Doing things like watching a sappy movie suck because they make me do the one thing I hate...cry. But they actually help overall because they make me stop to think about things. Like tonight.
This is a weird week for me anyway. Those of you that know me very well know my thing with 22 and 222. Today was 2-22 and thankfully nothing crazy happened. (Whew!) I still have yet to figure out what significance that has but still weird either way.
I
"It's possible to go on, no matter how impossible it seems, and that in time, the grief . . . lessens. It may not go away completely, but after a while it's not so overwhelming."
— Nicholas Sparks (Dear John)
This Saturday is the three year anniversary of my dad's suicide. It's so hard to believe it's been 3 years. Tomorrow is the three year mark of the last time I spoke to him. It was my ex's birthday and we were on our way to Olive Garden. I was pregnant and so hungry and my dad called me from my grandmother's house in London. He was talking about going into rehab and asked if I'd come see him if he did. He was being pretty repetitive, as most people are when they're intoxicated. I felt like I was being rude for staying on the phone on my way out for a dinner date with my boyfriend so I was trying to rush him off the phone. He went on and on about how proud he was of me. I remember asking him why because I felt like a complete failure. I didn't have a career- was going through a divorce- and was pregnant by a man who was not my husband. But he insisted he was proud of me anyway and told me about a dream he'd had about his grandchild I was pregnant with at the time. He had had a dream of taking him fishing and said he was definitely going to be a boy and was going to be chubby and be "Papaw's boy". Before we hung up he told me he loved me. I would have never dreamed that that moment would be the last time I would talk to my daddy.
He didn't say anything hinting to what he was going to do and even seemed like he was in a decent mood, but he had made suicidal threats before and I believed that bullshit about "if they threaten it they'll never do it, they just want attention". I found out 4 days later that it's not true. When someone threatens suicide they will do it at some point when they finally reach what they think is more than they can handle. On February 27, 2007 my daddy took his own life in front of his alcoholic mother with a .22 Ruger (there's that fucking number again). I was 14 weeks pregnant. He left no note.
So now, three years later, I sit here with tears running down my face missing my daddy and wondering if there is anything at all I could have said to make him change his mind. Did he feel like we didn't care? Did he think we hated him? Did he think his baby girl was too grown up and didn't need him anymore and that I didn't want to talk to him? Did I break his heart when I rushed him off the phone to go to my oh-so-important dinner date? The path of destruction from a suicide is an unexplainable one. A hole left in the souls of the people left behind that nothing will ever fill and a hurt in me no man will ever come close to healing. And none I have met yet that are brave enough or strong enough to even try.
II
"Just when you think it can't get any worse, it can. And just when you think it can't get any better, it can."
— Nicholas Sparks (At First Sight)
February 27th was the end of the world to me. The man I always thought was superhuman showed me that it's not really true when people say God won't put more on you than you can handle. He gave my dad more than he could handle. If it were true that God wouldn't do that then no one would ever feel the need to end their own lives. And just when I thought I couldn't handle anymore my life took an even more tragic turn for the worse.
A few weeks after losing dad my doctor was trying to put me in a better state of mind for the sake of my health and my baby. So she did a 'sneak peek' ultrasound and I found out he was a boy. I was happy about that yet it made me sad because I couldn't call my dad with the great news that he was going to have the grandson he told me he dreamed about. I wanted so bad to pick up the phone and tell him that he was right- but I couldn't. But still, I was happy. I had been trying to decide between a few names and finally decided on Aiden Blaine. I thought it sounded so masculine yet modern and like a hero from a novel. I couldn't wait until my official 20 week ultrasound so that I could record it and show my mom and sister.
My son's father had to work the day of my official ultrasound so my best friend Mel went with me. It was Tuesday, April 10, 2007. Six weeks to the day exactly of when my dad took his life. After waiting for what seemed like forever in the waiting room we finally got called back. They don't do VHS recordings anymore so Mel had my digital camera and was recording the tv screen that the ultrasound was showing on. After a few minutes the tech asked her to stop recording and left the room. What seemed like another eternity passed before the tech came back with the doctor close behind her. Moving the machine around my abdomen again for a few minutes, the doctor got a disturbing look on her face and told me my son no longer had a heartbeat.
My choices were to either wait it out and let nature take its course or be induced and give birth to my baby boy at 20 weeks. I was admitted to the hospital and induced and my sleeping angel was delivered a little after midnight on April 12. His cord was wrapped. They estimated he had already been gone for at least a week so he wasn't even developed to the full 20 weeks yet. They called it a 'miscarriage' instead of a stillbirth so I didn't even get a death certificate or a funeral. It took weeks for him to be buried and for me to find out where. There was no closure. No chance to say goodbye. And the only photos I got are of his hands and feet because when the nurse asked me if I wanted pictures of his face I was too doped up to give it any thought. I was already crushed and this was the final blow.
I went back to work a week after losing my father so tragically and now I was going back to work a week and a half after losing my baby boy. I couldn't afford to take the time off I probably needed. When I went back to work I had an email that said "I know you're going through a lot but this is a crucial time and I need you to be on top of things." Yes, I'm serious.
So not only was I crushed and destroyed but I was angry and didn't even know who to be angry with. I had no time to deal with myself and no time to figure out how to grieve. Sure, I cried. But for the most part I did it when I was alone because no one else wanted to hear me. I was angry to the point of not even being able to be around my mom for a while other than an hour or so at a time because I couldn't deal with her talking about my dad. I couldn't handle her pain because I wasn't even able to handle mine. I felt like my son's father didn't really care and even wondered if he was relieved. Honestly, as time has passed, I've come to realize I was probably right.
What I would give now to hold my son. To know what color his eyes would have been or the color of his hair. To be able to kiss his dimples he would most likely have inherited from me. To be able to hear him say 'ma ma' or 'da da' for the first time. To be able to tuck him in at night. To have the 'boring' life of staying at home to cuddle with my baby boy and watch cartoons. He would be 2 1/2 now and although he'd be in his "terrible two's" and I'd be exhausted I'd give the world to have that chance.
III
"I finally understood what true love meant...love meant that you care for another person's happiness more than your own, no matter how painful the choices you face might be."
— Nicholas Sparks (Dear John)
Love. Undying, unconditional, real love. Most of us have had it at least once in our lives. And most of us let it go without realizing it until it's too late. We always think the grass is greener on the other side and that there's more to life than what we have at our fingertips. We always want what is beyond our grasp without realizing what we hold in our arms already. There is a part in the movie where John and Savannah are writing to each other looking at the full moon knowing the other is too- and thinking about each other so it's almost like they're together. That part of the movie took me back in time. I had a love like that once. But our 'full moon' were electric poles. (I know it sounds silly but think about it... almost all electric lines in this country are connected.) That love and I would talk on the phone when we were many miles away from each other and each go outside to touch an electric pole at the same time. That way we were connected physically and not just on the phone. We were young but it made perfect sense at the time. And to this day when the thought crosses my mind I still wish I could go touch an electric pole and know that I wasn't alone. At that moment I was home... and God how I miss that feeling.
But now, years later, past loves are happy in their own lives and are creating new memories. As for me... well, I'm not so sure. I've come to the conclusion that I have been going through a rebellious phase of some sort. I've tried to do some soul searching to try to figure out why I've turned out like I have but with no answers. I even question if I will ever be able to truly feel anything for anyone again. That is yet to be determined... I'm still waiting to feel 'home' again. I keep repeating in my head and it's become kind of common in my writings that "Home is where the heart is" and I know that until my heart is healed from whatever it is that keeps it in this state I'm destined to be a wanderer. Until then I'll just remain broken and live each day trying to put myself back together. I just wish I knew a better route than the one I've been taking.
IV
"When you're struggling with something, look at all the people around you and realize that every single person you see is struggling with something, and to them, it's just as hard as what you're going through."
— Nicholas Sparks (Dear John)
I know that the more I think about these things throughout this week and the next few weeks, the more emotional I will get. The slightest things like the weather being the same as the day things happened will spark an anxiety type feeling and possible brief tears. I know that throughout these next few weeks I will carry on and laugh as I always do and possibly not even show if or when something is bothering me. This is why I write. I sit alone in my apartment and can cry if I want to without feeling like I'm burdening anyone with my emotions. I can blog on this note without worrying about what someone is thinking of me and my inability to properly deal with my own issues. I can rant and rave in writing without being interrupted or having to deal with anything else in the world except my own thoughts. There are no pitiful looks of sympathy, no cheap words of how 'everything happens for a reason', and no awkward moments of people not knowing what to say.
This is my therapy.
Psychiatrists? Who needs 'em?
I have a keyboard.
