Nostalgia is the epitome of bittersweetness.
Being able to relive fractions of your most precious memories may feel indulgent at times, but it comes with painful side effects.
Like the realization that time only moves forward, and always at the very same rate.
That it can sometimes put your present state into a disappointing perspective.
It's easier to ignore the absences in a picture without comparison.
Being able to relive fractions of your most precious memories may feel indulgent at times, but it comes with painful side effects.
Like the realization that time only moves forward, and always at the very same rate.
That it can sometimes put your present state into a disappointing perspective.
It's easier to ignore the absences in a picture without comparison.
Lately I miss my dad so much more than usual.
Every single thing reminds me of him, and makes me want to crawl into bed, pull the blankets over my head, and cry into my pillow like I'm 8 years old again.
Every single thing reminds me of him, and makes me want to crawl into bed, pull the blankets over my head, and cry into my pillow like I'm 8 years old again.
Last night when Nic & I were out running errands, the snowfall was painfully nostalgic.
Climbing out of the driver's seat, walking around to the other side to unbuckle my son… it felt like it was only yesterday that I was sitting in the backseat myself, with my dad in front of me.
Stepping out into the parking lot, looking up at the bright lights illuminating the night.
Watching the snow falling through the sky, tiny white flakes, peppering the periwinkle atmosphere.
I was transported through time, back almost 20 years.
Climbing out of the driver's seat, walking around to the other side to unbuckle my son… it felt like it was only yesterday that I was sitting in the backseat myself, with my dad in front of me.
Stepping out into the parking lot, looking up at the bright lights illuminating the night.
Watching the snow falling through the sky, tiny white flakes, peppering the periwinkle atmosphere.
I was transported through time, back almost 20 years.
It made my heart ache.
I miss being a child.
Following my parents into the grocery store, while they work their way through shopping lists and fill their cart with whatever they've deemed necessary, before heading to the checkout.
No concern for numbers or labels or pieces of paper that are seemingly used in place of cash.
Money?
No idea.
Life is as simple as grabbing, and going.
Wanting, and getting.
Having.
The adolescent state of mind… blissfully naive and innocent.
I miss being a child.
Following my parents into the grocery store, while they work their way through shopping lists and fill their cart with whatever they've deemed necessary, before heading to the checkout.
No concern for numbers or labels or pieces of paper that are seemingly used in place of cash.
Money?
No idea.
Life is as simple as grabbing, and going.
Wanting, and getting.
Having.
The adolescent state of mind… blissfully naive and innocent.
I would give almost anything to hear his voice again.
Even if it were raised, and aggressive, participating in heated verbal combat with my mother.
I would give anything to watch him pick lint balls off the carpets... lol.
He hated that.
He called lint balls on the carpet, "a fucking mess".
To hear the sound of baseball games coming from the living room TV on his day off.
To hear the pinging of glass lids at 530AM, as they are reunited with the vintage glassware that held leftovers from the night before, which would now accompany him to work for the day, to be eaten on his lunch break.
Laying in bed as a child, I would feel an inexplicable wave of sadness as he left for his job each morning.
Of course I was far too young to understand the correlation then, but now, I realize I was sad that he had to spend 6 days a week, 12 hours a day, working hard, to take care of my mom, my sisters, and me.
It seemed so unfair that his life was consumed by something so unpleasant.
That he didn't have time to enjoy the fruits of his labor.
I think I felt guilty for needing to be cared for.
I just wanted my dad….. home… with us….
Even if it were raised, and aggressive, participating in heated verbal combat with my mother.
I would give anything to watch him pick lint balls off the carpets... lol.
He hated that.
He called lint balls on the carpet, "a fucking mess".
To hear the sound of baseball games coming from the living room TV on his day off.
To hear the pinging of glass lids at 530AM, as they are reunited with the vintage glassware that held leftovers from the night before, which would now accompany him to work for the day, to be eaten on his lunch break.
Laying in bed as a child, I would feel an inexplicable wave of sadness as he left for his job each morning.
Of course I was far too young to understand the correlation then, but now, I realize I was sad that he had to spend 6 days a week, 12 hours a day, working hard, to take care of my mom, my sisters, and me.
It seemed so unfair that his life was consumed by something so unpleasant.
That he didn't have time to enjoy the fruits of his labor.
I think I felt guilty for needing to be cared for.
I just wanted my dad….. home… with us….
From the time I was about 6 until my dad's death, when I was 12, I would periodically wake at night, in tears.
I was so afraid that something would happen to my mom or my dad.
I vividly remember being 7 years old, sharing a room with my sisters, in the small apartment we lived in after my parents lost the house my grandfather built for us.
I remember being on the bottom bunk of a 3 person bunk bed, on the left side, with my little sister next to me.
I remember laying in bed, unable to halt the flow of relentless tears, as I imagined life without them.
Sometimes I would wake up to hug them both, and tell them how much I love them.
They'd always humor me.
Comfort me.
Give me some semblance of peace, before sending me off to bed again.
One night, my mom gave me this silly little puffy, polyester butterfly from her fabric painting supply basket.
I held onto it so tightly, for the longest time, treasured it.
As if somehow keeping that butterfly safe from the world would keep them safe from it, as well.
I was so afraid that something would happen to my mom or my dad.
I vividly remember being 7 years old, sharing a room with my sisters, in the small apartment we lived in after my parents lost the house my grandfather built for us.
I remember being on the bottom bunk of a 3 person bunk bed, on the left side, with my little sister next to me.
I remember laying in bed, unable to halt the flow of relentless tears, as I imagined life without them.
Sometimes I would wake up to hug them both, and tell them how much I love them.
They'd always humor me.
Comfort me.
Give me some semblance of peace, before sending me off to bed again.
One night, my mom gave me this silly little puffy, polyester butterfly from her fabric painting supply basket.
I held onto it so tightly, for the longest time, treasured it.
As if somehow keeping that butterfly safe from the world would keep them safe from it, as well.
I don't know what life sans anxiety would look or feel like.
It's a foreign concept, for me.
I imagine it would be glorious.
But another part of me finds it terrifying, based on the belief that being anxious and paranoid keeps me on my toes.
Without it, I've lost my first line of defense.
It's a foreign concept, for me.
I imagine it would be glorious.
But another part of me finds it terrifying, based on the belief that being anxious and paranoid keeps me on my toes.
Without it, I've lost my first line of defense.
I've always lived in my own reality, in solitude.
Even if I'm surrounded by a hundred people, I'm still isolated.
It's a faulty defense mechanism, I suppose, shutting the world out.
I use social media, and blogs like this, to share my thoughts, because it helps to delude myself into believing that I've let someone in.
But it never traverses or bisects with any tangible area of my life.
So who am I kidding.
Even if I'm surrounded by a hundred people, I'm still isolated.
It's a faulty defense mechanism, I suppose, shutting the world out.
I use social media, and blogs like this, to share my thoughts, because it helps to delude myself into believing that I've let someone in.
But it never traverses or bisects with any tangible area of my life.
So who am I kidding.
Distraction is the solution.
To almost everything.
It's practically a lifestyle.
My lifestyle, really.
To almost everything.
It's practically a lifestyle.
My lifestyle, really.