Our relationship wasn't exactly great.
Until today I hated the fact he calls every night to say goodnight. He did it ever since I moved out.
At first, I figured out it's just an "old people's thing". I mean, he's about 80 by now. 84, IIRC. I don't even know how old he is.
Every time I mention I had a seizure or that on that particular I feel like shit and would prefer to not eat, he freaks out and does this "oh noes" gasp. It sounds both condescending and genuine. On the one hand, he is worried about my well being, I appreciate that, but on the other hand, this specific noise pisses me off so much.
He often has problems with his computer, and it's always the weirdest shit.
Last time I fixed his speakers by fucking around with the sound settings, I don't know what pushed me to it, but stick them into the microphone output. Bam! It works. How? Why? Fuck me if I know. It works, don't fucking touch it.
When my mother was killed, there's this one scene that won't leave my head.
It was a long while before, I was... what, ten? Fifteen?
We're having lunch and, with a mouth full of potato, I turn to her fully and go "Wow, mommy, EVERYTHING tastes better when you're hungry!". My father stares blankly with a sort of "what is this dumbass?" look, she goes "what did you say?", I realize I fucked up, squeak out a pathetic "sorry", inhale the rest and run away. I didn't even apologize properly.
This is the only thing I remember of her. I think it's better that way, seeing as with the shit I'm dealing with, the depression, or whatever the fuck would it be, it'd be driving me up the wall. This memory alone is doing a damn good job about it. I'd probably ctb much earlier if I remembered her. Now it's him, and I'm here to watch.
For a while, I kinda wished he would hurry up and die already so that I can take my SN, hide in a nice, roomy hole I found on my way to work, and hopefully have someone find my skeleton, not body, a good decade later. Alternatively, I could clog that hole with my leftovers (?) and whoever digs me out would think less "Holy shit! A corpse!", and more "Holy shit, what kind of shit is THAT?!". I'd hope they don't call the cops.
As I'm typing this all out, we had our nightly conversation. It was slightly longer than normal, but shorter than the ones where I vent about my job. That's the only shit I tell him because... well, what can I tell about myself?
All I do is work, sleep, eat, smoke, and have seizures, and those I keep in secret. I mean, sure, I bitch about the seizures at /r/epilepsy, though not as often as I do on facebook. Relatively. I'm not an interesting person, I'm more of a drone, a zombie. When I was going through vEEG, my father commented on how I look more alive when they took me off the meds, and I was. He said my eyes shine. Can't verify that bit. He's the only person offline who stuck with me through good and bad without questions (excluding "how are you?" and the likes, obviously). Maybe except for "would you eat ____?" and "how many pills do you have left?".
Let me reiterate - he volunteers to go and pick up my pills. He's insane, he insists on that, he won't let me do it myself. Sure, he has a semi-legit reason - he doesn't want me to miss work hours. Picking the pills up on my own would result in being late, and being late results in bitching from my employer.
Today he taught me how to use a washing machine.
You're welcome to laugh, I deserve it. I'm thirty years old, and until today I didn't know how to operate a washing machine.
Not that it's particularly difficult, as it turns out, I just... never learned. I also never learned to cook. I experimented, sure, and it turned out shit every time without exception. Recently I produced something akin to prison loaf. It was edible, sure, but not much beyond. Probably with the same nutrition value.
The problem here is that I'll remember him. Maybe.
When my mother was killed, I pretty much repressed every memory. It was kind of a... automatic response?
I'm one of these fucked up people who laugh at funerals. I read that it's because the brain desperately tries to make the event "safe". Laughing is a global sign of safety.
Some time ago I spoke with a guy. He was/is a soldier. Something of low caliber. Bullet sponge. He told me a fucked up story. His unit went to Afghanistan because... George Bush... I don't know. One of his buddies blew up. The guy kept the guy's arm in a shoebox and used it as a prank prop after it rotted for some time. After his buddies got a little spooked by it and got in on the joke, they started using it too. It was their way of remembering the guy.
Having been in the IDF and spoken with other bullet sponges from the IDF, I believed it. These kinds of people are fucked up in a very special way. Very few people know what it's like to go through watching your buddy turn into a pile of meat. In my case, not many people know what it's like going through seizures. Compared to him, though? A lot.
So yeah, very soon my father will be hospitalized because of diabetes, and I'll be there to watch it all happen.
We had more conversations on what to do when he dies. No conversations about arranging his funeral, though.
I have no clue how to even begin that sort of thing. Hell, I have no idea how to survive truly alone. I guess it's the sort of thing you do when you're at that point. You proceed to wing it. In my case, I'll proceed to ctb.
So with this all going, I decided to put my plans on hold. Dad would often say he doesn't want to share his problems with me because... he didn't actually say why. He just said he doesn't want to. I never pressed the issue.
I remember when I was a kid, he was a mountain of a man. Literally. He worked out by lifting two fridges with one arm. He welded two fridges to a stick and used that monster as a single, very difficult to store dumbbell. Over the years he crumbled a little but still was crazy strong. Even at eighty, he was still crazy strong, kicking asses and taking names. Today I've seen him crumble a bit too much and... I'm scared. Don't know what to do, how to react. How do you react to this sort of thing?
Until today I hated the fact he calls every night to say goodnight. He did it ever since I moved out.
At first, I figured out it's just an "old people's thing". I mean, he's about 80 by now. 84, IIRC. I don't even know how old he is.
Every time I mention I had a seizure or that on that particular I feel like shit and would prefer to not eat, he freaks out and does this "oh noes" gasp. It sounds both condescending and genuine. On the one hand, he is worried about my well being, I appreciate that, but on the other hand, this specific noise pisses me off so much.
He often has problems with his computer, and it's always the weirdest shit.
Last time I fixed his speakers by fucking around with the sound settings, I don't know what pushed me to it, but stick them into the microphone output. Bam! It works. How? Why? Fuck me if I know. It works, don't fucking touch it.
When my mother was killed, there's this one scene that won't leave my head.
It was a long while before, I was... what, ten? Fifteen?
We're having lunch and, with a mouth full of potato, I turn to her fully and go "Wow, mommy, EVERYTHING tastes better when you're hungry!". My father stares blankly with a sort of "what is this dumbass?" look, she goes "what did you say?", I realize I fucked up, squeak out a pathetic "sorry", inhale the rest and run away. I didn't even apologize properly.
This is the only thing I remember of her. I think it's better that way, seeing as with the shit I'm dealing with, the depression, or whatever the fuck would it be, it'd be driving me up the wall. This memory alone is doing a damn good job about it. I'd probably ctb much earlier if I remembered her. Now it's him, and I'm here to watch.
For a while, I kinda wished he would hurry up and die already so that I can take my SN, hide in a nice, roomy hole I found on my way to work, and hopefully have someone find my skeleton, not body, a good decade later. Alternatively, I could clog that hole with my leftovers (?) and whoever digs me out would think less "Holy shit! A corpse!", and more "Holy shit, what kind of shit is THAT?!". I'd hope they don't call the cops.
As I'm typing this all out, we had our nightly conversation. It was slightly longer than normal, but shorter than the ones where I vent about my job. That's the only shit I tell him because... well, what can I tell about myself?
All I do is work, sleep, eat, smoke, and have seizures, and those I keep in secret. I mean, sure, I bitch about the seizures at /r/epilepsy, though not as often as I do on facebook. Relatively. I'm not an interesting person, I'm more of a drone, a zombie. When I was going through vEEG, my father commented on how I look more alive when they took me off the meds, and I was. He said my eyes shine. Can't verify that bit. He's the only person offline who stuck with me through good and bad without questions (excluding "how are you?" and the likes, obviously). Maybe except for "would you eat ____?" and "how many pills do you have left?".
Let me reiterate - he volunteers to go and pick up my pills. He's insane, he insists on that, he won't let me do it myself. Sure, he has a semi-legit reason - he doesn't want me to miss work hours. Picking the pills up on my own would result in being late, and being late results in bitching from my employer.
Today he taught me how to use a washing machine.
You're welcome to laugh, I deserve it. I'm thirty years old, and until today I didn't know how to operate a washing machine.
Not that it's particularly difficult, as it turns out, I just... never learned. I also never learned to cook. I experimented, sure, and it turned out shit every time without exception. Recently I produced something akin to prison loaf. It was edible, sure, but not much beyond. Probably with the same nutrition value.
The problem here is that I'll remember him. Maybe.
When my mother was killed, I pretty much repressed every memory. It was kind of a... automatic response?
I'm one of these fucked up people who laugh at funerals. I read that it's because the brain desperately tries to make the event "safe". Laughing is a global sign of safety.
Some time ago I spoke with a guy. He was/is a soldier. Something of low caliber. Bullet sponge. He told me a fucked up story. His unit went to Afghanistan because... George Bush... I don't know. One of his buddies blew up. The guy kept the guy's arm in a shoebox and used it as a prank prop after it rotted for some time. After his buddies got a little spooked by it and got in on the joke, they started using it too. It was their way of remembering the guy.
Having been in the IDF and spoken with other bullet sponges from the IDF, I believed it. These kinds of people are fucked up in a very special way. Very few people know what it's like to go through watching your buddy turn into a pile of meat. In my case, not many people know what it's like going through seizures. Compared to him, though? A lot.
So yeah, very soon my father will be hospitalized because of diabetes, and I'll be there to watch it all happen.
We had more conversations on what to do when he dies. No conversations about arranging his funeral, though.
I have no clue how to even begin that sort of thing. Hell, I have no idea how to survive truly alone. I guess it's the sort of thing you do when you're at that point. You proceed to wing it. In my case, I'll proceed to ctb.
So with this all going, I decided to put my plans on hold. Dad would often say he doesn't want to share his problems with me because... he didn't actually say why. He just said he doesn't want to. I never pressed the issue.
I remember when I was a kid, he was a mountain of a man. Literally. He worked out by lifting two fridges with one arm. He welded two fridges to a stick and used that monster as a single, very difficult to store dumbbell. Over the years he crumbled a little but still was crazy strong. Even at eighty, he was still crazy strong, kicking asses and taking names. Today I've seen him crumble a bit too much and... I'm scared. Don't know what to do, how to react. How do you react to this sort of thing?
