Grief and Mourning

I've never learned how to gracefully lose someone. Maybe that's some kind of oxymoron. Maybe there's no delicate way to grieve.

Any of you that actually spend the time it takes to read these bullshit, melodramatic posts know that I lost my grandfather in September. You know that I worshiped him more devoutly than some people ever worship their God. He was invincible, immortal to me. And then, he took us all aside for a family meeting last July, the tenth, to be exact.

"I've been holdin' off tellin' y'all this for a while now. I've been diagnosed with Leukemia." he said. The silence that fell on the room was as dense and cold as fog.

Then it broke.

Tears fell like rain all around. My mother and sister were sitting on the couch across the room from me. They clung to each other fiercely, like they were drowning. My grandmother just looked at him in shock, her mouth a bit slack. My uncle stood and rushed out of the room. His wife looked at my grandfather and said, in complete disbelief:

"That's why you were asking so much about my mother." or something along those lines. I wanted her to be quiet. My world was ending. She didn't have any place to talk.

I couldn't cry, however. I had to be strong for him. He couldn't see me cry. Not when I could see the deep creases at the corner of his eye filling with tears. That doesn't mean that my own tears weren't sliding down my face, stealing away from my eyes. I smudged them away as quickly as I could with the back of my hand. Then, I watched him blot at the trapped tears on his own face with a wad of tissues, as casually as if he just had a speck of ash in his eye.

He then told us that he had known about it for over a year, since the previous April. He said that he didn't want us to do anything differently, to not worry about him, that he was going to go back to work for as long as he could.

The world swirled around me in vivid splashes of color that hurt me, in hazes of black and grey that brought numbness and the comfort of nothingness. I could only hear his voice, hear the unspoken fact that he was going to die and leave us. That my God was falling from his place and becoming a mere mortal.

At some point, I realized that my sister, my uncle, and my grandmother were all sitting around me in my chair beside him. It's a large white chair, part of the set that my great-grandmother had in the house when I was in junior high. I had my legs curled under myself, leaning on the left arm of it, leaning toward him. My sister was sitting in front of me, curled around me. My grandmother was sitting next to her, her arms around both of us. My uncle was on the floor in front of me, leaning back and I had a hand on his shoulder. My grandfather looked over at me, trying to comfort the three of them simultaneously. He nodded a little, just once. The look said that I had it handled and he trusted me to be able to take care of them.

That look, more than anything else that he had said that night, cracked my soul. I had been devastated before, but that look made me bleed. I just met his eyes and put on my bravest face. I couldn't disappoint him, and I couldn't hurt him more than he was already hurting. No one wants to make their entire family cry because they're dying. No one wants to be there when people start mourning over them.

I realized today that I felt safe when he was alive, even after I realized that he wasn't infallible. There was just some kind of inner security that I felt. And now, I can really only get that feeling when I'm surrounded by my closest friends and I have some sort of physical contact with them. When I don't, I feel vulnerable and fragile and alone. Even when I'm in the same room with them. It doesn't matter where I am, or what I'm doing. I feel vulnerable, fragile, alone. And I hate it. I should be able to take care of myself, should be able to hold myself together better than this. I'm capable. I'm not weak. I'm not a victim in any sense of the word and there's no one on the planet that can make me into one. But I just feel so vulnerable now that he's gone.

I've never felt vulnerable before. Ever. Not a single moment in my life. And now, this is crushing me. It's hard for me to deal with because I've always been taught to be strong. It's really hard to be both strong and vulnerable. It might even be impossible.

And I'm just going to have to learn how to deal with it, because this is life and it's not easy.

On The Nature Of Possession

You thought this was going to be something deep and scholarly, didn't you?

Gotcha.

No, this is about the other night. A friend of mine, a very good friend of mine, is going through some rough stuff in his life. I told him to stand up and hug me. I told him that I love him, that I love him with the kind of love that isn't going to just blow away in the wind after a few years. That he was Mine, with a capital M.

No, this isn't a guy that I'm trying to date. This is just someone that has a big chunk of my heart. I love him to death. I throw around that word a lot, 'love'. I have never said or typed it without meaning it, without giving it the meaning and weight it deserves. Not once.

If I love you, yes, you are mine, but not in the sense that no one else can love you. I want you to be happy, if it's with me, awesome. If it isn't, they'd better treat you right. If they don't, I'll be there to pick up the pieces and mend you again. I'm getting pretty good at sewing up broken hearts, if I do say so myself. When I love, everything about you becomes beautiful. The way you snore, the little things you say when you're talking to kill time between thoughts, the way you look up from over your glasses, that look you get sometimes when you're annoyed. Everything. The way crickets remind me of you, the way I can't hear a song without laughing, everything makes me smile. You're perfectly imperfect and I cherish your flaws because they make you who you are.

This isn't all about the same person, by the way, but a collection of things that everyone does. Like the way your voice shifts and you start making your f's and s's and sh's sound different when you're having an intense discussion, or the way that you never wear socks, the way you pop your knuckles and neck... These are the most beautiful things in the world. Each one of your quirks is a blessing to me, a gift from someone I have no right to ask things of.

I love. It's one of my weaknesses.

Back to the possession.

You're mine because I'm yours. I won't ask anything of you because I'm afraid to need you. I've been needed too damned much in my life to ask that of anyone else. It's one of the worst things to be in my book, needed. I've had too much need, I'd like some want for once. That's another reason I adore you, none of you need me. You just want me. Some in slightly different ways, but I'm actually, honest to goodness, wanted for one of the first times in my life.

So, since you're mine, I won't put any chains on you. I won't tell you what to do, just because you're mine doesn't mean that you're a possession. You're a sentient human being, and as such, I have no room to order you around. Even if we find ourselves in a relationship, I can't do that. I can only tell you what I'll do if you trespass. All I ask of any of you is to respect me. You've all been champs at that. It's amazing what I will take if there is still that respect. However, the second I see that I've been denied that, I'm done. And it takes a grievous amount of disrespect before I will leave you where you stand. I mentioned in my last post about the 'man' that screamed in my face. I was willing to let that slide. Until I found out about other events. Now, written off. I will still be civil, but there are considerably less things he can use me for.

I may not like myself much, but I do know that I have some value as a human being, and I demand nothing less than the same courtesy I extend to everyone else.

It's been a good policy so far...

Birthdays Are Weird (And I'm Weirder)

     They really are. Think about it for a second. There's this day that rolls around once a year, and it's only important to you (unless you're like a twin or something, or your mom's like mine is and gets all 'Oh, my baby...').

     I usually don't get all freaky about them. Saturday will be my twenty-second birthday, so I'm not getting all weird about getting older or anything, but I did start thinking about all of the stuff that's gone down in the last year.

     My grandpa died. He was my God. I worshipped him in my own way, more devoutly than some people devote themselves to their own deity of choice. I'm not saying that it was healthy or that I'm superior to you in my belief, just saying that he was my world and now, he's gone.

     I found a belief system that I really enjoy. I have a closer relationship to the force that created me and the world and I've found peace and spiritual fulfillment through it. I feel that it's made me a better person and it's given me comfort when I needed it most. Unfortunately, I highly doubt that my family will approve of it and I'm anticipating a lecture about it in the very near future. However, I have this crazy belief that everyone's right in their own religion. Your path may not be mine, and that's fine. You're getting what you need out of yours and you're right. That invisible power that you pray to is every bit as real as you believe it to be. You can call it whatever you want and you're right. It influences you (and only you) in the exact way you say it does. Everything that you believe is right, except where it concerns people that don't believe the way you do. That's their business. It's strictly between them and their own deity.

    Shake your head all you want. Tell me that I'm going to Hell because I don't go to your church. Tell me that I'll lie in wormy earth for an eternity because I don't ascribe to the same doctrines you do. Tell me whatever you want. I have my faith. You have yours. I'm sure that yours is fascinating and true and fulfilling as well, but it's not for me. Nor is mine for you. Believing in different ways is what makes the world an interesting place. I'll keep my religion to myself, sharing it with you only if you're interested, and I expect the same courtesy. I'm not going to try and convert you, and I would very much appreciate it if you would refrain from doing so to me. I'm very happy with my beliefs, and I don't like the thought of having to argue with you on the point of my salvation or damnation, because despite the efforts on your part, my fate is my own. I know your arguments as intimately as you do. You won't sway me. Please don't try.

     I got drunk at a party and kissed a very good looking boy. (I've changed subjects. This isn't about religion any more. Do keep with the program. ;) ) On a related note, guess who feels pretty on a semi-regular basis as well now? It's amazing what a little attention can do to a girl's self-esteem.

     I finally told my father that I was done with our farce of a relationship. I told my 'friends' from high school that I was done with them as well.

     I got in a heated argument with another man who got in my face and called me (and I quote) 'a fuckin' liar' and 'a manipulative little bitch'. Guess who's going to let bygones be bygones, but never forgive nor forget?

     I joined a LARP. It's kind of really fun. I like playing make-believe with all of my friends. It's a great way to end the week and blow off some of the stress from the real world. I also get to prance around in a corset.

You know, I never imagined that I'd be where I am at this age. If someone would have asked me when I was seventeen where I'd be in five years (and I'm pretty sure that they did a time or two) I would never have said that I was a LARPer, a pen-and-paper roleplaying game fan, unemployed (unless we count through the school), and surrounded by the absolute best friends in the world. I wouldn't have told them that I'd be wearing a gold-plated drillbit around my neck because my God got Leukemia. I never would have said that I would be helping out on the family goat farm when I went home on the weekends. I would have never guessed that I'd have a penchant for shots of Jack Daniels or Absinthe-Sprite cocktails, or that I would have gotten a little drunker than I meant to at a party and ended up snuggled up on a couch with that guy a week later, reading a novel about Voodoo and flirting for all I was worth.

All in all, I can't complain about the last year. But if I could have one wish, I wouldn't be mourning right now. I know better than to wish for something like that, I've read enough horror stories. But I do miss him. More than anything. And maybe, just maybe, I can become someone he would have been proud of one day.

One day.