Many of you know that my dad passed away from cancer last year. From diagnosis to death, it was 6 weeks. Let me tell you, when you have an "interesting" relationship with someone who has a terminal illness, it brings up all kinds of unsettled issues and it feels like the wrong time to settle everything, because they are dying. Plus, the fact that you watch someone literally deteriorate is a complete mind@#$%. As much as I hate admitting it, I'm still working through my grief.
Regularly, I wanna mountain goat my way to the tallest peak around, but instead of having a Rocky Balboa celebration, I wanna turn into the Incredible Hulk and have a rage-filled tantrum complete with a steady stream of profanities, screaming at the gods in the heavens and all the fools in the valley below me so they can hear all the feels inside of me and understand the pain. I won't stop until I pass out, wake up half-naked (with pants still miraculously intact, even though I'll have grown 40 times my size during my Hulk freak-out), not knowing what happened, but finally drained of all the complicated emotions that I've been holding inside of me.
The thing about grief is that the emotions are like that annoying tangled pair of earbuds in your pocket or purse. You don't know how they got all jacked-up, because you know you didn't put them in there like that, but you still gotta untangle them in order to use them properly.
Here I am, 8 months after my dad's death, just barely starting the exhausting task of untangling the ball of emotional mess inside. I think I wanted to believe that I was handling it all fine, but the truth is, I'm not.
I read that it takes most people between 18 months to 2 years to work through grief. So, I guess I gotta give myself a break. "They" also say exercise helps, especially yoga. I do love me some yoga, but right now, I would rather punch out some teeth to find inner peace than go into Warrior 2 pose. I suppose you could say I'm in the angry phase.
Not angry that he died; that's part of life.
Not angry at God. It's not his fault.
I'm angry at my dad's wives (oooohhh, polygamy....) with how they handled everything. Like, Evil Stepmother #2 instructing the funeral director to take my parting gift to my dad from me out of his casket right before the funeral.
I'm angry that I let Evil Stepmother #1 keep me away from him the day he died when my gut told me I should visit him. I know I couldn't have known that he would die that night, but it's a tough pill to swallow.
I'm angry I was told he died via vague text.
I'm angry that my dad made me tell him a half-truth when he grasped my hand and looked me in the eyes and regretfully asked me, "Was I a good dad?". Of course I said, yes, but the truth is, he royally messed up a few times. Did he have moments of being a good dad? Of course! I have some sweet memories, but I'm mad that I couldn't truthfully tell him what he wanted to hear. I said what I should.
I'm angry that I had to witness him turn into skin and bones.
I'm angry that the hope of having the relationship I dreamed of having with him is also dead.
I'm angry that I didn't answer his phone calls more.
I'm angry that I didn't invite him to more events.
I'm angry that I didn't reach out more.
I'm angry I never told him how much his actions hurt.
I'm angry he never stood up for himself.
I'm angry he didn't take his life back from those he let rule it.
I'm angry he didn't even try treatment so we could have had more time to repair our feeble relationship.
I'm angry his bat shit crazy wives didn't let his hundreds of music students pay their respects to a man that was a huge part of their lives.
I'm angry at a whole lot more.
Mostly, I've just been angry at myself. Since I've been harboring it, it comes out in outbursts. When something slightly annoying happens, it's magnified and I literally have to make sure I don't have a Kylo Ren lightsaber fit of destruction, because there is an undercurrent of rage flowing through my veins lately. Kinda like those 5 months I was on birth control...... I've felt actually crazy.
Maybe this isn't cute to write all of this, but whatevs. I'm almost 32. I do what I want.