January 2nd

Posted: January 2, 2013 in Uncategorized

Dear journal,

I carried you around all day, not sure what else to tell you. I don’t really have anyone important in my life anymore. If you are wondering about my Dad (because, clearly journals can wonder, pose questions or sulk until written in), I suppose you would consider him a different sort of tragic tale in my history. I never knew who he was. My Mother was an annoyingly chatty woman most of the time, but whenever I asked about him, she always clammed up. Maybe she thought I felt like I was being cheated, only having one parent, as though she wasn’t enough for me.

That wasn’t it. I wanted to know why other kids in broken homes could explain why they only had one parent, but I couldn’t. I doubt anything she could have told me about why he wasn’t around would shock me – for fuck sake, we are living in a world where “people” sometimes eat other people, simply because they are overcome with a violent and deadly urge to sink their teeth into human flesh and splatter blood all over the walls!

I’m sure whatever he did to her probably hurt her badly. Did he leave her for someone else? Was he abusive? Did he fall into the ranks of murders? I never did find out, and like me, my Mother was an only child, and her folks passed away years ago when I was too little to understand the concept of people not surviving a car crash. I don’t have anyone to ask about my past any more. All I know is Mother got a sizable chunk of change when her parent’s wills were read, and that she somehow managed to sign that money over to me before I found her on the kitchen floor.

To be honest, I’ve barely touched it. It feels wrong to have her supporting me even when she isn’t around anymore. I hold down a part-time job, and pay most of my bills out of that, but since she had been so adamant about me seeing Rich, and the payments were already being taken directly out of that account, I kept going. I figured she would have wanted it that way. It took a sizable amount of paperwork to stop the payments after he died, but most of it had to do with me explaining that I really didn’t want to see another therapist in his place. My Thursday afternoon feels oddly empty now, and I found myself getting ready to head to therapy last week; I was just about to open the front door when I realized I didn’t actually have any place to be. I took my coat back off, slumped onto the couch and just stared at my Mom’s portrait until it got dark. I slept a lot that night.

After work the next day, I stumbled into the shop at the end of the block and took what seemed like forever to pick you out, journal. I wondered how much I would write, which binding would feel right, which lines were spaced far enough apart. If I was going to follow through with what Rich wanted, I was going to give an honest effort to dot each “i” and cross each “t”. If all the crap that swings around in my head had to be recorded, at least it would be somewhere that felt right.

I’ve decided to take on a personal project to keep myself busy. After Mom died, I couldn’t throw out all the garbage she hoarded. I’ll take that back – anything that was actual, rotting and gross garbage, was taken out on a daily basis in our house, but Mother kept piles and piles of things all over the house that I never saw any use for. Sometimes the piles would have a theme – newspapers or magazines, and sometimes they just seemed like items that could come in useful, but we never used. I think it is time to go through them, and toss or give away what doesn’t belong. This is my house now, and has been for quite some time, so I guess this will help me make it feel more like my place in this crazy, mixed up world.



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