Reading me is like banging your head against the wall.

- Written on my flight back to Portland yesterday (6/29/09) -

I did it. At the time, I don’t know what else I could have done. I said goodbye to my dad this morning (for the last time?) and boarded a flight back to Portland. I left the man lying there, his future uncertain, and walked away, leaving a larger piece of my heart behind me with every step. I could feel the evidence of this as it almost got easier, the farther away from him that I got, like there was progressively, exponentially, less of it there to feel that raw, tearing pain. And now? Now it’s a vacuum. there is a dull ache that exists there in that space, but its an ache that’s akin to that “phantom” pain of which you hear amputees so often speak.

It’s ridiculous. I feel like a 12 year-old girl, pining over her lost “lover” – that popular kid who ditched her for her best friend because she was an easier lay. People lose loved ones all of the time – and I haven’t even yet lost anyone – but here I am, forcing you poor people to read my “woe-as-me” writings, wallowing like there’s no hope in the world.

I don’t really feel that way, like some poor sap, wallowing in his misery. But like I stated in a previous post, when I hurt, I hurt. I embrace the pain, talk about it, share it, and write about it. And I might drink a lot. Because that’s how I best deal with it. And what is a blog, if not a journal of sorts – albeit a publicly accessible one? So here it is, people, my whining, pining, and crying, shamelessly (shamefully?) displayed here for you to either peruse and possibly even get something out of, or to just be skipped over to see what the stalker-feeds are saying on Facebook.

It’s funny, though, what acute pain can do for my appreciation of all that is good in life. For instance, no matter what the outcome with my father, to be completely honest, I am thankful – giddy even – to have had this man a part of my life. Certainly, we’ve had some troubles (like two stubborn rams, repeatedly butting each other in the head, as rams are wont to do). But that’s what happens when parents do their job. They aren’t always the good guy. They aren’t always fun. And if they are either, then they’re likely to one day inform you – in front of a live studio audience – that they’ve been sleeping with your lover. Ain’t daytime television grand?

At the times of the worst pain in my life, the little things come into focus. Usually, these are the obvious (but not any less important for being so) things, like a roof over my head, a meal in my belly, or even the heat running on a cold winter night. I pass enough bodies huddled in a doorway on my walk to work in the morning to appreciate the validity of this. And quite often, at the forefront of such thoughts, are my parents. How else would I have made the steps in my life that have allowed me to afford such amenities on my own? Who else would have supported the decisions that I’ve made that haven’t been obvious and glaring fuck-ups? And, who else would have, at times, allowed me to make those more knuckleheaded decisions in hopes that this notoriously hard head of mine might actually absorb some sort of lesson – and then be there for me to help me to put the pieces back together.

When I tell you, any of you that continue to read my self-indulgent rantings (likely, you have nothing better to do, or you’re punishing yourself for some unnamed crime), that I am thankful – grateful to the depths of my core – of the options that have been made available to me, of the small comforts that I enjoy, and of those in my life that I call family and friends, you bet yer ass that I mean it.