I found a couple old journals, and let me tell you that it’s probably more fun to get a root canal than to read those. Reading about my own life seems surreal and macabre, with its moments of humor, like putting comical garish makeup on a patient in a hospital bed. No wonder I’m in pajamas! Do you remember a story to share? I’d love to hear it!
The excerpt below goes back to February of 2009. The son referenced would have been in ninth grade. We live rurally where there are moose, elk, cougar, wolves, and bears. Part of our split responsibilities was that he’d give the sons attending public school a ride to down the country rode to where the school bus stops. I was busy with my morning stuff, when I noticed Son4’s winter jacket was still hanging up. This is what I’d written that day:
Today is Friday the 13th of February. I used to LOVE Fridays when I was younger. Friday was a day of potential fun, adventure. Now, it’s just in the melting pot of nothingness days blurring into days. I’d like to write about sex, or should I say the lack of sex, but there are kids sitting right behind me.
Some of the anxiety feelings I have are ever present in my body. My heart races, then my head hurts. Sometimes my lips feel numb. The fatigue is like feeling transparent, as though I’m not entirely here but fading away.
(When asking him about Son4 missing the bus.)
Me: Did Son4 make the bus?
Him: No, apparently not, he’s sitting in his room.
Me:….. um… Have you decided you’re not going to be involved in this?
Him: I didn’t know I was part of it.
Wow, so really, which part of being a father and Son4 being mutually our son is he not a part of…