randomness

Calming things are so few and far between right now, it seems almost like I can’t find anything that can ease the pain of my heart. Ease it like a painkiller, sooth it like a mother’s touch on a feverish forehead.

I’m disillusioned. I’m seeing things that aren’t there. Hearing things that aren’t making noise. Remembering things that have no relevance.

Why didn’t anyone tell me I’m going crazy? Why didn’t they warn me that a major “side-effect” to my “sickness” is going crazy? I go to the doctor’s, I ask them, “Is everything alright with me? I haven’t been feeling the best lately, I know my own body, and I know something’s really wrong.”

Their answer, the same as ever. “You’re in perfect health.” No, no I’m not. Are random breakdowns, uncontrollable tears, sleepless nights, stomach ulcers and migraines perfect health?

“We used to laugh a lot, but only because we thought, that everything good would remain.” (Jack Johnson, Mudfootball.)

I’m not taking the time to sit down, take a breather from life and think. And when I do, I can’t stop, and then my thoughts consume me.

It’s that feeling, like a chocking feeling in your throat, not quite tears, not quite in need of the Heimlich. It’s a choking feeling, of your soul escaping. Through it all, through everything that’s been going on, maybe I’m not sick. Maybe the doctors just can’t detect a missing soul.

Dad called me tonight. He makes me so sad, not angry or anything from talking to him, and he doesn’t like beat me down or anything to make me sad. He just makes me so sad. It’s bad enough one of his marriages fell apart, but two? He seems to think it’s him, and that it all has to do with the choices he’s made. Maybe it does a bit. I bet if I were a newlywed, I wouldn’t much like my husband jetting off to foreign countries about once a month, and not taking me. Hell, I hate it now. I wish for once he would call me, take me with him. It’s just like when I was a little girl, crying as he went to work. I wanted him to take me with him everywhere.

He listens to the sad music, talks low and sad, says how much he misses me and lissa. Like I wrote in “Losing It,” though, sometimes saying, “I miss you,” Isn’t good enough. It will never be good enough for me. Saying, “I miss you dad,” Isn’t going to bring him home.

Sometimes I just sit down, and take a breather and look into my life from an imaginary window. I see myself sitting there, gasping for air, reliving things in my mind. I miss dad so much, with everything. I lost him, but I’ve permanently lost him too. Because although I say, “I miss you,” It doesn’t bring him back. It doesn’t undo what I did that night.

Then I see myself little again. I’m six years old and hiding in the closet with lissa in pillowcases. Mom and dad are yelling so loud, but I can still hear them over Melissa’s crying. I can hear things breaking, I can hear doors slamming, mom screaming. They always came into our room. They always dragged us out of our only comfort, the closet. Even though we were young, and only knew that “daddy was hurting mommy,” they made us feel like judges and like we had to hear their whole fight, then decide who was right and who was wrong.

Then it’s the next day. Mom’s passed out on the couch, thanks to some heavy drinking the night before. Dad’s left for work “early” because he doesn’t want to “deal” with my crying. I was always crying at the beginning. But I had to grow up. I had to stop crying, so I could be there for lissa while she cried. I had to grow up so that I could take care of her. I had to change her diapers and make our beds and clean our rooms. I had to get wet cloths for mom’s bruises.

I grew up so fast. I see myself now, and I feel like I lost my whole damn childhood being a surrogate mother to my sister. I see how other people see me through a window. They have no idea the struggles we faced. And if I were to try and describe them, they wouldn’t be able to understand.
Sometimes I think mom and dad divorcing was the best thing that ever happened.

But I feel so lost.