, I feel like I’ve been taking the easier options lately and its taking a toll. The easiest option always leads to the more difficult lifestyle.

I was thinking about this in one of my infamous car trips lately – What if things don’t happen for a reason? But more you are the reason things happen. No outlying factors, no fate to make any action seem prophetic and necessary. Just the realisation that this is all you, and you have no one to blame or thank but yourself. Deep down, I know this is very much the truth, the brutal honesty of what we call life. But I have to admit, I don’t like it one bit. I like the magic of thinking this universe has a lot more to say than we think it does, that it has an element of pull which it is readily happy to demonstrate.

Serendipity: the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.

Coincidence: a remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances without apparent causal connection.

Fate: the development of events outside a person’s control, regarded as predetermined by a supernatural power.

Destiny: the events that will necessarily happen to a particular person or thing in the future.

Future [noun]: the events that will necessarily happen to a particular person or thing in the future.

Future [adj.]: at a later time; going or likely to happen or exist.

How can we have so many words to describe something so alternate in a way theoretical but at the same time so vital, so fundamental. We couldn’t move forward without seeing what was in front of us. Yet in all honesty, the truth is we walk completely blind. We openly talk about the future, a concept defined both as being an event which will necessarily happen, with compulsion of requirement, an inevitability. However as a descriptive, is much weaker in its ability, like most words when they fall down the ranks to describe something as opposed to stand in its own entirety and vindication. The difference between justice and judicial, the act of taking something of magnitude and using only its reflection. Act isn’t the right word to use… the art.

I used Serendipity in my little list as a point of reference, because its antonym doesn’t need to be defined, this blog is definition enough of its opposite. ‘Life tips of a Hypocrite, the tale of misfortune, the collective words of a divided mind.’

So when we talk about the future, when we plan for the future, how do we make sure that it stands as strong as its meaning as a noun? The answer is simple, we can’t. The only way to secure something that hasn’t happened yet with so much adamancy that its a given, is to speak about the past in relation to its future, the present. The future may be of our control, but the universe does have it’s say, its not fate or destiny, but the environment and context it creates that shapes possibilities. I’m not expecting to be told at my reading what the future holds for me, what I’m going to do and what I should do when certain opportunities arise… to be honest I don’t know what I want out of it… maybe a topic to write about next session.

Till next time x

Still not sure if its ‘terrible’ or ‘horrible’, but I’m terrified… and its horrible.

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Tomorrow will be 2 months since my Dad died. I still don’t know if its under horrible or terrible circumstances. In regards to news or updates nothing has really changed, except me. I don’t know what happened, I don’t know exactly when it happened, but something has.

I cry a lot these days. I can’t stop myself anymore, and it’s not the usual tears. It’s almost violent, its abrupt and its scares me. So far it seems to happen mainly when I’m driving, which I do a lot. I remember in primary school I was taught that driving later on in life becomes an automatic thinking process because it becomes so routine that eventually we can get to Point A to Point B with out remembering any of what happens in between. That numbness of routine is were it seems to lurk from.

As I drive to and from work, maybe as of the last two or three days, its become increasingly consistent. I’m not sure if they would be considered panic attacks, normal anxiety, episodes of depression. Either way, its paralyzing, and each time it gets worse.

On the way to a work meeting today around 2pm it started. I parked the car, fixed my make up, and pretended like nothing happened. The meeting finished, I went back in the car and it started again. I arrived at my sisters house, fixed my make up, and pretended like nothing happened. Had to go back to work, went back in the car… you can see where I’m going with this.

This last incident on my way home was probably so far the most intense. I ended up pulling to the side of the road half way home because I couldn’t drive anymore. My eyes were too blurred from the tears, my breathing became too erratic I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the pain of the abrupt bouts of forced oxygen and the upsetting sounds that felt deafening which I couldn’t help but make. This isn’t how I usually cry, I can choose my breaths, my severity. I can change my thinking, and I can flick the kill switch to make it go away. Now, there is no sign of an emergency off button, no sign of taming whatever is causing these attacks. Before I used to comfort myself in optimism, in self control, in the idea ‘it’s all in my mind, and I can change my way of thinking’. Over the last two months I must of abused this skill, and now it’s broken.

Before I used to believe that this mourning process wasn’t about it getting easier, people just get better at dealing with it. I must still have a long way to go. Because I think everything’s just starting.

The idea of working now terrifies me, I’m so bubbly and happy that I think that must be where all my energy goes. If each car trip gets worse, what happens if it starts to seep in the routine of work. Its happened once before, I stopped before it got too intense… That was back when I could stop it.

A part of me thinks that this might be because I’m not writing anymore, that I’m not talking about it like I used to and now all the little things that I used to extrapolate on before has built up when I wasn’t looking. Now its out of my control.

Till next time x