The worst part about waking up from an emotional dream about my daddy is trying to walk away from it throughout the day.
Sometimes I feel like I’ve been so broken I’m never going to be okay or normal again. That I’m always going to be this defeated up little girl that doesn’t know how to function correctly. Like my arms are legs and my legs are elbows and I’m trying to ever- so-carefully balance myself so no one can see I’m about to fall.
Obviously I had a dad dream again last night. It was my least favorite kind. We all thought he was passed away but I found out he wasn’t. He just lost his cell phone for a year and was working at a convalescent home feeding people. We laughed and poked fun and I was relieved he was alive and well after all.
My least dreams, where I find security and comfort in knowing it all wasn’t real… to then wake up and get slapped with reality.
The sting of the slap lingers for the day and I don’t know how to function. My skin feels uncomfortable, I want to cry but I can’t. I just walk forward trying not to acknowledge it because if I let the flood gates open just a little I’m afraid all Hell will break free and I’ll never be able to keep it together.
I think something broke inside me that day but I don’t know what. But I feel like a car missing a spark plug: functioning but dangerous and rough.
I wish I could be a penpal to heaven.
So I can write to dad and tell him all the things. Things I’m doing… things I don’t know if are right or wrong… things about the house… questions about his life. I also wish I didn’t wish and could just properly carry on.