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Sometimes I wonder if I would actually be happier if life were different. Scratch that–I can’t be ‘happier’ if I’m not happy. I wonder if I could actually be less sad, if life were different.

You know, the night my father died my mother didn’t call the cops right away. She had us lay in the room with my father’s corpse, on another bed, until morning. And then she just shut down. All night we slept there, I felt nothing, I was practically numb. Through the funeral, I cried because I couldn’t help it. I would be just standing there and tears would just start falling and I would have no clue until they couldn’t be stopped even if they were realized. I was so mad at my Mother. Why couldn’t she toughen up? Why was she sobbing and yelling and screaming and fainting and falling all over the place? When all I could do was stand there. And not feel.

My father spoiled me. He gave me all this love and care and attention that I didn’t really deserve. And now that he’s gone, I have this emptiness in me where his love and attention used to be. His nods and smiles, and drives to dance practice early in the morning and drives home from performances late at night. Who is to fill those spaces? So far I’ve been filling them myself. I can drive myself to practice and from performances. But I can never seem to nod and smile at myself. I think Father accepted me for the person that I’ll never be satisfied with being, that sometimes I hate being, even. He accepted it all. I can’t get over it. On nights, random nights, like these, I miss him so much I almost go insane.

It’ll be three years this August. So long ago, and yet just yesterday. These sobs will clear by the morning and I might not even remember why my eyes are puffed, but a few weeks from now it will happen again. And a few months from then, once again. Sporadically I will have the urge to throw myself off something or…do something else…but I’ll be too scared and ashamed. And I’ll break down. But I’ll get over it. And then again. And again. And again. About three years ago I thought I would be suffering all the time. But who knew that in actuality, no, I’ll be OK for times at a time, and then I’ll remember, and I’ll fall a little bit apart, and I’ll comfort myself enough to leave the house the next morning and, you know, this actually hurts more. If I were a constant unhappy, that would just be that. I would just be unhappy. But this, being able to feel a tad of contentment, and then remember that no, I’m not that OK, that sadness hits harder, like this. Like now.

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Posted June 20, 2010 by .unpaused. in Life, Musings, Quickie

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