20 October 2015
Quick thought.
Someone at work actually asked me today to describe what it physically feels like when I'm on one of my downward swings, as far as my depression and everything. I really didn't know what to say, because every day is different. Today it feels like there's a beehive in my head, just thousands of thoughts slamming into each other with none taking hold for more than a few moments. Other days my joints feel like they are trying to burst through my skin. Many days I'm just blank. I think nothing, I do nothing, I feel nothing.
14 October 2015
Only By Being Prepared For Your Death Can You Ever Truly Live.
Grief is one weird mother fucker. It's kind of crazy, the things that pop in your head (well, my crazy ass fucked up head) when someone dies.
My dad had a friend that died about a week and a half ago. He was 48, actually closer in age to me than to my dad. He was someone I was always genuinely happy to see, because he gave the impression that he absolutely loved life, and he was just always fun to talk to. There was not one single conversation that I ever had with him where I felt bored, not one conversation I wished would end early.
He gave the impression he loved life. In the end, that's all it was. A false impression. He battled depression daily, and in the end he took his own life.
The single biggest thing my dad's friend and I had in common was our love of reading. We both loved Stephen King (although I haven't read a single one of his books since the Dark Tower series came to an end). We could sit at a bar, out in my dad's garage, or wherever, and just talk about books.
The last time I saw him was at the big cookout/bonfire that my dad had in August. Of course we talked about books. He told me about a book he'd just finished called Dream London. I told him about the new Christopher Moore book, about how he'd become my favorite contemporary author (nobody will ever surpass Poe, for me) and about some of his other books I thought he'd enjoy.
I didn't get to go to the funeral. I had to work. I didn't get to say goodbye to my dad's friend. To my friend. I'll never get to tell him what I thought about Dream London, which I went out and bought this past Monday. I'll never get to hear what he thought about Christopher Moore.
I hope he has found peace. I'm sorry he couldn't find it sooner.
Title is from A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore
My dad had a friend that died about a week and a half ago. He was 48, actually closer in age to me than to my dad. He was someone I was always genuinely happy to see, because he gave the impression that he absolutely loved life, and he was just always fun to talk to. There was not one single conversation that I ever had with him where I felt bored, not one conversation I wished would end early.
He gave the impression he loved life. In the end, that's all it was. A false impression. He battled depression daily, and in the end he took his own life.
The single biggest thing my dad's friend and I had in common was our love of reading. We both loved Stephen King (although I haven't read a single one of his books since the Dark Tower series came to an end). We could sit at a bar, out in my dad's garage, or wherever, and just talk about books.
The last time I saw him was at the big cookout/bonfire that my dad had in August. Of course we talked about books. He told me about a book he'd just finished called Dream London. I told him about the new Christopher Moore book, about how he'd become my favorite contemporary author (nobody will ever surpass Poe, for me) and about some of his other books I thought he'd enjoy.
I didn't get to go to the funeral. I had to work. I didn't get to say goodbye to my dad's friend. To my friend. I'll never get to tell him what I thought about Dream London, which I went out and bought this past Monday. I'll never get to hear what he thought about Christopher Moore.
I hope he has found peace. I'm sorry he couldn't find it sooner.
Title is from A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore
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