U Ok

According to what everyone says ---and, truly, everyone says so---, loss is supposed to get easier with time. Wounds are sewn up, tears dry, people heal. But the more I think about the future (my future), the more difficult it becomes to do so.

My dad has been gone for just more than a month, and with time, my sadness has only changed, not lessened. A month ago, I was in shock and denial, mixed, I suppose, with anger and frustration. But now, I have truly begun to understand just was loss is.

My dad is never going to see me graduate from Marquette. He's not going to be there when I buy a house, and he won't be able to live in the basement with Thunder 3 like we always joked about. I'm never going to be able to give him another useless, crappy Father's Day gift that he would inevitably bitch about. He's never going to call me at 9:00am on my birthday again. I'll never receive another birthday check or another Christmas present, and we won't be able to go out to eat and complain about my grandmother's potatoes on Thanksgiving. And sometimes I just don't know how I can face all of these holidays, and all of these important life events, without him there. (Right now is one of those times.) I already post pictures to facebook with a certain twinge of sadness and regret because he won't be able to make a snarky comment about them; how can I ever possibly graduate without him there?!

I wish I could say it makes me angry that he won't be there. Anger is easy; anger takes no effort. Sadness is draining. Sorrow makes me want to stay in bed all day and makes me not care about my schoolwork or my teaching; makes me not care about, well, anything. Days like today take a Herculean effort; an amount of effort that is both draining and exhausting. And days like today come out of nowhere, and are prompted by the smallest of instances.

I just can't recover from this intense feeling of loneliness. My mom hasn't contacted me since her immature scene at the wake, and obviously my dad is no longer there to send me a worried, drunken instant message: "u ok," he would say. No, I'm just not okay. Not today.

Feats of Strength

On Monday, I had my first real emotional breakdown since the funeral. It was quick and unexpected, and truly seemed to come out of nowhere. One minute I was calmly watching TV on the couch; the next, I was crying my eyes out on the living room floor. My sadness physically hurt in a way that seems indescribable. I have never experienced loss as I experienced it on Monday night.

I know last time I wrote, I said that I was surprised by how I could no longer relate to anyone. I hate to be redundant, but I am also surprised by how sudden grief is. While I have learned to live with sadness as an everyday companion, I have not yet learned how to deal with true and utter grief.

I am, by nature, a strong person. Everyone keeps reminding me of this; everyone tells me that I am "strong and will get through this." For me, there is no question as to whether or not I will get through it (what is my other option, after all?), but I am honestly tired of hearing about my feats of strength. I'm struggling with how to put this into words, but I don't mean to say that I am attempting to put on a certain face because I want people to perceive me a certain way; it's nothing like that. I simply don't have the benefit to be grieving all of the time. I am a teacher, and I have to put on my teaching persona every Mondays, Wednesdays, and Friday. Likewise, I have classes every day of the week, and I do not want to come to school a blubbering mess. It is, then, by force of habit and will that I get up out of bed and appear "fine." It is a job requirement, for lack of a better word.

But I am not fine, and I am okay with that. I am also trying my hardest not to be a "White": a White, as my dad always said, does not deal with his or her problems, and pushes them down until they become forgotten. But I think being a White is what killed my dad, and I don't want to do that; not with this. It's just hard, sometimes, not to brush everything off with a laugh and a smile.

It's all (Not) Relative

One of the most surprising things about grief is how difficult it has become to relate to other people.

Truthfully, I am not the most... how shall I say... social advantageous of girls. I am awkward, and I don't make friends easily. I'm usually invited to various events and gatherings, but I tend to avoid them: not because I am shy or dislike my friends, but because I know there will be alcohol. I drink sometimes, but I have a mental block against being in a large group of people, surrounded by liquor. The smell of it reminds me of so many bad moments, and I simply can't do it. For me, it's not about just not drinking, it's about not exposing myself to the smell; to the atmosphere; to the inevitable drunkenness. The mere thought makes me melancholy.

As a result, I haven't had a large group of friends since high school. Both undergraduate and graduate student culture is centered around drinking (or at least meeting in bars), and so I have had to distance myself. It's lonely sometimes, but I truly enjoy staying at home with my husband and my dog. Some of my favorite moments of the last two years have been spent simply snuggling on the small couch with the two of them.

Yet, since my dad's passing, I have found it increasingly difficult to relate to anyone (besides my husband), because I have it in my head that no one understands what I am going through. And I know I am not the first person to lose a parent, and I am not the first person to lose someone she loved very, very much. I can just no longer comprehend things that used to matter to me so much. I hear my students complain about having to wake up for an 8:00am chemistry class, and I wish with all of my heart that such a problem was mine. All of my friends in school right now are busy studying for our Master's Exam (a test I have had to push back by six months because I could not imagine taking it right now), and I envy their stress and worry. I wish I could take the test; I wish I could graduate with them, but I can't do it. I just don't have it in me.

Perhaps more than anything, I wish I could go back to the person I was when I was planning my wedding. I made myself sick with worry and stress over things that seem so insignificant now. I would give my world to worry about having four bridal party members drop out... instead of having to face all this.

I don't mean to say that all of these complaints I have mentioned aren't legitimate concerns: they certainly are, and I am not trying to insult anyone I may know who might stumble across this thing. I just wish we could trade places: not forever, but just for a moment.

Becoming Cinderella

Up until 3 weeks ago, I always closely identified  with Belle out of all the Disney princesses. While I might not be a "beauty," I am certainly what could be called a "funny girl." When I walked home from school in the eighth grade, I would read a book as I went. I have brown hair, and I married a man with longish sandy colored hair and blue eyes (but I wouldn't exactly call him a "Beast"). I am an only child, and I grew up living with just my dad.

But, you see, my dad died 3 weeks ago. One week after my beautiful wedding in Walt Disney World. The day I returned from my honeymoon.

Suddenly, I was thrown into a realm of which I knew nothing, and I still don't know how to process everything I have been feeling. People ask me "how I am doing" and if I am "okay," and while I appreciate their concern, I hate their questions: because the truth is, I am not okay, and I am unsure if I will ever be again. I am no longer the bookworm brunette who lives with her crazy dad. My crazy dad is gone, and I can't use a magical handheld mirror to see him again.

Instead, I have fashioned myself into a Cinderella of sorts: I have been lucky enough to marry my Prince Charming, but like her, my father died far before his time, and far too young. My dad was able to give me away at my wedding; hers, not so much. When I have moments of quiet, like when I walk my dog Smokey, I find myself wondering if she thought about her dad on her wedding day: in Disney's movie, we see her kiss the King on the forehead. Does she wish he were her own father?

And no, I don't have an Evil Stepmother: but I do have a mother who sent me a text message 15 hours before my ceremony telling me she decided to go to Chicago instead and she wouldn't be attending. So that must count for something.

I want to make this perfectly clear: I don't mean to trivialize my grief by relating it to a Disney movie. Disney is now inexplicably tied with my dad's death: The last time I saw him was at Walt Disney World, the day after my wedding (at a character breakfast with Mickey Mouse, no less). Disney World is now not only the place where I turned 21; the place where my husband asked me to marry me; and the place where we eventually said our "I do's," but also the place where I saw my daddy for the final time. It is a place full of memories, both bitter and sweet,  and I cannot mention my dad without tying it to Disney. (Of course, the irony is that my dad absolutely hated Walt Disney World... but more on that later.)

I have created this blog, then, not as an attention grab or a cry for attention, but as a way to develop and work through so many of my feelings that have arisen due to my dad's passing. I am awful at keeping a journal, but I have typically been better at keeping a blog. I hope this works, and I hope this helps.