Admission

At some point, you have to admit you are grieving. You have to take that long look in the proverbial mirror and say, "You're not crazy. You're not delusional. You're sad. You're hurting." And you have to listen to yourself say that and know that it's the first moment of being honest with yourself in a long while.

It's been 691 days since my dad passed away. I've been sad for 691 days. Yet the sadness can look so differently on any given day.  And if you asked me every day if I was sad, I wouldn't see that - not really. Grief is a weird beast like that. Sometimes the sadness comes in tears and an ache in my chest so tight I feel like someone is clenching my heart and lungs to smother me. (I'd be lying if I didn't admit that some days I wish that pain and sorrow would smother me.) Some days the sadness comes in the form of a sigh that maybe even no one else hears or notices. Some days it comes in a wave of laughter that crescendos beyond the noise in any room and then dwindles on an air of a descending scale of notes in the form of a sigh. That's how my dad laughed.  I have his laugh cadence. That detail: bittersweet.  I know he is always a part of me, but the laugh (along with the ability to turn a one-syllable curse word into three-syllables) is that tangible something we share. We shared.

For months now I have been struggling and searching. I haven't been "myself" in a long time. I know we change and that we are not always the same person; I get that. But what I am referring to is that I am missing some inherent aspect of who I am at the core. I wake up and go through the motions of every day, and if I keep myself busy with "activities," I get through those days with ease. Wake up, walk the dogs, pick up the dog's shit, shower, make breakfast, pack a lunch (if it's a work day), dress, put on make-up, debate what to wear, check the weather, decide on shoes, build the outfit around the shoes, drive to work, talk to Mom, talk to Marilyn, text friends, work, drive home, talk to Mom, walk the dogs, prep dinner, make dinner, eat dinner, walk the dogs, pick up dog shit, shower, watch TV, make a drink, make another drink, make another drink, take the dogs out, set the alarm, go to bed. The day-to-day activities (though mundane) give me a purpose and keep me on schedule. It's not a bad thing exactly. However, for the greater part of a year, I have been going through these mundane motions to avoid the journey of grief. Granted, I do now think this was in part because I just didn't know how to grieve. I'm not sure I have that answer now, but I've made the decision to actively try... the process and the journey that will work for me. (At first I wrote that previous sentence in parentheses, but reviewing it, I think it's a much more important sentence than something contained in parentheses.)

So, here we are.  A blog. That's my big epiphany of my journey of grief. My admission of grief. I am going to write a blog. Maybe you will read it; maybe you won't. Maybe you'll only read it when you are sitting on your toilet and you see nothing better to captivate your attention while you take care of your business. In truth, it doesn't matter. What matters is that I find an outlet. And that the outlet gives me a purpose. The purpose for me is to uncover my emotional saga of mourning my father and to discover the person hiding under this sorrow (and anger). Correction - to rediscover ... because I believe I'm still there. I've just gotten a little lost.

And yes, Dad; I know you aren't thrilled about sharing my business with the world. But you should know, Dad, I'm just trying to share YOU with the world and what you mean to me. I think the world would shine a little brighter if it had you in it again; I know my world would. Go ahead and sigh and shake your head, Dad. Me and my hard-headed self will write this blog even if it's just for me. That's what counts: Bettering myself again. Finding a way through the sadness and grief to the hope that I've hidden.

So here we go... fragments and all. It's how I write when it's introspective. If you choose to read the installments to come, you get rambling, fragments, ellipses, dashes, run-ons.... and you'll get a very strong sense of my journey - the good, the bad, and the ugly, no doubt. When I was aggravated with a particular aspect in my life, Dad would remind me, "You know, Lizzie, sometimes you gotta get through the shit to get to the good stuff." Consider this your warning; it's time to get through the shit! (And I hope Dad is right and the good stuff is on the other side.)