I went home this weekend.
See, it should be a festive, positive, relaxing thing, but I dread going home sometimes. I feel suffocated, impotent, unable to function. If I could just shut down all of my senses and receivers, it would be bearable. But I can't, so it isn't.
Have you ever heard your father crying in the dead of night? I have. Pain so intense he doesn't know where to clutch. The tears of the anguished. It's the sort of thing you don't easily forget.
He used to kick my ass quite regularly at Trivial Pursuit, and in my youth, I used to pester him to try out for Jeopardy -- such was the breadth of his knowledge and intellect. Today, I fed him applesauce, and finished his sentences I-don't-know-how-many times.
Goddamn me to hell, I even get frustrated with him sometimes, when he can't find the words, or when the meds make him nod off in the middle of what passes for 'conversation' these days.
Fuck you, nocut. Fuck you. It's not his fault. How dare you.
Mother is a saint. She is his fulltime caregiver, and the most selfless person I know. Her eyes twinkle when I come home, but I curse my very existence because I can't bear to tell her that I wish I wasn't an only child, that I wish a sibling could help me carry this weight.
FUCK YOU. YOU SELFISH BASTARD.
Kids tend to think of their parents as indestructible, infallible. I know I did. Growing up with it, I never looked at dad as 'disabled.' He just had different limitations.
I grew accustomed to Dad having to go to hospital for surgery. I got used to telling Mum "It'll be OK, he'll be fine." I never cried. I never showed my father that weakness. I had to be strong for them. But sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat, worried that one day, when he really isn't OK anymore, I won't be able to cry.
Happy Victoria day.
See, it should be a festive, positive, relaxing thing, but I dread going home sometimes. I feel suffocated, impotent, unable to function. If I could just shut down all of my senses and receivers, it would be bearable. But I can't, so it isn't.
Have you ever heard your father crying in the dead of night? I have. Pain so intense he doesn't know where to clutch. The tears of the anguished. It's the sort of thing you don't easily forget.
He used to kick my ass quite regularly at Trivial Pursuit, and in my youth, I used to pester him to try out for Jeopardy -- such was the breadth of his knowledge and intellect. Today, I fed him applesauce, and finished his sentences I-don't-know-how-many times.
Goddamn me to hell, I even get frustrated with him sometimes, when he can't find the words, or when the meds make him nod off in the middle of what passes for 'conversation' these days.
Fuck you, nocut. Fuck you. It's not his fault. How dare you.
Mother is a saint. She is his fulltime caregiver, and the most selfless person I know. Her eyes twinkle when I come home, but I curse my very existence because I can't bear to tell her that I wish I wasn't an only child, that I wish a sibling could help me carry this weight.
FUCK YOU. YOU SELFISH BASTARD.
Kids tend to think of their parents as indestructible, infallible. I know I did. Growing up with it, I never looked at dad as 'disabled.' He just had different limitations.
I grew accustomed to Dad having to go to hospital for surgery. I got used to telling Mum "It'll be OK, he'll be fine." I never cried. I never showed my father that weakness. I had to be strong for them. But sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat, worried that one day, when he really isn't OK anymore, I won't be able to cry.
Happy Victoria day.