My Week In A Nutshell

Hubbie and I had a conversation last weekend where he called me a pessimist. Really? Am I? Maybe I am. I like to think of myself as a realist. I believe in logic, science, proof, experience. But reading the last few posts, I dunno, am I a pessimist?

This week blows. Maybe I'm in a funk.

I started this blog hoping to write my experiences with witty posts that the reader can relate to; or at least leave the reader laughing. Or pensive. Or in agreement!

What I'm finding is that I've lately been writing to vent. And so, here goes. Another vent.

I'm annoyed a lot of the time. I've been so irritable lately. Life in general is just taking it's toll. I wish I had the energy to make this post witty in some way but really I just have to get this crap off my chest.

I have anxiety. A lot. I have all these thoughts of where I'm supposed to be, where I should have made better decisions, where I should have put my foot down. And these thoughts haunt me. And carrying all these feelings, I found a box of "memories" in my parents garage last weekend.

I found the music box my grandfather gave me that plays Sunrise Sunset. I found a short story I wrote in 4th grade that, (in my humble opinion,) was pretty damn good. I found pictures of a more innocent time. I found letters from my dad. And that pushed me over the edge.

I thought I'd come to a peaceful place 12 years after his suicide. But apparently the therapy and two rehabs haven't cured me of the aching pain that surfaces when I really think about him. And I wonder if it will ever go away.

The letters I found were written to me when I went on a six week trip around the U.S with a group of teens. I was fourteen. My relationship with him at that point was that of your typical teenager, but somewhat different. I lived with my mom and step-dad. I spent every other weekend with him and his new wife. I guess I always admired him, because he was my dad, but it was different than my other friends.

When he wore Converse shoes to my Bat Mitzvah AND Sweet 16, I was embarrassed. In a sense. I wanted to fit in. I wanted my parents to look like my friends parents. But he didn't. He had long hair. He wore black. He wore jeans every day. Now, I love that about him. But I didn't realize how cool that was then. And I hate myself for ever thinking he was weird.

I remember he'd sleep in late the weekends I spent with him. Due to his late recording schedule and, honestly, his alcoholism.

He was a musician. When I was in high school listening to Guns N' Roses and Nirvana, he made me a tape of Jimi Hendrix. It changed my life. Why didn't I recognize how great he was then, and get to know him as a person then? I just wrote it off as a cool tape.

When I was in college I was so self-absorbed that to call any of my parents was a chore. By then my dad and the woman he married were divorced, but I still had a relationship with her. I had all these obligatory calls to make. Grandma, Mom, Dad, Step-mom. It became tiresome since all I wanted to do was hang out with my friends.

My dad called me one week in August of 95. Asked me if he could come up to Santa Barbara the following weekend to visit me. I said no, I had my friend's birthday party and we were going to celebrate all weekend. (Code- we were going to do drugs, drink and stay up all night.) I told him he could come up another time.

Cut to two weeks later when I had the visit from Martha. (See previous post.)

Why did I do that? Will I always carry this guilt? Will I always miss him with this intensity? Will I always beat myself for not spending that one weekend with him? Why didn't I see it coming?

Could I have done something?

I know that all of this baggage I carry affects who I am today. Does it make me a pessimist? Does it make me bitter? Does it make me less spiritual? I think so. But I don't want to carry this sadness anymore. I have this bag of regret I carry around.

I miss him terribly. But even if he was here- would it make my day to day life better? My job that stresses me out. My longing for a home of my own instead of a tiny apartment? My longing/incredible fear of having a child of my own? Do I compartmentalize my sadness from this tragedy and use it as an excuse to escape?

Even the things I think I want- I question. Do I want the responsibility of a house? Do I want the responsibility of a child? I'm just getting used to the responsibility of a husband. I know I'm a selfish person. I am working on changing that. But it's hard.

It's the reason I read blogs like tunagirl and anchorednomad. I'm so glad I've joined this community so I can see what real family life is like.... day to day. They've inspired me to pull my sh*t together. I want to be a better person- a more patient person. A less selfish person. It will be a struggle but I'm ready to let go of my resentments and work on myself.

For now I have to work on taking this anger out on others. I'm scared to death, but I want to be a good mom, wife, friend, daughter and granddaughter. I have the best husband a girl could ask for; so I'm on my way. He gets me like no other.

Through all the sorrow, he's there for me. And I vow to be a better, more tolerant person. I won't make the same mistake twice. I will appreciate every day he is here with me, and love him with everything I have.