I've been trying to write this blog entry for a week. But I've been failing. I haven't wanted to think about it. Father's day sucked, badly. That's actually an inadequate description for what Sunday was for me... It was the worst feeling I've ever had, in my entire life..no metaphor, no simile, no exaggeration. I felt physically ill from grief. I was sadder than I have ever been in my life, and I was present in the room when my father died...held his hand, and had to make the calls to my brothers and sister to let them know he was gone, but I've never been as sad, and utterly despondent as I had been last Sunday, on Father's Day.
All I wanted was to talk to my dad....and I couldn't. And it was a horrible combination of feeling powerless and empty, and having hope and strength ripped from your ribs. I laid in the bed and cried violently for the better part of 20 minutes. I was so sad, and cried so hard that I woke up the next day with what I can only describe as a grief hangover. I was hurting the next day..my head hurt and my stomach hurt and I was exhausted like I had run a marathon while smoking a pack of Newports.
It took me awhile to even write this, because I didn't want to go back and think about how hard that day was. Any and everything was setting me off. For God's sake, a conversation about potatoes triggered a memory, which triggered tears, which triggered me having to go compose myself. The whole day was one big clusterfuck of sadness.
All that being said, my friend Dee Smalls said "it was the worse day ever, and you made it through". And even though thats not something I'm fully prepared to digest and think about right now, there is a part of that statement that resonates with me like an echo of a rung bell. I guess I'm back to taking this thing one day at a time...
DAY 6 OF CLIMBING THE MOUNTAIN.
and I'm just looking around gathering supplies, thinking about trying, to restart the climb.
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