I can’t find the energy to do laundry so I’m going to write in here for a bit until the energy magically appears.
As you could probably tell from my Big Dramatic Post, I had a bit of a shit weekend. There were some really fun bits: the park with Kayley and Liam, the housewarming at Emily and Jamie’s, the Tate with Jazza and bus rides with Marion. Even typing that though reminds me of when you feel horrible and everyone points to things in your life and says “why? You have people who love you and a roof over your head and a job and a world of opportunity”. But that doesn’t help. That just makes me feel shittier and more ungrateful. It’s oddly also similar to when you admit you’re unhappy and everyone seems to think that’s impossible because you smile all the time.
This evening I took on our back garden: got rid of the Christmas tree dying in the corner; got rid of leaves sitting there since autumn; stomped all over huge weeds, snapped them and threw them away. Then I deep cleaned the living room, scoured the oven, made the surfaces ~sparkle~ and took on the bathroom sink. All the while listening to Sleigh Bells, all the while thinking of dad.
I have often mentioned how one of the most difficult things about everything with dad is the fact that we were at a total impasse when he died. We did not get along. Every conversation we had was a big fight, but our conversations were few and far between. I envy my sisters, who were past that and who gladly helped in the garden with my parents. Honestly…I just hated being around him a lot of the time. It’s a terrible thing to say. But he made me feel small and sad and the fact that we couldn’t talk made me feel guilty and I knew everyone blamed me for that, for whatever reason. Not trying hard enough. Always contrary. Angry. Selfish. Stubborn. Whatever.
And now I’m older and I voluntarily spend time on my patio and I wonder how long it would have taken for us to passe that impasse. For us to be okay spending time around one another. For me to return his emails with news articles or for us to sit and talk about my writing. For us to behave like people who loved each other, rather than people who couldn’t stand to breathe the same air.
I often get stuck on the “they don’t understand” but really…I don’t understand. And the main thing I don’t understand is not why he had a stroke but why we were the way we were with each other and why I always felt like he hated me.