My Dad died tonight.
I haven’t cried yet. There have been tears, and one bought of wailing, but that all happened when he was still alive. When he still clung on through labored breaths.
I thought I was going to curl up and cry after I got off the phone. I talked to my Mom and a few of my friends. But as I got ready to go into a room and let it out, I suddenly didn’t want to go there. I couldn’t tap into that pain. Or, more likely, I didn’t want to. Instead I watched a television episode on NetFlix.
I know it’ll happen. Probably tomorrow. Maybe as I try to go to sleep tonight. I’m sitting on my bed right now typing.
Intrinsically, I knew this moment would happen. I knew there would come a time when I lived in a world where my father was dead. But even though I knew this, even though the gifts and tragedies of life are ever present, it doesn’t make their inevitable happenings any easier.
I keep reminding myself there is no set way to grieve. That if I need to make that phone call, if I need to go see a friend, if I need to close myself in a room and wail that’s okay. Looking at pictures of babies is okay. Playing offensive music is okay. Watching porn or imagining sexy things I want to do with people is all okay.
There is no chiseled in stone script for dealing with the loss of a parent. Just breathing, and eventually accepting, that no matter how much you want to stop time, how much you don’t want your reality to be true, life will continue to go on whether you can stand it or not.
So I’m going to bed now. I’ll wake up in the morning, study for my quiz, and go to class. I know my teachers’ would, if I asked, give me a pass, but I won’t give myself a pass. That’s not what I do. I find the time to wail in a room, collapsed down on the floor, screaming my pain into the ground. Then I settle my breathing, stand, and go on.
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