uglyreal

3 and almost a half months later, this is what I have to tell you….

It doesn’t get better.

I wish I could tell you it does. But it doesn’t. Because he still isn’t here. And it just doesn’t get better.

I wish I could tell you it gets easier. But it doesn’t. Because he still isn’t here. And it just doesn’t get easier.

People try to tell you that time heals. It doesn’t.

Time dulls. But it doesn’t heal.

It doesn’t get better.

With time, you start to forget he should be here. You’ve done new things that he wasn’t a part of, so the newest memories don’t include him. The new stuff, I suppose, becomes a part of your life without him, and maybe, at some point, you kinda don’t expect him to be there because you’ve done a lot of things without him.

Well, I haven’t done a lot of things without him yet, and so if time heals, it has to take a LOT of time. A whole stinking lot of time to start dulling the awful rip in your heart.

A Grand Canyon-size rip. Is there anything bigger than the Grand Canyon? If so, it is that.

Gargantuan.

Therefore, the time it will take to start “healing” the rip is gonna be way more than days. It is gonna be way more than months. It is gonna be a lot of years, if ever.

Because a man who was half of you, who helped create you, who reared you, who loved you more than you knew you could be loved, who advised you, who supported you, who picked up where you left off, whose tenderness toward you made you cry, whose lightness in his personality made you laugh, who gave everything he had to you, who helped make you, you, left.

On purpose.

3 and almost a half months later is a blink.

I’m learning this.

3 and almost a half months later, it doesn’t get better.

It still feels like he is going to walk through my door any minute.

I still look for him.

I still wait for him.

I still expect him.

And when he doesn’t show up, I’m still disappointed.

3 and almost a half months later, it doesn’t get better.

It doesn’t get more normal.

If it is possible, it gets even more empty.

And the triggers are all still there. When someone tells me they are sorry about my daddy, I cry. I can’t help it. I sometimes am able to change the subject so fast that my heart can’t hurt that quickly, and I get through it unscathed.

But that is rare.

Because when someone tells me they are sorry about my daddy, my very first reaction is to wonder what in the world they are talking about. My daddy is fine. He will be coming over in just a few minutes.

And then I remember.

And then I cry.

And some of you reading this may think that 3 and almost a half months later, I should be used to it.

There is no used to it.

It is still brand new.

And he is still not here.

3 and almost a half months later, I haven’t been back to church.

I simply can’t go.

To go means I have to be ready to unzip my feelings and allow them to lay there, exposed, on exhibit for everyone around me to see.

I know what is going to happen when I go back to church.

I am going to cry the entire time I am there. And please excuse me if I don’t want to go to a place where I know I am going to cry for one solid hour.

In front of people.

I am not ready to go.

And what I’m learning is, I don’t know when I’ll be ready to go, but I’ll know when I’m ready.

And it isn’t today.

Because 3 and almost a half months later is no time.

It is a tiny nothing.

3 and almost a half months later, I know that I might still have a panic attack when I pull up to a place or an event that means more people than a few will be there.

It doesn’t happen every time, but it happens sometimes, and I don’t want to have a panic attack. They aren’t fun.

So the only way I know how not to have a panic attack is not to go to places where more than a few people will be.

Especially a place that reminds me of my daddy.

Especially with people who remind me of my daddy.

A lot of times a place that is brand new.

A lot of times with people who have no connection to my daddy.

I never know.

But I know they won’t happen if I don’t go.

So excuse me for not wanting to pull up to a public–or private–place and have a panic attack.

It is only 3 and almost a half months later.

3 and almost a half months later, when I think very hard about my daddy as he was, the missing takes over.

And the missing is worse than the mad.

And the missing is more complicated than the questions.

And the missing is deeper than the sad.

So forgive me if I do everything I can to avoid the missing.

Because the missing hurts in places I didn’t know could hurt.

3 and almost a half months later, I may not be dealing with it the way you would.

I may not be dealing with it at all.

Some of you want to hog-tie me and drag me to counseling.

I don’t want to go to counseling.

Not yet.

When I go to counseling, I will be ready to deal with it.

But 3 and almost a half months later,  to deal with it means that I have to be exposed.

To deal with it means I have to be ripped open.

To deal with it means I have to cry in front of people, or even just one person.

To deal with it means I have to not just cry, but wail, and scream, and moan.

In front of people.

Or one person.

To deal with it means I have to feel the missing.

Forgive me if I don’t want to do those things.

It is too much.

It is too soon.

3 and almost a half months later, I have to analyze every precaution and every exit plan if I think I may have to go there or do that. I don’t have to have an excuse for that.

Exposed.

3 and almost a half months later, I know that sometimes I should, but I can’t, and I know that people’s feelings are going to be hurt in order to protect my own. I don’t have to have an excuse for that.

Ripped. 

3 and almost a half moths later, I know that I can’t do everything I normally would do. I don’t have to have an excuse for that.

Empty.

3 and almost a half months later, I’m still putting a sign over my courtroom door asking people to go through the front. I don’t have to have an excuse for that.

Terrified. 

3 and almost a half months later, I sometimes have to say no. I don’t have to have an excuse for that.

Because it is only 3 and almost a half months later.

And it doesn’t get better.