Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Not much time to blog, but no time to shed tears either. I must return to work in about fifteen minutes. I can't afford to have a tear-streaked face in front of customers. Why the tears? Why not. It was only last week that I had started a letter to my dad, and now he is back in the hospital once again. I wrote about two pages worth of letter, and then felt bad about what I had written. The truth is [oh what is the truth Mark? Tell us. Tell us.] that I really don't have good childhood memories of my father. My father was addicted to work. He would come home from a day at the jewelry factory and then, after super, he would work in the garden if it was still light; or he would be up in his workshop doing some project. I'm sure these activities were enjoyable for him, and probably cathartic after a day at the factory, but I'm stating that he worked rather than spend time with his children. I was the first. A son. I didn't like hunting or fishing. I wasn't brawny (neither was my dad) and ready to take over the farm. I read books and filled sketchbooks. So, I have about two-thousand words of a letter, for the most part recounting horrible memories. Having to set the example as the oldest and being beaten with a razor strop. Stuff like that. Now my dad is near the end of his days, and I'm trying to come to terms with that. Come to terms with a 93-year-old father, who "never connected" with me. (His words.) The only time he ever spoke any words of affection was one of the few times in his life that he was under the influence of powerful medication. He told me that he had wished we had spent more time together through the years. I think I may have been thirty about that time. I'm not sure, but it's been at least twenty years since he said that. He must have forgotten once the drug wore off, because he never did make an attempt to make up for lost time. He still has a hard time bringing himself to show any interest in my life, and the things that interest me. But the days are growing short; even for me. Why aren't lobotomies voluntary? You can do all kinds of weird stuff to your body: cat whiskers, piercings all over, tattoos and so forth. But your own mind? Most mind expanding drugs are illegal, because they want you to fill the corporate coffers. Suicide is illegal. And I would imagine voluntary lobotomies are illegal. And yet it's my brain. Do I need to be on a medication strong enough that I slur my words? Strong enough that I can't alphabetize my section in the bookstore anymore? Is that the kind of drastic measurement that needs to be taken to get me back into the good graces of those I have wronged? I have no idea. I have no pastor, or mentor to discuss these things with. And my father and mother...well, as I was saying, they didn't have the skills necessary to help foster a sense of self-esteem in me early on. Never mind the fact that I was in an orphanage for the first six months of my life. Oh, but I do go on don't I? But it is not time to join my co-worker upstairs and drag myself through the last two hours of work. Even I am tired of my words at this point.