He was lying still on a plain metal table, dressed and prepared. We were alone in an empty room. There was one chair. I sat. He looked different, bloated, unnatural. Suddenly something broke inside of me. I cried "I'm so sorry!" and then I fell across him and cried uncontrollably, blubbering, sobbing. I wanted his forgiveness. I wanted his love and approval, and it was too late to get it. Our relationship was seemingly over, and I was left with nothing but my own self-doubt and insecurity.
Reader forgive me. It has been six days since my last blog entry.
When I sit down to write a new blog entry, one of two things happens. Either my mind is as blank as the page, or, when I'm able to feel and remember, the flood of thought and emotion is completely overwhelming. I start new each day but often get lost in my words. The list of unpublished entries grows. I wish there was a way for me to tell the whole story in a single word, a way to be done, but I don't know what that word would be. Death? Sex? I can feel it all at once, sometimes, and in those times, my body convulses and contorts. I can't find words, but I can scream like a wounded animal, fighting for its life. The scream expresses everything, but I'm the only one who hears it. And so, it stays within me.
In my 20's, I told Sandy's story by doing good deeds and apologizing all the time. Hell, I still apologize. In my 30's I told the story in dreams and flashbacks. I told my wife what I remembered. I sought to recreate and re-experience by picking up hookers on my way home from work. I "told" my story to everyone though I'm sure no one could make sense of it. The people around me could only watch my anger, shame, and misdeeds with shocked confusion. When my dad died, I began telling bits and pieces to counselors. I'm 42 now, and, honestly, the more this story becomes clear in my mind, the more I wish I could just die in a horrible accident and be done. The telling doesn't make it go away.
Can I just write it out and put it all behind me? Is that what you imagine? I'm not convinced. I'm doing it, because I feel like I have no other choice, but I can't help feeling like I'll finish feeling more undone and broken than ever. You'll have a book to read for a week or so, and I'll have the rest of my days alone. Whatever story I write will not be a full expression of my experience. I carry that alone. I can write a book. Then, my experience will include that I wrote a book. Even if I could take all of you along for the whole experience of my life and show you all of it, would that heal me? Look what it's done to me already. Why would I want to "share" that experience with anyone.
Lying over my dad's body, I was filled with the deepest sense of lost opportunity. I hadn't reached him. I hadn't said what I should have said. I felt profoundly alone. Today, eight years after his death, I can't help but feel all alone.
Dear Reader, I know I am not alone. Thank you for joining me here. Thank you for carrying these small pieces WITH me. Once you know what happened, you will always know what happened. That part never goes. Maybe, just maybe, if I tell you enough, if we share enough common understanding here, then, when you put my book down and move on to other things, I might be able to follow your lead. I can't undo what's happened, but I have a little sliver of hope that I might be able to move on to other things too, someday. Maybe if we all learn to share our pain, we can all move forward together. I hope so.
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