So, fourteen days after Dad’s death was Father’s Day.
When I found out like nine days ago, I was FUCKING PISSED. Jesus, the universe was being a total twat-faced asshole. I mean I knew it was pointless to be mad at the calendar, but some times silly things like rationality are secondary. I decided to curl in a little ball on Father’s Day and pretend it wasn’t happening, because that method of dealing with shit had been so useful before. Then I got an invite to my sister’s in-laws for Father’s Day. My first impulse was “Hey how about I just take a hammer and bang the fuck out of frankentoe? (More on frankentoe in a bit.) Sounds about as painful.” I got to thinking about it and realized it was the best idea for a day which was going to hurt no matter what.
My sister married my brother-in-law when I was 18, ahem, 15 years-ish ago. His family welcomed us with open arms, and his father was kind to me from the very moment I met him. I spent a lot of years there feeling uncomfortable and out of place at family gatherings, and his dad always made an effort to make me like I belonged. They always sent love and care while Dad was in the hospital, and the days after my dad’s death, my brother’s mom was so kind and gentle with my mom, I cry whenever I think about it. These are the very best kind of people. They made a potentially shit, painful into a sad painful day surrounded by people who loved us, understood it was painful, and just wanted us to be there. Also, my brother’s mom and the Viking decided we are having a big 4th of July at our house. I’m daunted because my house is a mess, but excited. The Viking is so excited to have everyone over, it makes me far less worried. Gawd, I picked a good man.
Thursday and Friday night I woke up several times in the middle of panic attacks. I think saying I wasn’t doing well is sorta an understatement. Saturday night, I was terrified to lay down to sleep because of panic attacks. I was feeling wound up and destructive. I was angry. There were also four damn jugs of out of date milk in my fridge along with a couple of puddles of decomposed something. There was also a bottle of high quality premixed margaritas in my fridge. I pulled the fuck face, dick bag garbage bin (it gave me frankentoe) into the garage, opened the margarita bottle, and started cleaning. I got blitzed ass drunk and cleaned my fridge. I got the whole thing clean and realized I was too drunk to take the last bag of trash through the back door, down a little step, and put it in the bin. So, I left it in the middle of the floor, warmed up some tortillas, and started to play Minecraft because trying to sleep while the world was all spinny was bad. That was my bad night, blowing off steam. That was me being self-destructive. /facepalm
The next time I logged on to Minecraft I had no idea where my character was, how she got there, or how to get back to home base. I guess it’s better it happened in game than in real life?
On a side note, I’ve learned meditation is a pretty decent substitute to drinking until the world spins.
Thursday, I bent down to pick up our giant trash bin off the ground at the end of the drive way. The edge of the lid got caught under the nail of my big toe and ripped the fucker down to the bottom cuticle. I drug the bin to our garage, grabbed the groceries from my car, and put them away in my kitchen while my flip flop filled with blood. Our kitchen floor looked like a murder scene from my attempts at impromptu surgery.
Finally, I did the only sensible thing I could do; I called my mom. She fixed me up far better. Now, this might not seem like a big trauma. I promise you, if I had insurance, I would have made someone take me to the ER. I might have even tried to get that shit amputated. This hurts worse than a burn. I did not know there was pain worse than a burn. Just take the top knuckle and give me pain medicine and call it good. The Viking just scoffs at me when I suggest it… daily.