I Came. I Made It Awkward.

I left. It's lunch time.

Dad’s death changed me.

It moved in and dismantled my DNA cell by cell.

It’s reconstructing, reassembling, fusing back together, and creating a person I'm unfamiliar with.

And with anything ripped apart and put back together, there’s pain, confusion, and impatience .

I know this feeling well.

With my health scare in August of 2021, a similar occurrence took place. I was no longer the woman I'd known. I mourned her for months. Before I could truly get to know her, cancer intervened.

Here I am, back to the start.

"I'm glad I got to know you again,"

Dad's words brought joyous tears to my eyes because I was different, but during those 212 days, we reconnected.

At the height of my perplexing illness, I could only speak with my folks on the phone every two weeks; sometimes, it would be a month. It depended on how well I could talk or function.

They worried.

We worried.

But little did we know in the midst of that, cancer was raiding my Dad's body.

---

I saw this meme the other day, and it hit me right in the gut. I've experienced this many times over the years. I'm vocal about what transpires in my life, and people sometimes find that offputting or bothersome. I've even had people message me to explain why they are unfriending me.

Super motivating.

After my nervous system implosion, a woman I considered a friend told me I wasn't the same person she knew and ditched me like we were at a sketchy bar with sticky floors. It smelled like vomit and a Dateline episode.

Thanks to the People You May Know notifications, I've noticed individuals have unfriended me since Dad died.

Now, this could be a coincidence, but since my emotions are raw, I begin to wonder, is it because I am outwardly grieving?

I make people uncomfortable.

I see it on their faces.

I hear it in their voices.

I feel it with their distance.

I remind them of what could happen and what has happened.

I remind them of Dad, death, and cancer.

People don't want to be around sorrow.

Grief is awkward and complicated.

And here is the thing: this action is entirely normal. In fact, I've read group comments toward others, such as, get over it, get therapy. You're depressing. I have enough sadness in my life; I don't need to read yours.

Anyone grieving doesn't want to be.

I'd rather be happy, have my Dad here cancer-free, not have guilt and sadness tighten my throat, and never watch a horrid disease devour someone I love from the inside out. Do you think I want to feel this way and have those images seared inside my brain?

Would anyone?

---

My Dad told me never to stop writing and to keep going, and that's what I do daily. I keep writing, whether it's something like this or a poem or journal entry.

I write for my sanity.

I write to keep Dad's memory alive.

I write to show people it's okay to discuss grief and what it does. What it is to mourn. What it is to hit the depths of the blackest pit and claw your way out because that little speck of light is within reach.

Whether it's Autism, homeschooling, soy allergy, neuropathy, or death, I will always be open about what I am going through.

This is as real as the lines that crease beneath my eyes, the streaks of tears that have discolored my cheeks.

It's not the Insta filter version.

I won't apologize for the uncomfortable or awkwardness because then I am apologizing for who I am; I guess that part of me never vanished. That may be why Dad told me to keep on writing.

I'll find me again.

Fresh. Eclectic. Vintage.

Unlike a Zillow Gone Wild house (now that is a social media page follow), the new and aged combined beautifully.

---

I visited one of Dad's favorite parks yesterday. Memories played back in my mind, like a VHS tape, with each step I took. Dad and Mom walked with toddler Logan, laughing while he stopped to pick up every single stick. Our feet crunched on the pebble pathway.

I stopped on the trail and closed my eyes. I could hear Dad's voice in the wind, fluttering through the leaves,

"You can't go back, Daughter."

Tears slipped down my face. "I know. You're always right." I wiped my tears and kept walking. It was a good thing I had sunglasses on. I crossed the bridge and sat near the water. I embraced what was around me. Fish splashed in the water; the sun washed over my skin as the breeze moved through the strands of my hair. Sitting and watching the water gently move while sparkles danced from the sun's reflection was lovely.

And there it was, those glimmers in the grief.

I can't go back, and I also can't dismiss what I am feeling either because of societal norms.

When have I ever been normal?

This is my journey, and I wish things were different.

They aren't.

But I'm closer to fine.

Closer to Fine - Indigo Girls is my new anthem.