I want to write.
These past few days have been miserable. Aside from me forgetting to take my Lexapro I’ve also been sick. Not only that, but there are so many things that I have just come to realize.
I’m lonely. Heartbreakingly lonely. I want to talk to someone. I want to be able to cry normally. I want a hug. I want someone else. Help me.
On Sunday I knew that I was sick. I just didn’t say anything–or rather, I didn’t think anyone would believe me if I did. Some part of me out there, deep within, said that no good would come of it. It was so freezing outside, though. Every time I so much as touched a piece of cold there would also be full-body chills surrounding me. I kept shaking around while my head hurt like hell. But Dad also asked me to chop firewood. I thought that it might be a useful activity, so I agreed.
I failed at first.
I swung lazily with that heavy ax, always missing the log head-on. But Dad always swung it so hard it smashed into the concrete below us, cutting the log so cleanly you couldn’t tell anything had even happened. Dad is powerful and meaningful with his every movement, while I am dopey and weak.
I finally hit the log straight. My hands trembled as that frigid air shot through my lungs like a bullet, the oxygen like poison in my throat. I couldn’t see straight since I was shaking and shivering so, so hard, just from the weather. But I hit it. It cut down to the concrete with a shattering sound, my shoulder getting thrown out from the sheer force.
I felt strong at that moment.
I feel now like I did after the divorce. I was so broken from losing my father that it was hard to even go to class. Like a child. Things started up again after it all happened, but it took a very, very long time to adjust. Now, I’ve gone back in time. I’m seven again. I want my Dad 24/7. I want him to hug me. I want him to scratch my back and play the guitar for me. I wish for him to hold my hand over our beds like we did. I want him to come home from work and give us candy. I want him to teach me about changing stings. I want him to say that my mandolin sounds good.
i just want my dad
I’m sick of acting tough. This person that I’ve become… the hardened, casual person on the outside that pretends to not care… and doesn’t pay attention to what’s inside… that’s not a good person. In fact, that’s more inhumane than it is human-like. If that’s true, then I’m more of an evil monster than I am alive and human.
I want to go on a trip
With myself and Dad. Out to Arkansas, or someplace else. Quiet and lonely. I want to see views you can’t see in Missouri, and I want to observe them like it’s nothing else. I want to feel the air in my lungs like it’s my first time breathing in my life. I want to feel fresh, and I want to feel clean.
It seems that… the venom is doing its duty right.
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