Human Emotions


loss This past weekend I spent a good deal of time with C. discussing matters.  The good thing about C. and I is that we have a friendship in which there appears to be few if no boundaries that exist.  So I can say what’s on my mind about almost anything and likewise for her.  Because of this we have rather deep and insightful conversations about a variety of topics that I would probably never discuss with others.  I guess in a sense you could say that she keeps me grounded, with  my feet firm to reality.  Yes, my brain goes off in weird tangents and experiences illogical thoughts, but she’ll listen without judgment until finally breaking out her ‘well…’ and advice that I’d be best to heed.

I’ve been mulling around a post in my head since the weekend, when I had an epiphany about the whole S/chaos situation.  That was the intention of my next blog topic (to be chronicled when I woke up in the morning) but instead I find myself tossing and turning over something entirely different.

As indicated in an earlier post, things with S have skipped over the cool period and gone right down to purely frigid.  I’m not entirely sure how to take this any more, seeing as how we are supposed to be friends and now we barely speak.  Especially considering the last time we spent time together we seemed to get along great.  I’ll never understand the male psyche, so I don’t know why I even bother trying to analyze why men act the way that they do.

I heard from an outside party that apparently S is undergoing some kind of family emergency .. at least that was the terminology I think she used.  And now I’m rather torn on what exactly is an appropriate action to follow; part of me wants to send him an email indicating that I hope things are okay and that if he wishes to talk I’d be willing to listen.  But another part of me wants to respect his space and not push.  With any of my other friends the former approach would be the one I would follow, but with him he’s just so impossible to read.  And though I am gradually working myself back out of my liking of him, it’s still not completely gone.  So I guess in a sense this situation is bothering me more than it would if it was most other people.  I greatly dislike the feeling of being helpless, but at the same time I dislike even more the idea of looking like a fool.  And since I never know what page I am on with him, my attempt to be a friend and reach out might be misinterpreted.  I’m not being nosy, or trying to wiggle my way into the drama.  I frankly could care less about what is going on, except for the concern that he’s doing okay.  I wouldn’t wish family gloom on to anyone, yet alone someone I care about or call a friend.

The other can of worms that this has opened is vulnerability on my end.  While I am female and thus somewhat emotional, I like to consider myself more rational and emotionally detached than most of my gender.   But hearing the term ‘family emergency’ always equates in my brain to something happening to a loved one.  Either they are very sick, or dying, or dead, or suffering from some form of unpleasant and draining business.  I cannot recall of a single ‘family emergency’ in my life that did not result in one of the above situations.  When going to bed tonight I laid there, sprawled out on my back in the dark with the five hundred thoughts going through my head keeping me awake.  ‘Is he okay? Is his family okay?  What kind of emergency? Should I see if he’s okay?  Should I just butt out?  What if someone died?  What if he needs someone to talk to?  He has other people to talk to, he doesn’t need to talk to me.  But what if he does?’ .. and so on and so forth.  And eventually my brain wrapped itself around to the idea that perhaps something happened to his father, which immediately turned into the idea of something happening to my father.  At which point I found myself in a very bad psychological place.

I have and will forever be a daddy’s girl, and my siblings often quip about the fact that I am my father’s favorite.  Though he frequently says he has no favorites, and loves us all for our own ways, I guess I see some truth in it.  My father is proud of all of his kids, and would bend over backwards for all of them.  But he has stated on occasion that I am the one he worries about the least because he knows I can take care of myself.  He is proud of what I have accomplished, and that I struck out on my own instead of playing it safe close to home.  He admits that yes, he wishes I were closer and could see me more, but understands I need to follow my own path.  My stepmother says he was always happiest when I was at home and looks forward to my monthly visits and weekly calls.  If I go a week without calling, he always notices.

The irony in all of this is the fact that I visit home so often to see my father.  Sometimes we do things together, and other times we just lounge on the couch watching golf (a sport which I hate, and never hesitate to remind him that I endure solely out of love for him) or playing around on our laptops while sitting across from one another at the table.  There is a connection between my father and I that I could never share with my mother.  My  mother and I are like fire and gasoline, and it feels constantly like walking on eggshells with her.  It wasn’t always like this, but it has gradually become this way over the past 15 years.  With her I tread carefully about sharing intimate details of my life in case they will be used against me later.  With my father, I avoid telling him certain things because I’m afraid of disappointing him.

I remember after the dissolution of my relationship with my ex awhile back visiting my father, and I spent most of the weekend curled up on the couch with my ipod buds shoved deep in my ears as to avoid human contact.  While everyone else in my family tried to engage me in conversation and cheer me up, he just left me alone.  Only on the last day, a few hours before I left did he come and sit next to me, wrapped his arms around me and kissed my forehead and told me he loved me.  And he held me while I cried, releasing everything I had been holding in for the two days prior.  And after I was done, he reached over and grabbed the tv remote, turning it on to golf, all the while keeping his arm around me and holding me close.

My father may not know me like some people, but he understands me on a level that few ever will.  And because of this while laying in bed tonight, when this thought slid into my mind it just crippled me.  My eyes burned and started to water, and I could feel my limbs trembling as I tried not to cry.  The loss of my father would devastate me.  I am quite certain it would push me into a catatonic state that I would never recover from completely.  While I love my family and all within it with a severe passion, the loss of none of them would rival that of my paternal figure.  And this scares me, that just the thought of the loss can transform my mood so easily.

And then I wonder how I would deal with it.  When my grandmother passed away a few years ago, the news of that hit me very very hard.  I didn’t sleep the night I found out, and just laid there in bed bursting into random fits of hysteria and tears.  My boyfriend tried his best to calm me, but nothing worked.  I was extremely close to her, and the loss hit me hard.  I remember laying in bed until the sun came up, then grabbing my stuff and leaving directly from his house for my father’s.  The drive was a complete blur, and I’m still not sure how I made it there.  I pulled into my father’s driveway, got out of the car and walked into the house.  My sisters were on the couch, just sitting there.  I laid down, resting my head against my sister’s lap.  And we all just sat there in silence until I finally fell asleep.

My boyfriend expressed a lack of desire to come to the funeral or the wake, and when it was 1am on Friday and he still was dragging his heels on whether to come or not I just snapped.  I did the horribly predictable thing of guilt tripping him, about how if his grandfather had died I would have been there that minute.  I told him that if he didn’t come our relationship would never fully recover from it, from his inability to see that I needed him and his unwillingness to help me.  I hung up on him and didn’t sleep that night.  At 6:30am my cell rang, and he told me he was in the driveway.   He fell asleep as soon as he got there, having driven all night.  And in a way I appreciated that, but it was rather bittersweet since I knew ultimately he didn’t want to be there.

The relevance of all this history?  Because it’s gotten me wondering what would happen to me if something happened to my father.  I have no boyfriend, I have no support system outside of my family.  I have friends, but it’s never the same as the bond you share with a partner.  Or not even a partner exactly, but just someone that you feel close to.  And here is what I realized, laying in bed tonight — if I was to imagine who I want to console me, or even just be there if I needed someone … well I guess the answer to this is predictable.  It’s psychotic and wrong and absolutely abhors me to admit it to myself because of me trying to break the cycle .. it is what it is.

When things ended with my ex, and I found myself in my little depressed bubble of doom, S was the only person who tried to make me laugh.  And it wasn’t him being a dork, or being ignorant to the state that I was in .. he just wanted to make me laugh, smile, or at least feel happy for a bit.  Even if it enraged me, and resulted in someone telling him I needed space, he gave it a try.  After the talk he gave me my space.  He checked to see if I was doing okay a few days later, and I said yes.  He told me he’d give me a few more days anyway, and that made me smile.   So I guess in a way the guy knows me somewhat.  Not a shred as much as my father, and not anywhere near as well as C, but he does a bit.  So I guess for me if I was in a messed up situation and wanted someone to make me feel better, that person might be him, and I feel like I should try and make some effort …. bah.

This is such a screwed up situation.  I hate my brain.

“There is a thin line between genius and insanity. I have erased this line.” — Oscar Levant


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