Tuesday January 24, 2012
I can’t fucking sleep now.
I’ve been tossing and turning for several hours -- been thinking about my dad getting hit by that car ever since reliving it a few hours ago. I never realized how guilty I felt about the whole thing. I mean, just moments before he was killed, I’d been wishing that he’d go away, die.
And I suddenly had this memory of standing over his dead body and laughing a bit. Laughing, because when I looked at his dead body I was thinking that this couldn’t be my father. He didn’t have a pipe sticking out of his breast pocket and I couldn’t smell that musky pipe scent on him at all.
So I just stood there laughing. And that’s how they found me -- standing over my father’s dead body and laughing.
I never realized that I must have repressed the whole thing. I only remembered it after regurgitating the memory of my father getting hit by that car.
Yes. “Repressed” -- It’s a fun word -- the guidance counselor at school has used it a few times when I’ve been speaking with him. I’ve been visiting him regularly lately -- gee, I think I’ve been repressing those visits, although I do find them helpful. We don’t often talk about Sarah or the whole “death” thing, he often helps me just by listening to me talk about my day. Occasionally, the conversation will drift towards Sarah or the many different people in my life who have died. But mostly it’s distracting conversation.
I’d never admit this to him, but it’s actually helpful.
I wish that I could talk to him about this feeling of guilt, this repressed feeling that I just uncovered.
But instead I’m stuck with the coping technique he’d suggested -- write about it in my journal.
So much happened so quickly after my father died. I was moved away from most of my friends in Sudbury, sent to live with my Uncle Bob and Aunt Shelley in the small town of Levack. They’ve been raising me ever since -- they’re really good parents, actually. Maybe they’ve always been extra nice to me because they couldn’t have kids of their own and they felt sorry for what had happened to me. But in any case, it’s been good being their son.
Uncle Bob taught me how to fish, how to hunt -- we often went out in his boat, on camping trips. And Aunt Shelly has always been good to me. Loving and supportive, but not at all imposing or restrictive. She’s been protective, but also gave me my space when I needed it, let me have my freedom.
Of course, I’d never admit to them how good it’s been. It’s been years since we’ve been able to talk to each other, years since Uncle Bob and I have gone on a hunting or fishing trip together.
I miss that closeness, but I find that they annoy me and get on my nerves so easily these days.
at 3:58 AM