Unfiltered grief thoughts:
I have done an insane amount of personal writing during the last 5 years.
Twelve diaries. There are thousands of pages of “burgeoning woman” observations, tribulations, banalities, and (of course) man stories all packaged up in a neat little square.
These thousands of pages are proof that my life happened. I trust my freshly recorded words more than my memories. The truth is important to me.
Yet sometimes I only see “reality” in retrospect.
My dad, may he goofball around in heaven in peace (he is not resting… lol) was sharp as hell. As adults, our relationship was drama free 95% of the time. I don’t have a ton of regrets with him.
But a couple of years ago he became irritated with me - not an “argument”, but he told me that I had misplaced priorities. I knew he was right.
When I read my old diaries, I see that even more. I wish I had written in more detail about family memories and less about dieting, my dissatisfaction with myself, petty work drama, and a few men that ended up being either pathetic or creepy.
Fucking WHOOPS?!
Towards the end of his life, my dad told me I was a strong person. I was taken aback, but knew it had to be true. If he wanted to just say something nice to me in his final days to give me a happy memory, he could have said I was a kind person. He chose strong.
There were many horrors in my personal life that he did not know about. Perhaps he guessed. Perhaps he knows now. Who can say?
As one of my favorite songs goes: “I know it. I can’t feel it. But I know it enough to believe it.”
I feel it and believe it now. I’m hurting but am still able to work and laugh some.
I told him I got my strength from him. This was a common theme in many of our final conversations. I’m grateful for those talks.
I have to keep going. I have to be intentional about where I end up. Solidify my own standards. Dream, hope, and love even more.
Live through this. ❤️
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