I loved a person and things went bad and we both got hurt. Not the most original story in the book.
He now blames himself for hurting me, and I can’t stop thinking about him, in both negative and positive ways. As it was when we were dating, I am flip-flopping daily on how I feel about him; Do I hate him? Do I want to reconnect with him? Could we heal that wound? Am I comfortable classifying it as an abusive relationship?
The answer is a consistent, resounding ‘no’, on all fronts, no matter what the actual answers are. Every time, when I think about it. But the fact remains that I can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t stop thinking about the situation and how much I care about him despite everything that happened.
I’ve talked a lot about it, both to friends who know him and friends that don’t. Answers don’t seem to be simple. Are they ever? Time has helped a lot, but it hasn’t fixed it, and it doesn’t take much to send me back into panic mode.
I’m blogging, I guess. That’s not no progress.
Don’t forget to take care of yourself.
When you feel bad for feeling bad, things have gone too far. It’s time to turn that shitship around.
Let yourself be miserable sometimes. Accept that sometimes your brain chemistry is going to be fucked and a lot of the thoughts you’re going to have on this particular day will not be helpful. Give yourself a day to hang out and do whatever you need to (that isn’t harmful to yourself or others) to feel better.
When you wake up the next day, things will be better and easier. Probably.
Things can be awesome and you can still be scared.
Things can be awesome and you can still freak out.
Fuck this. I’m just going to get in the car and go, book it. I haven’t driven out east at all, really, I’ve barely seen Saskatchewan or Manitoba, let alone Ontario. I’m just going to go. I’m going to sell all my useless material shit and practice guitar and live on the road until I stop having panic attacks and can come back home and do school right and help people better and stop being terrified to write the stuff that I want to write.
When I search my head for memories of my grandfather before his sickness, I find myself sorely lacking. Everything I have is scattered between small moments; a smile here, after I sung a little classical song to celebrate his anniversary, and a little comment there, as he explained how curling works to my childish, curious self. Was it truly too long ago, or was I simply too preoccupied with whichever girl I was in love with at the time to tie those neurons, to grow those synapses? If nothing else, it is a reminder that the things that are most important aren’t often present in mind. The world is worse for this absence; all of us deserve to be remembered as we are, as we wanted to be.
My most vivid memory of my grandfather takes place too soon to now, once when I was taking care of him alone. It was my duty to make sure he took his pills after his meal. He wouldn’t, so I tried little tricks, little twists of language, as well as some of the reinforcement techniques I was learning about in school. It was difficult, but we got through it; he took his pills, and it felt like a favour to me. Like he had done it, tried very hard to fight through whatever fog had enshrouded his conscious mind, just for me.
I looked into his eyes, then, and tried to imagine exactly how it would feel to not be able to remember my friends, my family. To not be able to understand when they asked me to shove these things in my mouth, and not want to. Psychology of Perception told me that deafness was one of the most isolating experiences possible; how, then, would dementia fare? The inability to comprehend? To have nothing but your reactions to moment after confusing moment, minute-to-minute. I became acutely aware of the emptiness he must feel, and I shrunk from it. No one deserves to be remembered like this. No one deserves that kind of existence. And in this moment, I learned to truly appreciate the strength of those who were able to look into his eyes, to care for him more than a few hours, much more, all while still remembering the man he had been.
I sang for him that day.
Bastille - Pompeii.
I had a really horrible day. My neurotransmitters have not been working right since this time last night, and it’s hard to stop freaking out.
This song is beautiful. I hope you like it.