Harvey

My father died three and a half years ago. I've never been able to write about him. I barely let myself think about him. It was easy to hold back because that's what the Prozac did - it told me when to "not go there." Well with the Prozac out of my system, I'm going there.


Watching him die was heartbreaking. There are some people that, once they've been through enough suffering, are at peace with their fate. The last time I saw him with his eyes open he was still fighting and hoping. In fact, the last words I ever heard him say were "Oh, shit." There was no part of him that was ready to die. He was young, 63, and even as his daughter, I could tell he had just starting feeling comfortable in his own skin. He was always proud of me, but I had just started to be proud of him. 


Since he's died it's been very difficult to feel the same amount of love for my family. He was the one I wanted to talk to. He was the one I wanted to sit in silence with. He was the one that would call me to ask about me.  He was the one that carried the weight of our problems and made it look so easy. We never appreciated that. Now my mother, brother and I attempt to do that for each other, but my body can't handle the weight. 


Over the last few years we have realized what he had been protecting us from. My mother in particular had been the most naive. She has never held a job, never balanced a check book, never dealt with an insurance company or bank. It has been so overwhelming for her that at times I have felt she was suicidal. Part of me wants her to go through with it. Her pain is a pain I can't carry on top of my own.  But then I hear this voice in my ear, words of disappointment from my father, telling me how selfish it is to think that. 


He was a shield. He was an open book. He would cry on Valentines Day. He would curse in his sleep. He would call his mother once a week and tell her how much he loved her. He bought the book "Loving Someone Gay" after I came out to him - but he already knew how. He told bad jokes. He spoke horrible Spanish. He washed the dishes every night.


There is a bench with his name on it in Central Park. I've never had the chance to visit it by myself. And I don't "talk" to him. But I miss him, and I'm going to let myself miss him. 




p.s. If you know my mother, pretend you never read this.
p.p.s My dad is the one saying "Run Lola Run" and I'm the one saying "The Breakfast Club"
http://www.errolmorris.com/content/shortfilms/oscarmovie.html

"You're tearing me apart!"

A few days ago I was starting to worry that my emotional and creative edge was slipping away again. I was feeling "good" and that scared me. How to define "good?" In my case I started thinking about quitting my non-drunk smoking, didn't listen to sad music, and felt motivated to do something other than mope. And I didn't like it. I told my therapist that I felt the drugs were kicking in and that I was getting concerned about the void coming back. She gave a logical suggestion: wait until I'm on the full dose before fully examining any numbing effects it might have on my soul. In short, I was feeling good and didn't necessarily like it. And why is that? Because I want to be a brooding lesbian! There, I said it! I want to be Jim Stark! Jim Stark was sexy and emotional and charming and lost. But while these characteristics would be attractive to people between the ages of 16 - 25, adults would find him unreliable, annoying, still lost and probably a crystal-meth junkie. 

It's a pathetic, childish aspiration. But going for a hike with a pack of smokes and a bottle of bourbon sounds pretty good right now - maybe even throw in a game of chicken. But I can't help but wonder if I want to be this person because it's a more accurate reflection of who I really am or who I'm really not?