Sometimes the beginning of a story happens at the end. Everyday that we get up and participate in our life we write more of our own story. We alone are responsible for its content and meter. My rhythm was recently interrupted by a ripple I never saw coming. One chapter ends and a new one begins. In a good read, chapters are often ways for an author to tie up loose ends or introduce a new plot twist or a dangerous and suspicious evil character. Who will I be for the next chapter in my story? Am I a damsel in distress? or a damsel in a dress? or am I damsel at all?
In my lifetime I have had numerous people tell me they “know” me. What I like, how I react, when my mood swings…You know the type of person I am talking about, right? Funny thing is some days I don’t know myself. So how in the world do smug pricks always think they have the plug-in for what I am feeling or what it is that I will be doing next, when I am not sure myself?
I am just getting home after work, from my Jeep I can tell the mailman has made his rounds blessing my homestead with the unwanted littering of ads. Maybe there will be some mail I might need. I never expected his death certificates to be amongst the upcoming grocery sales. The envelope is simply stamped city clerk’s office from the city where I live. Holding it in my hands I feel my soul begin to shrink in on itself. I feel nervous and anxious. I know he is gone. So why does this envelope make me feel so empty? and lost?
A new chapter begins where another ends. I make the rounds to the places that need confirmation from this envelope of finality. Social Security office, the administration office that manages his pension, the IRS, the Registry of Motor Vehicles, the list is lengthy. My anxiety begins to mount and suddenly I am crying full steam ahead in the arms of a complete stranger. WTH? Cathartic and horrifying. Healing, because for the first time I am feeling his loss, horrifying because now this stranger thinks I am a little crazy. Just wonderful! I call my hubby from my vehicle. I am hyperventilating. The sadness of my Dad’s passing finally slapping me so hard I am struggling to stay focused. No one wants to happen upon someone in the midst of hysterics. I want to run away from myself but I can’t. No matter which way I turn or run reality is still there patiently waiting for my acceptance. I am learning to adult better but I am afraid.
Thanksgiving is fast approaching. I don’t feel thankful. I am depressed and angry. It’s very hard for me to tell any one when I am feeling less than stellar. There is a long history in my immediate family associated with depression. Depression comes with stigma. A heavy necklace of doom you are tasked to wear. I hate it. I hate everything about it. Depression lies. Its voices penetrating my soul in places I DO NOT like to linger in for too long. We all struggle. No one is happy and well adjusted all the time.
Not knowing the answer to questions I have always had makes me more anxious. I am on the journey of my life. I no longer have a mother or a father that I can bounce questions off of. There is no one left who knows every little thing about me: all of my secrets, my loves, my hates, my ambitions, my loneliness, how I got the scar in my eyebrow. There is no one left to reminisce with about the good ole days gone by. I lost so much more than my Dad. I lost the last link to my history.