I think it is probably time to introduce you all to Emelia. She is pretty amazing. I met Emelia in college (the Simpson one, not the Multnomah one). She was like the opposite of me: I was a theology major, but I took most of the upper level English classes. Emelia was an English major, but she took a lot of upper level theology classes. I like her. I honestly didn’t know her so well in college, because I’m just not the person that gets to know people. But now I read her blog every day, and she’s awesome. You should read her blog too.
Today I realized that lately every time I am asked how I am, I say “Okay…” (Emphasis on the ellipsis). I hate okay. It’s like failure’s bastard brother. I will choose today to say “I am fabulous! Thank you for asking. How are you?!” because exuberance breeds enthusiasm, and I am determined to be enthusiastic. La’ Chaim.
Now, the honesty:
This morning was wretched. Daddy hates life right now. He hates the nursing home. He feels like he is in prison (His words, “They are like the Gestapo!). He hates that he doesn’t have any money. He hates the food. He hates that he can’t control anything about anything. He is still feeling well enough to care for himself. He wants to leave the nursing home. He wants to get more money from disability. He thinks he is entitled to it. Everything about the way he feels goes against the grain for me. I want to scream at him (and this morning I did scream at him. Go me). After all the work I did to get him in the nursing home and get him any money at all, he is still angry about everything, and completely unwilling to take responsibility for the fact that he is where he is. Even now I just want to punch him in the throat.
I know this isn’t about me. I know that. So so so much. I also know, and was reminded very well again by Emelia’s dear sweet blog about her own father, that my dad is a great man. I know that if it were me, I would probably be doing the same thing he is, because I am a lot like him. Because we are victims at heart. I fight against being a victim, but victim is all daddy has left. It’s his very identity. So I am trying to calm myself down and tell myself that I just have to keep working to keep him alive. It’s not my job to make him a whole and happy person. He has to choose what he wants his life to look like, and so far he has chosen this. It’s only my job to facilitate the medical stuff. I wish I could give him more. But he abuses more and that’s not good for him. Or for me. I must remember that as much as this sucks, I am doing this because I love my father. I love this man. This one right here:
I am much better at falling in love that I would care to admit. And I hate that. I should have become a nun. Seriously I would make a great nun.