Ah, Hello Mr Anger. Please do come in. We've been expecting you. Come on Come on. Don't be shy. Grief arrived weeks ago, and destitute has been with us since last weekend. We've been waiting on you and Abandonment, and he showed up last night.
Yes. I'm angry. I'm pissed off, sore and tired. But mostly angry. I feel like my Dad sodded off and left me to this world. To a place where my foundations are now shaken from under my feet, and as fast as I am grabbing at the sides of the sheer drop I'm plunging down, I cannot seem to find purchase. Its terribly unfair on the Old Man. I mean, he died of Brain and Lung Cancer after a stoic battle of 18 months. He went through chemo, twice. Never lost his hair, or his sense of humour. He fought on through veins exploding, a stomach shutting down, 3 operations, 4 transfusions..... I could go on but i shan't. That is a very crib notes version of what he went through. And yet..... i want to beat him about the head with a dead kipper for leaving me. Its unfair, its not his fault, and there was nowt he could do.
However. Even with this knowledge. It doesn't stop me rampaging about the place like a black weekend, with a face longer than a horse. It doesn't stop me waking up and bursting into frustrated tears. And it certainly doesn't stop me from rounding on those nearest and dearest to me, when they don't deserve it at all. I'm feeling proper sorry for myself. And then, I feel I shouldn't feel sorry for myself. That I should 'Man the heck up, cupcake' and square my shoulders and be all brave and strong. Because that is the way it is in my family. We tend to find pride in the martyring of oneself. Its seen as a badge of honour. Taking time out for yourself, to allow yourself to 'heal' is seen as a bad thing. As is admitting that you cannot cope. Looking bone tired, weary and stressed out, is seen as 'handling things well'. Encouragement to see a doctor is flatly refused, and 'soldiering on' is something to be proud of.
My Dad died on the 8th October which was a Saturday. I'd flown back from the south to Scotland on the Friday night. ON the Monday morning, I went straight back into work and did a full week with one day off on the Tuesday. By the Friday afternoon I was almost on my knee's from pushing myself physically and emotionally to my outer limits. It was quite possibly, one of the most stupidest things I have done. Everybody was shocked I was in. Except my relatives. Who were proud of this fact. And this is why I am mad at him. Because I feel like he has left me to deal with the plethora of family politics on my own. I've no one to phone up and swear at down the phone. I've no one to sit in a corner with, or have a fag outside with at family gatherings, where I don't fit, because I've not a degree, nor am I particularly affluent. I don't give a damn what's new at Marks and Spencers, and I don't read the Daily Mail. I read the I, because at least I'm not going to be told that everything will give me Cancer, and I am going to die next Tuesday because I don't drink enough milk and haven't give birth to any children.
AND IF ONE MORE PERSON SAYS HE HAD A GOOD INNINGS....... I swear down I will beat them to death with a standard lamp. Yes he was 72. Yes that's old in most people's books. Yes I understand that. But. I am only 31. And yes people have lost Fathers at an earlier age than me. IT DOESN'T MATTER. It makes it NO less painful because he was older. It makes the loss no more less devastating. I have still lost a parent. And down playing that is just insulting. Do you think that watching him struggle to breathe was easier because he was old? Hearing him sound like a coffee peculator was ok because he had lived a long time? No. It was terrifying. And soul destroying to know I could only sit and hold his hand, and choke on words that died in my throat because I was too frightened to speak. So no. He didn't have a good innings....you idiots.
*winds neck back In*
The trouble is. If I cave in and have a good cry, I feel I'm letting the side down terribly. But If I don't, I feel like I'm being disloyal to Dad by not acknowledging the grief, because it only hurts this much because I loved him so much. If I don't let it out, its like I am denying my Dad. But when I do, (notice the circular pattern here....) I feel I am being judged on my inability to cope. Normally I am not so easily swayed by what my family thinks of me. But I've had the rug pulled out from underneath my feet and I feel a bit like Bambi on ice. All legs a kimbo, and about as graceful as giraffe in swan lake. And I'm still pissed at him, for having no more battles to fight, but I still do.
Basically it boils down to this. I can talk the talk. And I can walk the walk. On the outside you will see a well put together, individual who seems to be able to tackle the world head on and heave it onto her shoulders. I've had it drummed into me to be strong. Dependable. Stoic. Brave. To not leave burdens on others doorsteps, and to say 'yes' even when my head is screaming 'no'. But inside? Well inside is a 5 year girl, who desperately desperately misses her Dada, with a heartache only those who have lost someone will truly know.
xxxxxx
