Saythings

the trouble with crushes

I’ve been thinking about sex a lot lately.
(hahaha. As though I’m not always thinking a lot about sex.)
(Although comparatively, my sex drive all but disappeared after dad died, and it’s only in the last two months or so that it’s really started to reappear. I think this is a good sign, insofar as I think it’s proof that I’m more balanced than I have been for a while, but it’s also added some … complications to my life.)

The Sweet Thing doesn’t really obsess about sex the way I do, and I always assumed it was just a general difference in wiring – same sort of thing that has led to me being a filthy kinky little slut, whereas he’s a fairly normal guy. Er. Would be, if I would give him any peace.
I think the last year has been a bit of a relief for him, honestly, in that I’ve been far less demanding, sexually, and only marginally more needy emotionally. I think that he hasn’t even registered the shift in emotional neediness, in fact, except that I now accept what he offers, instead of simply acknowledging the offer, if that makes sense. He’s always been emotionally supportive, or at least tried to be. He doesn’t always understand me, but at least it isn’t for lack of trying. And I don’t really expect that any two people would ever fully understand each other, but I think it’s absolutely crucial that they make the effort.

So for 14 months or so, sex was just this thing that filtered in and out of my consciousness. I was pretty much always up for it, if offered, but rarely initiated, which led to sex as rarely as once or twice a week, and in all that time, only two encounters that I would term “kinky”.
And recently something has shifted in my head so that I’m back in the headspace I always used to live in; aware of myself as a sexual being, in addition to my other constantly shifting and processing sense of self. One manifestation of that is having crushes. I always used to have at least one crush, and occasionally several.

I should maybe elaborate on crushes…
For me, it just seems reasonable and normal to appreciate things about people, to be fascinated by them, enjoy (and occasionally seek out) their company, entertain happy little daydreams about them sexually, and chalk it all up to harmless fun. When it appears that the attraction is mutual, it’s normal for me to step it up a little – light flirting, frequent jokes, that sort of thing. If it goes beyond one or two flirtatious comments – if it’s more than a highly charged exchange with the superhot guy at the hardware store, for instance, which involves me admiring his ass, and us exchanging a multi-leveled conversation about being skilled with tools – then I make certain that I clarify my current relationship status.
If it seems appropriate, I also expound on my opinions on polyamory, open relationships, and even kink.
Sometimes that really isn’t appropriate – if, for instance, by their comments, the person I’m crushing on makes it clear that he (or she) is uncomfortable, or even offended by anything outside the norm in relationships – and it goes no further.
Sometimes, like with a couple of coworkers, there’s no way I’d ever want to act on any of this, but they have qualities that I find attractive, they enjoy the game of flirting as much as I do, and sexually charged banter helps the day go by a little quicker. I can’t imagine that Steve at work would ever consent to being strapped down to the wheel and being wrapped in pallet wrap (nor would it really do much for me to be the one doing that to him) but it’s a lot of fun to joke about. I’m pretty sure Kevin doesn’t have a horsewhip and a riding crop, but that doesn’t stop me from inviting him to use them on me, nor him from laughing and offering to bring them to work next week. We both know he wouldn’t, and that he’s quite happy with his girlfriend, but those few moments of the day make us both laugh, and we walk away from these exchanges smiling. I like to think that our good moods are infectious, and that it’s one more little bit of cheer that we each in turn share with other coworkers, even if it isn’t directlt in the form of jokes about horsewhips and threats of gimp masks with the rest of them.

All of that is normal to me, and always has been in a work environment. It’s odd to be in the sort of structured, unionized shop where that sort of thing could have me brought before a disciplinary committee if the wrong person heard us, or took it the wrong way, and it pisses me off that there are people out there that would make it their business “to be offended on my behalf”. Seriously. Since I clearly lack the “good sense” to be offended by a sexually charged compliment, they will be offended for me, and file complaints. Common sense is dead.
Nonetheless, not everybody is that lacking in judgment, and we just confine our jokes to each other’s company, and talk about the weather when the PC police are in hearing range. And if they wonder why we’re always laughing when they’re too far away to hear us? Well, I guess they assume we know a lot of jokes about clouds.

What is less common, and occasionally problematic, is when I get crushes on people that I really would want to follow through with. People I find powerfully attractive, intellectually and emotionally, who clearly share my feelings.
Intellectually, I know I should keep my distance. Responsibly, I try to make clear my relationship status. Inevitably, if opportunity presents itself, I find myself toeing the line.

SPQR is an immediate, and potentially dangerous, example of this sort of crush.
I found him attractive the first time I set eyes on him. It didn’t hurt that he’s a good friend of a very good friend of mine, who absolutely vouches for his awesomeness and character. Very good friend (VGF) was quite up front about SPQR’s various flaws and weaknesses, as well as his good qualities, and did warn me about exactly the sorts of things that I already know to watch out for in myself. Warning bells should have gone off, but instead I just got more interested.
I find him funny, smart, interesting, and… captivating. It’s just how I am. Not in a follow-you-home-and-watch-you-while-you-sleep stalker sort of way, but in a notice-the-amazing-colour-of-your-eyes-right-away kind of way, and then going out of my way to get him to look at me and smile. Because that smile? Oh, that smile goes right through me, reaches something in my gut, and tugs. It’s all I can do to keep from moving closer to him every time he smiles, it’s that kind of tug. Magnetic.
I’m usually aware of when a man finds me attractive. I’m also tuned in to whether it’s a sort of… harmless puppy sort of appreciation of my breasts, a creepy leer at my ass, or an acknowledgement between adults that yes, there are sparks here, and I’m admiring what you have there. Our first meeting involved several instances of the last sort of attraction, and an awful lot was communicated without words that night. Lots of uncertainty on both parts, of course; my internal monologue read something like “Damn that’s a great smile he’s smiling at me right now that’s the kind of smile that means business no you’re imagining it, he’s just an open, friendly sort of guy yes but he’s just touched me there, he didn’t need to, he could have walked by without putting his hand on my shoulder, don’t be silly it was just a reflex, no, did you see the look in his eyes when he did it? his fingers lingered on my shoulder. and that hug at the end of the night? do you really hug people you’ve just met? I wanted him to, maybe he was just being kind, no he offered it up, he wanted to, he was very chaste and friendly but he explicitly invited me out with them next time, it was very clear, no, he’s just like that, he wanted to be polite, it was just friendly interest, not sexual, oh would you all just shut up now?”

Right. Anyway, I was pretty sure I was reading it right, and really looked forward to our next meeting, which went quite well, but was not any more conclusive than our first, and just as heavily chaperoned except for the bits where I drove him to and from the restaurant, as I had room in my car and it seemed silly to take two cars.
However, VGF informed me the next day that when the other woman present and I left the table for the ladies’ room, SPQR *grilled* him about me. This was repeated with a grin, and a shake of the head. One of those “oh, he’s so silly, you’re too smart to get involved with him” grins. I mostly bit my tongue, but I can’t lie to VGF, and did admit that I found him quite attractive. Not a threat my current relationship, but captivating nonetheless.

So now I’m entertaining thoughts of our last two meetings, and the things that were said, and the things that went unsaid, and where it all might lead.

The relationship I have with VGF is incredibly intimate, but not at all sexual. Very sensual, but not in any way that threatens what I have with the Sweet Thing. I never think about him with lust, we’ve never had sex, but I feel as comfortable around him naked as clothed. It’s a strange relationship, and unlike anything else I’ve experienced in my life. We’ve been friends for probably 15 years, never fought, never had sex, and shared so many things.
SPQR is baffled by it, and asked me a lot of questions about it. They’re very similar, and between the evident similarities, and the additional ones that VGF has informed me are there, I feel far more comfortable with SPQR than our brief acquaintance should allow. I get lulled into this wonderful, relaxed comfort in his presence, and then find myself standing there, the slightest gap between us, suddenly aware of how close our bodies are. I look him in the eyes, and he raises one eyebrow in invitation, or question, or amusement, and I blush and drop my eyes. This is ridiculous, this is what *I* do to *men*, not what they do to me. He’s better at this game than I am.
But only when he isn’t paying attention, and his attention is caught in a hundred things right now, large and small and all weighing heavily on his mind and heart. He’s spoken to me about some of them, and I feel honoured by his trust, and closer to him as a result. When we’re talking like that we’re physically close as well, me rubbing his shoulders, or lying with my head in his lap, and it’s intimate but not sexual. Then we’ll fall silent, and something will shift, and I’ll be painfully aware of how smooth his skin is against my fingertips, or the way his hand feels, resting on my hip. He feels it too, and I don’t think either of us is quite certain what to do about it.

At one point when the three of us were chatting, I asked about a bamboo sword he had hanging overhead. Something about how it must make quite a “thwack”. When he offered to show me, I called his bluff, stood up, emptied my pockets and bent over. He obligingly smacked me once, lightly. I laughed, and he hit me again. Much harder. Hard enough to make me gasp. Hard enough to get me wet, immediately. I was disappointed, and also incredibly relieved when he put the sword away after that.
The next morning, he sent a message asking if he left a bruise. I said no, and offered him the opportunity to try again, maybe over dinner two nights later?
And I was sure it would be trouble when he accepted.

Posted by saythings at Thursday ~ July 30, 2009 | 3 Comments

Category: daily,dirty

One year

It’s been a year.

Every morning, I think of dad. A dozen times every day I’m aware of all the places he fit into my life, all the things I would ask him for advice on, the funny things I’d write to him about, the ideas I’d want to share. Every night I lie in bed and wonder how the rest of the world can just go on without him when I feel so lost.
Crios does everything he can to support me, and let me know I’m not alone, but there’s just not much to be done sometimes.

I guess I just assumed that after a year it would hurt a little less. That I wouldn’t be so painfully aware so often how much I miss him. And I guess it must be easier, even if it doesn’t feel that way. I know that for the first week we were all pretty much useless, just unable to function, to do something so simple as make coffee without getting lost, and that now we’re all more or less back to normal life, on the surface. At the same time, it just feels as though everything is emptier than it was.

And there are so many things I want to say, that I start to say, and that ultimately it all devolves into how much I miss my dad, and really? That’s not very interesting, even to me.

Yesterday was Naw Ruz. New Year’s. So maybe it’s time for a resolution. To move on, even if it’s slow. Just to stop being stuck here, held back by pain and uncertainty. Grieving doesn’t end, but I’ve let it hold me back for long enough.

Posted by saythings at Monday ~ March 23, 2009 | No Comments

Category: daily

Time

It’ll be a year tomorrow that I’ve been working there, and…
I’ve never held a job that long. It seems like forever, it seems like far too long. I love contracts, knowing I’ll only be there a week or a month. Even three or six month contracts would be fine, I’m sure, but this whole “real job” thing just gets me down.
Of course, some of it is seasonal too; a year tomorrow, at the job. A week from now, Dad would have been 66. Not really that old, and I still wonder every single day how things can just go on without him. The smallest things throw me off my feet, and into this useless, helpless, grieving state. I try to cover it, to pretend everything is fine, and I guess I succeed, since nobody around me remembers anymore.
And all in all, I guess that’s how it should be. To me, he was amazing, just the greatest guy, and the world is a much poorer place without him. To all those in my day to day life who never met him? They have no idea. And on my brighter days, I guess I should just be striving to emulate that, to be to others the inspiration and example that he was, but I don’t seem to have too many of those. That’s not to say he was perfect; in addition to all the good things I learned or inherited from my father, I also share his impatience, his short temper with fools, his disdain for the lazy and the willfully ignorant.

I feel that, above all, I’m really failing myself with this depression, but at the same time I just keep looking at the poor decisions I’ve been making, and I can’t seem to focus on the good things, just the bad. It’s stupid, and it’s pointless, and it avails me nothing, but I’m stuck in this pattern right now, just struggling to make a turn that doesn’t lead me deeper into this maze.

Good things;

We sold the house.
Yes, the economy sucks, yes we took a loss, but dammit, we’re done. House sold. Mom and brother and sister moving on. Looking at buying a house together, all of us, even though I’m the only one who stays put, in one country. And I’m not so good at that either, just better than those two.

I moved. And now I’m going to have to move again, and that’s no fun, but it’s just so good for me not to live with people right now.
(So I’m looking forward to living with family? Well, they’re different. They don’t drive me crazy, they respect my privacy, I love their company, we all know how to be together without driving each other mad)
I have lots of space, and lots of light, and lots of peace. Well, ok, not that much space, all things considered, but more than enough for me, and I like the view and the light and the location. I can walk to groceries (and even a mall, should I wish such a thing) and ride to work in not-too-much-time, with not-too-much-effort, and the neighbours seem nice. It’s good for my peace of mind, even though it’s already been hell on my shoulders. Because it doesn’t snow here. Really. It’s Canada, but it doesn’t snow. So. Er. It did. And I shoveled it promptly, because it’s a kindness to the folk on the sidewalk (though apparently most folk can’t be bothered) and I’m glad, because two days later everything that wasn’t shoveled has turned to ice, and the side roads and whatnot are skating rinks. They say it won’t melt for another week or more. I suppose that means a white Christmas? I admit it’s prettier when everything is covered in snow than when it’s just all brown and dead, even if the day doesn’t hold major significance for me.
Dad’s birthday falling so close is pretty much taking the joy out of it for me this year, but it’s mom I worry about. I’ll be fine, if down, this year, but she’ll be back east, alone, packing an empty house. She has siblings there, to help and to comfort, and good friends, I’m just feeling guilty about not being there too.

Ramble, ramble, ramble, whine, whine, whine.

Things are going well. We sold the house, I found lovely temporary lodgings, and I passed the last paper for my 3rd. That gives me a new, fancy piece of paper with my new, fancy qualifications, and allows me to start writing exams towards the next level.

Dad never understood what I saw in this. I’m starting to think he was right, but I don’t know what else to do. I’m not bad at it, and it’s interesting enough, I guess. I’m not good at real jobs. But he would have been proud of me anyway, for continually upgrading. So that’s what I’m trying to go with for now; I’m not really motivated to do anything for me, and I know that in a year or five or ten I’ll regret spending so much time not working towards any goals, but I also know I can’t rush the grieving. So I can do things because I know it would have made him proud, and it’s reason enough to move on, even if it isn’t with the same passion and interest that I’d like to muster, and if it’s slow, at least it’s in the right direction.

My brain burns with ideas that want to get out. It seems so easy to sit in front of the keyboard and type, but so hard to actually make it happen.

Posted by saythings at Wednesday ~ December 17, 2008 | No Comments

Category: daily

try not to breathe

I will try not to worry you
I have seen things that you will never see
Leave it to memory

Swinging back and forth between melancholy and anger, boredom and lust. I feel like I’m 18 again, and just masquerading as an adult. Poorly. And still, they’re all fooled somehow.
I can tell there’s an unhealthy chunk of melancholy in there because I’m listening to R.E.M., and how emo is that? True, it’s being cut liberally with the Dropkick Murphys and Clutch, but still. Maybe that’s where the …well, 17, actually. High school. By 18 I was at university, and listening to mostly Ministry, Nomeansno, Front 242, Dag Nasty, Sisters of Mercy… that sort of thing. Nothing that stood much chance of making any Top 40 lists, though these days that sort of music is a lot more accessible. It seems so strange that so much has changed in a dozen years (ok, slightly more, but bear with me).
It’s a dangerous train of though, because I get lost in time and change so easily. My great grandparents were born into a world without cars, indoor plumbing, electricity or telephones. My father learned computer programming on punch cards in university. My grandmother came to Canada speaking no english just after the first war, and made a life here. My other grandmother divorced her first husband – a woman divorcing a man in the 40s! – and raised 4 kids on her own until her second husband came along. Then, effectively, she raised 6 kids on her own, as all I’ve heard indicates he wasn’t much help, except in giving her more children.
Life is so much easier, in terms of day to day needs, but so much more complex in other ways, and I wonder which is better, or even if one could be said to be better than another. Life spans are increasing, certainly, but sometimes I wonder if our quality of life is increasing as well. Our knowledge base grows daily, and we’re constantly learning to understand our world in new ways, and struggling to adapt our habits and behaviors to keep up to this new knowledge, but it so rarely seems to make us happy.
While I can see the argument that truth is above things like happiness, I can also make a pretty strong point for the relationship between ignorance and bliss. Smarter people are more prone to depression, and I don’t think that’s a coincidence.
And yet, if I had the choice, I wouldn’t choose to be less intelligent.
Ah.
But would I choose to be more happy? (Ok, ok, I know the appropriate term is “happier”. It didn’t scan.)

The more I read, the less I feel I know, sometimes.
Which is possibly why I read so much fluffy crap; mindless stories are my best means of escape. I’m sure it would be easier if I was a drinker (or a user) to numb my mind, but instead I’m stuck relying on my mind to numb my mind.

So. Leaping like an ADD impala from topic to topic, I’m right back to the melancholy. It’s almost loneliness, except that there really isn’t anyone I want to spend time with either. Most of all, I want to spend time with me, but in a space that I’m comfortable in – not this house. Maybe not even this city, I don’t know. All I know is that I lack a sanctuary, and although it isn’t the cause of my current unrest, it isn’t doing anything to cure it either.

Posted by saythings at Thursday ~ August 28, 2008 | No Comments

Category: daily,wondering

All lies

I was thinking about the times I lied to you.

Not the little white lies about liking your music more than I really did, or what I actually thought of your fashion sense – although I really didn’t lie to you there much at all. Not like most couples do. That’s one thing that I don’t know if anyone else ever gave you, all those high-maintenance girls with their makeup and their clothing fetishes. I think you must have tried harder to impress them, on the surface, than you did for me. Sometimes that makes me jealous, and other times I’m just glad that you never felt you needed to. Every now and then, I wish you’d wanted to.
The three times I really lied to you, those times that I felt it was necessary to conceal a large truth from you? They all started out as small things that you couldn’t accept hearing from me. Things that other people could. Of course, telling them to other people led to doing things with other people, which led to even bigger things I needed to hide from you.
If I’d ever been able to ask you for what I really wanted, I wouldn’t have needed to find it somewhere else. If you hadn’t made me feel so worthless, I wouldn’t have sought reassurance from another. Why do I want you to love me if you can’t respect me? And if you’re not going to respect me, why should you expect I would act like I deserved it?
This became a self-fulfilling prophecy far earlier than either of us recognized.

The first time, I only wanted to act on it. We stayed fully clothed, although there was touching, kissing, and grinding. The things you would deny me for years were being offered – better, were being forced on my entirely willing body. That sort of thing intoxicates me. You didn’t understand. I told you because I wanted you to understand both how much I wanted that, and how much I wanted it to come from you. You chose to be threatened and frightened by this.
I lost a good friendship as a result, and I still stayed with you.

The second time, I gave you plenty of warning. By then I knew you wouldn’t join in, but I still wished you would. As a faint and ridiculous hope, I imagined that maybe, even if you wouldn’t join in, you might give me your blessing to go on my own. They were no threat to you, or to us, unless you decided to be threatened. So you did.

The third time, I didn’t say anything until after the fact. I’d been thinking about it non-stop for weeks. You hadn’t noticed. I’d been away, and hoping that time, or distance, or something would take off the edge. I’d been trying so hard to kindle that response in you, to get anything at all out of you that wasn’t half-assed and short-lived. You didn’t see it it, or you didn’t care. No matter what you claim about sex, kink, and desire, you don’t enjoy what I enjoy, and seeing me happy isn’t enough of a payoff to pretend sometimes.
Since I pretend all sorts of things to get you off, it doesn’t seem like so much for me to ask.

But maybe that’s the fourth lie. Maybe you don’t see any need to indulge my kink because you think I enjoy the vanilla things we do as much as you do. Maybe I shouldn’t be trying so hard to turn you on and get you off. Maybe I should do just what you do; maintain my silence. Wait for you to make the offers. Not even try to turn you on.

And after all this, you think that I’m the source of all our problems.

I should never have lied to you.
But I also should never have felt that anything I wanted to tell you was wrong, or shameful, or not worth being heard.

Posted by saythings at Sunday ~ May 18, 2008 | 3 Comments

Category: daily,wondering

all that she wants…

The Sweet Thing wasn’t the first to say it, only the most recent.
I ask for so much in a relationship – I ask to be accepted exactly as I am. And loved despite it, as well as because of it.

He wasn’t able to accept me as I am. And part of that was that he couldn’t quite accept that sometimes (not often. In the history of our relationship, less than twice a year, though clustered more in the last 6 months) …sometimes I just want to be held. Really, I want some perfect combination of pain and love and sex and tears, because it cleanses me, but it would be enough just to know that when it all got to be too much, and I just needed to cry, that he would just be there and hold me.
The only men in my life who could do that for me are not men that I have a romantic involvement with.
Why is that so much to ask?
Sometimes I wonder if my desire to be hurt is just a way of expressing emotional pain; my partners won’t accept that something could make me so sad that I had to cry, so maybe I believe, on some level, that they could accept tears if they originated in physical pain instead? Or maybe it’s just that if I’m hurt enough, I’ll have no choice but to cry. Because sometimes, after I’ve been denied the emotional release too many times, I just can’t open up to a guy anymore. Of course at that point I have to wonder why I’m still with him.

Right now, I want to see the sexy co-worker. And I want him to suspend me from his ceiling, and tease me until I’m dripping, spank me until I’m red, whip me until I’m bruised, and then fuck me until we both collapse. And then I want him to carry me gently into the shower, where the sweat and tears will all wash away. That’s catharsis.
Mmmmm, catharsis…

Posted by saythings at Sunday ~ May 18, 2008 | No Comments

Category: Uncategorized

Lost art

I’m sure it says a lot (of bad things) about me that so many of the issues in (most of) my relationships are sexual.

After more or less walking away from the Sweet Thing, I feel somewhat aimless.

Probably as a result of stress and depression, I don’t have much of a sex drive right now. Odd, since stress usually makes me want sex more, not less, but… I assume it’s more about grieving and confusion than about stress.
Or maybe it’s the difference between emotional stress and mental stress? Having too much to do makes me want to be fucked, but having too much to think about… hmmm. No, having too much to think about also makes me crave dirty sex.
I don’t know.

I was thinking recently about what constitutes “good” sex.
There’s a disconnect between my brain and my experiences there, because the activities that overwhelm me, that make my eyes roll back in my head, my breathing come fast and hard, and my willpower evaporate? They haven’t all actually involved sex.

And some of the best sex I ever had wasn’t even particularly kinky.
It was half a year after my marriage disolved, and I didn’t yet have any sense of what I wanted, where I was going, or what I would do when I got there. I had no self esteem (sexually), and had no idea what to do about the guy hitting on me.
He was older than I was, and I don’t mean by a year or two. More like a decade or two. Not quite twice my age, but very close. Nonetheless, an attractive man in good shape, with plenty of confidence (ok, sometimes arrogance), he was accustomed to getting what he wanted, and in this case what he wanted was me.
I acquiesed, and had some of the best sex of my life. This man was a considerate and accomplished lover who made the woman he was with feel like a goddess. From beginning to end (and “end” took a hell of a lot longer than the five minutes I had come to expect!) he was focused on me, on my body, my responses, and yes, what he wanted from me. He was an oral sex afficionado, and was happy to spend ages just licking and being sucked. He freely admitted to having an oral fixation, and although it isn’t a kink I share, it was still certainly an enjoyable experience, as was the stream of praise and adoration coming out of his mouth while his hands and mouth explored my body.
Objectively, I would class it as the best sex I’ve had, both in terms of his efforts, and also the positive effect it had on my sense of self.
But I’m not objective. I’m subjective. And subjectively? It falls somewhere in the middle of the list.
It wasn’t one of those “what? That’s it? Seriously?” experiences, but I wouldn’t go back for more either. (Well, I did go back once, and had a fabulous time, and remain convinced that it was both a great experience, and also not something I care to repeat)

So what was the best?
That’s a tricky one. Within the context of a relationship, Grimm and I had some of the best, kinkiest, most consistently mind-blowing sex, but there was still something missing. I don’t know what, but I assume it was my problem; he was happy with things as they stood, while I was sneaking around behind his back with my crush, getting fucked in the shower, because I wanted something else. Looking back, I really regret not trying to just get more out of my relationship with Grimm, actually trying to see if we could have made that work. Now that he’s married, I can’t even go back to play.
One of the neat things about that relationship is that I didn’t have to ask for him to be dominant, he just stepped into that role, but talking about it later, he tells me he’s never done that before, never been at all rough or dominant in a relationship, and doesn’t think he ever will again. (Isn’t that what happens when you get married? Sex becomes vanilla, then nonexistant?)
I do miss it.
He also used to send me elaborate, filthy emails detailing all the things he was going to do to me the next time we got naked together, and I really, really, really miss that. He was a gifted and creative writer, and he followed through on his threats. Mmmmmmm… Yeah, I miss that a lot.

Writing is a lost art.

Posted by saythings at Friday ~ May 16, 2008 | No Comments

Category: daily,dirty

moar

Yeah, yeah.
I know I should blog moar.

I have trouble coming up with much to say that doesn’t sounds like a broken record.
I miss my dad. Every day. With every little victory, with every challenge, with every funny or frustrating thing that happens. We used to share so many silly little details of our lives, usually via email, and hardly a day goes by that I don’t think of writing to him, to ask his advice or just to make him laugh. The whole grieving process seems so bizarre at times, or maybe it’s just the way I’m dealing with it.
I try to find ways to avoid feeling sorry for myself, which means trying to not think about how much I miss him.
And sometimes I do tell him things; I lie there at night, before I fall asleep, and just talk to him. I don’t expect to hear his voice in reply (it would really freak me out if I did) but it helps me think about what’s going on in my life. We used to bounce our ideas off of each other, looking for difference perspectives, and I’m trying to regain that input, I guess.

The big question in my life is what happens next.
I broke things off with the Sweet Thing. He wants more from me than I can give him. He wants everything; house together, kids, life… and I don’t. Not really with him, not really with anyone. Maybe one day I will (and maybe by then it will be too late) but I can’t give that to him now either.
I still don’t know what to do about work or life either.
Brother and I have decided to buy a house together in Victoria, likely something that needs a little work, and fix it up. I have a friend I trust to give me good input there, and help get the work done right, but I still wonder if it’s the best choice. Would we be better off with a condo? Something it’s easier to just walk away from for months at a time? Or just invest it all? No land, no property, far less stuff to worry about? I have too much stuff in my life.
And now here we are at dad’s house, going through all his stuff, trying to decide what to keep and what to get rid of. It’s hard to detach from the emotional weight these things carry and make intelligent decisions about what do with it all. I’m leaning towards being too possessive, since on the scale we’re looking it, it won’t be a big deal to keep a few extra boxes of things, even if we end up throwing them away later. Brother, on the other hand, wants to just get a dumpster and pretty much empty the house. I see his point, but I can’t quite do it. I go through dad’s things, and find these precious, sentimental keepsakes, and it brings me to tears. It’s not boxes and boxes, rooms and rooms, of crap; it’s just carefully selected mementos, small things that carry big memories. If he couldn’t get rid of them, right now I can’t either.
And then there’s the boxes of tools… that’s a lot of weight to send across the country, especially at current prices, but…. well, it’s all good quality stuff, and I’ll actually use most of it, so I’m keeping the tools. No question.
It also simplifies things, since he never got around to unpacking most of that; he only moved here last fall, and was sick over the winter, so most of the tools and shop stuff stayed in boxes. I just open the boxes, maybe shuffle the contents to add a few more items, and close them up again.
Though there are a *few* I’ve unpacked. I spread the contents around me and shake my head. He was a smart man, and pretty handy, but there a few modified items that make me cringe. The best so far (aside from random lengths of wire with the ends cut off and bare) is an “extension cord” with a two pronged male end (two pronged! Not grounded!) and … ready? a wall socket wired and then taped to the other end. Seriously. Sure, I can’t see any reason it wouldn’t work… but… yeah. Not keeping it. I like having things that meet safety codes, whereas dad tended towards a faith that things probably wouldn’t catch on fire.
It gave us a good laugh though.

Yeah, I’ll try to blog more. There’s a few things that have been running around my brain lately that I’d like to get out.

Posted by saythings at Wednesday ~ May 14, 2008 | 2 Comments

Category: daily

Threes?

I’m really not myself, but I don’t know who I am.

Mom and I are both quite scattered, in fact. Dad wanted to be cremated, and wanted neither funeral nor memorial, so all in all, things have been fairly simple in some ways.
Except emotionally. Things have been anything but simple, emotionally. It’s been over two weeks, and I still can’t really believe he’s gone. A dozen times a day something happens that makes me think I should email him to ask his advice, or to tell him what happened. (Oddly, my father and I rarely spoke on the phone. We visited frequently before he moved to Ontario, and emailed constantly before and after.)
So now every little thing that goes wrong inspires me to write to him, and then it comes crashing down on my head that he’s never going to answer. And if I’m alone, I cry. If I’m with someone else, I try very hard to focus on what they’re saying, and not to think about what a huge void there is in my heart.

And because it seems this is how things go, we’ve had plenty to take our minds off our grief, though not really in a good way.
First the sump pump failed. The basement is half underground, and the snow is just beginning to melt in earnest, so the constant stream of groundwater coming in around the foundations which ought to have been neatly whisked out to the gutters instead filled the basement. Not very deep – not even two inches – but still… deep enough to soak anything not in a plastic bin.
Thankfully, dad had invested heavily into rubbermaid bins before moving, feeling that it would be easier than cardboard boxes for all the shop stuff. Still, there was plenty of cardboard and wood down there, and a bit of carpet too.
The insurance guys have been lovely, though their damage control/cleanup crew are about as smart as a pair of bricks.

So. Flood, damage, fans, pumps, squeegees, dripping boxes everywhere. Oh my.

And if you were to believe the old adage that bad things come in threes, it would be pretty easy to find our third misadventure. Mom’s mother is getting on in years, though she’s always been quite healthy for a woman in her 80s, and prefers to live along. This week, after being unable to reach her by phone, we decided we’d best go by her apartment to make sure she was ok.
We found her on the floor beside the bed, confused and dehydrated, though conscious. It sounds like she had been there for at least 24 hours, but not more than 48, and will likely be in hospital for at least another week. The doctors believe she had a mild stroke, and we’re glad it was right-brained, rather than left. Her left arm was giving her a bit of trouble, but is responding more every day, and her language centre was unaffected. Equally unaffected is her sense of humour. While we were fretting and pacing and stressing and trying very, very hard not to get in the way of the paramedics, she was first complaining that she was quite comfortable on the floor, and we didn’t need to make such a fuss, and then catching her superintendent’s eye and whispering “you know I’m only doing this for attention”.
The paramedics, who were great, both laughed.

Mom’s siblings are scattered across the country, but are all arriving in town to come see gramma, which is really nice. They’ve been “discussing” (ok, arguing) about whether to put her in a home, and where, and whether it should be where she chooses (4 out of 6), or the place most convenient for the kids (1 out of 6, and not the one whose residence is anywhere near the nursing home he’s advocating) (1 of 6 is still enroute, but she’ll be here soon).
I think in the end that gramma will choose to be within easy driving distance of the two closest to Toronto, and an easy morning’s trip from a third. The other three are scattered to the west, so they’ll all have to fly to visit anyway.
I feel for her, because I know she doesn’t want to be in a home, but she’ll do it so she won’t “be a bother” to her children.
I know that mom (and most of her sibs) will do their best to find a place where gramma can have her own small apartment, and simply be in a building with 24 hour nursing staff, and NOT a full-on care facility. She’s able to take care of herself, and I’m sure will gracefully accept being “checked up on” daily, but is miserable confined to a bed, unable to cook her own meals or structure her day as she chooses.

I’m about to get on a plane and head back to BC for a month, and I’m wondering if that’s a mistake. Mom is entirely strung out, and I worry about leaving her alone out here. On the other hand, I worry about being gone from home so long. I want to go back, check in with life and work and worried friends, and also start moving out of my place. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’m not sure that staying in Victoria is it.
Maybe it is. Mostly I haven’t been thinking clearly so much as I’ve just been stressing and letting my brain skip wildly from subject to subject.

Posted by saythings at Sunday ~ April 06, 2008 | No Comments

Category: daily