May 11, 2014 was the last day I felt alive…
Later that day I found out the first man to love me, to hold me, to buy me my first scooter; bicycle, to bring me fishing, four-wheeling, mudding, and given me his last name…had passed away.
My daddy was gone.
Life turned into a kaleidoscope of emotions and pain ever since. And 3 months and 20 days has felt like a naked walk lost and confused on the Sahara.
Autodrive is what gets me through my days but the smoke is still in the engine clogging and making it sputter. Over time this should clear up…allegedly.
There are so many things I want to express, so many things I want to say and promise and fulfill but it’d be irrelevant to anyone who doesn’t live in my head. But the nonsense is radical and confusing at most.
So now my Noni who has been plagued with dementia and Alzheimer’s for over half a decade is in the hospital. She’s 82 and adorable and is an oasis to the center of my mother’s family. Things don’t look bleak but I can’t help to consider the obvious and what kind of effect it would have on the peanut of sanity I have left.
I try to escape and temporary distractions feel like ice to a burn, soothing and pleasant. But what amount of work or play will fill in these holes that have cut deep into my belly?
I don’t want sympathy or pity, honestly I don’t care if you pray for me or not. I just want to exhale the thoughts that have sat stagnant on my chest to make room for a new load.
I want my Noni to be healthy and be able to talk and share stories about how she learned to sew. Why she did what she did and didn’t do what she didn’t do. I want to show her the antique sewing machines I got and have her teach me how to properly oil and care for them.
I want her to be proud of her great grandchild for graduating high school and getting his license. I think about the last visit I remember having before her mental health went south. I was such a brat as usual, but it’d eat all the soup she offered me if I could go back. Noni’s house was always fun growing up and the memories I have are warmer in my heart than if I try and show them to the world; you just wouldn’t appreciate or understand.
In a way it’s like she’s been gone for a long time to me. It’s hard for me to visit her the way she is now. I prefer to remember her in front of her makeup mirror, or on her couch with quilting projects about, or cooking. It hurts to see her in the convalescent pool of crazies; she doesn’t belong.
I don’t know how I’ve made it through each day but sometimes there’s a glimmer of, not hope, but anxiousness to keep moving. Maybe not forward but to keep moving.
I’ve gotten melancholy in my blood and it’s been comfortable there for the past month. It’s the safest I’ve felt in ages. I want to stay docked here for a while…