Me Big. You Little.

Desiree Burch is bigger and badder than you. Except when she's smaller and better (with more parentheticals than you can handle).

Friday, May 06, 2005

Feeling like burnt Pop Tarts

It has been a rough-ass week by anyone's standards. I hope you agree, because I can't stand it when people disagree with me. It makes me feel less powerful. Like I want to kill.

So to start off, my superwoman image is dwindling to shit. I cannot get by on idea(l)s. I need to learn to take care of myself. It is paramount! No one else is going to do it, and as well all convalesce into older (and older (and older)) people, we must remember that we need caretakers.

And I need more than 4 hours of sleep a night to be a human being--much less presentable.

My best friend's father died this week. Suddenly. Tragically. One of those healthy sporty middle aged men who couldn't wake up and walk around unless they were biting life by the balls at all times. It is an antiquated and distinguished version of virility that I miss here in Metrosexopolis. But I digress... I just don't know what to do with this information. Being only an addendum to this truly wonderful family (that has always treated me like I was one of them--moreso than my own family at times) it seems so difficult for my mourning to be legitimate. I'm just a friend who finds it terribly sad, in the end. I can take no part in the family's mourning. All I can do is feel nauseated for a few days and picture his face every five (or so) minutes. Like a PowerPoint montage of memories I have of his life, who he was... to these people, to me, to the world--and then try to imagine that some how that no longer exists. And try to figure out what that means.

I haven't experienced a lot of death in my life. At least not at a lacerating proximity. A grandfather when I was eight. A college friend who was close enough to leave memories on everything I know she touched, but not enough to truly eviscerate. A couple of dogs throughout the years. That one weird new girl that I was kind of friends with for two weeks for the six months she spent in our 4th grade class. That is about it. I'm really lucky. Or actually, knowing the tendencies of my life, just a late bloomer. I know I am coming to that age where life is really happening to me and people I know. People are starting to get married, having children and diseases, dying and getting promotions, fame and debt. I know that I am getting to the place where I have bad knees, bunions, eczema on my right foot, sporadic liver inflammation, raised blood pressure, and seemingly ever more errant hairs growing out of my chest, my right shoulder, the middle of my neck. Not to mention repeated acute tonsillitis. Does anyone know a doctor? I could use a deal. And a date.

So I don't really know what to do when it occurs. My heart never connects with my head in those instances. I don't know if anyone's does. The most excruciating parts of these events leave me feeling utterly removed from my body; the world. And the smallest details tear a heart string. It's like 8th grade, and loosing my bloody mind one morning after burning the last two strawberry Pop Tarts (those little buggers are good. Don't get between me and a Pop Tart). Those are the moments of true emotion in my life.

So I don't know how to respond to all of this, how to mourn or deal with this. As my friend Dave B. says, "There is no protocol." It's a good thing to remember for life in general, for those like me, who grew up with the weight of believing that there was a certain way that everything was supposed to be done, and life supposed to be lived. For those of you who know your old maxims, we can equate supposing with assuming. Try to do that all your life and it will make an ass out of you. Or a "sup." Since I hadn't seen this man in months, he is still just as good as alive to me. In fact, he's one of the most "alive" people I know, by classic standards. But he's not. I know this. I have learned this. I have not seen or experienced this though. So all I can do is to begin to stamp all of my memories of him with "deceased." With some kind of tinted frame, or the yellow of old newspaper, and as time goes on, await his absence.

But let me not get too sentimental with all this. I was thinking that one of the worst parts about having someone in your family die, or at least, one of the many bad parts, is then having to console all of the people who come to console you. Having to get hugs and convoluted condolences from people you have not seen in years, on purpose, who are snotting on your shoulders, telling you that they want to be there for you, when really you just don't want anyone to touch you, much less someone you spend no time talking to anyway. I mean, yes, we all mean well, but sometimes to do well, just shut the fuck up and back the fuck off. There are few things worse than a barrage of unwanted hugs, particularly from women who probably spend the rest of their time listing your faults.

And though I love my friend, and she loves me, I am going to focus my helpful energy on being around when she needs me to be, and making myself scares when she needs to be alone. It is rarely difficult or demeaning to make yourself a thing for someone else when you love them. You know there is no loss of respect for yourself. It's not a power issue. You are not being taken for granted. In sex, and other forms of aggressive interpersonal interaction, there is generally an awareness of the power status, a Who Owes Who table being kept. But love is a big joint bank account that's always best when you're just breaking even. Oh God, embroider that on a pillow why don't you?

Dude, who invented this blogging thing where I can write on and on to no one... just rambling until the Lord comes. It's so dangerous. All these little shards of truth coming out mingling with my embarrassments.


At 3:30 AM, Blogger motherofpug said...

des. you are supersmart and amazing. i love you and i hate this week for being so lame to you and your poor friend. if you ever die i'm going to kill myself.


Post a Comment

<< Home