The Important Things In Life

It's been a little over two months since I've posted and the only excuse that I can really give is that I've let other things get in the way of taking care of my blog. Despite this, there have been several who have been coming here and I do appreciate that. That has been an encouragement to start writing again.

It's been six months today since Daddy died and I thought this would be a good time to start posting again. It just doesn't seem like it's been that long. Six months ago was also a Friday and it's almost like I'm reliving it all over again.

I can still remember very vividly talking to Daddy several times that day on the phone. At least two or three of the conversations were about the bank accidentally putting his check into my account and me telling him I was on the way to straighten it out. I was surprised, but glad, he didn't get upset about it. His attitude then was like "Oh well, things like that happen".

This August 17th will be seven years since Mother passed away and it doesn't seem like it's been that long either.

I'm so glad that I still have my family: My sister & brother-in-law, my niece & her family and my nephew. I'm so glad that I still have my AA family and friends.

I'm glad that we had our mother and daddy as long as we did. I'm glad that we still have their memories to cherish.

I'm also glad that I still have my sobriety. Without that, I wouldn't be able to enjoy all that life has to offer.

For me, there's nothing more important than that.

It Takes More Than Time To Heal A Wound

Some of my readers may have noticed that I like to include quotes in some of my posts. I also have some of my favorite quotes listed toward the bottom of my blog. In addition to collecting quotes, I also like to collect old sayings and when I can, find the original meaning behind them.

For instance:

In Shakespeare's time, mattresses were secured on bed frames by ropes. When on the ropes the mattress tightened, making the bed firmer to sleep on, hence the phrase "Goodnight, sleep tight."

In English pubs, ale is ordered by pints and quarts. So in old England, when customers got unruly, the bartender would yell at them to mind their own pints and quarts and settle down. It's where we get the phrase "Mind your P's and Q's."

When I was a child, one of my mother’s brothers asked me once if I had been “minding my P’s and Q’s.” I had no idea what he meant!

There’s another saying that I hear a lot. “Time heals all wounds.” Those sound like comforting words, especially in times of grief, but just think about that saying for a moment. Does time really heal all wounds?

Facing The New Year With Apprehension... And Reason To Be More Grateful

I always approach the New Year with apprehension. The reason for this fear comes from wondering about the future and what it holds. For me, thinking about the unknown can be scary.

Without much doubt, I'm not the only one who feels this way. Just think about the millions of dollars of anti-anxiety medicine that's sold each year and the untold number of hours that people spend with their therapists. Not to mention all the alcohol and illegal and prescription drugs that are abused by people trying to escape their fear.

The problem with trying to escape the fears of the unknown future with drugs and alcohol is that it does nothing to help you deal with any of it. When you sober up, those problems are still there and are probably much worse because of the self-medication. In fact, for the addict/alcoholic the reason for fearing the future in the first place is made more real.

The movie "It's A Wonderful Life" comes to mind while I think about this. In that movie, George Baily got to see what life would've been like if he had never been born. I like to play what if a lot. One "what if" is: What if I had been drunk the day my dad had died? What if I had been unable to talk to him several times on the phone that day? What if I had been drunk when the nurse told me he had no vital signs? In fact, if I had been drunk, I never would've answered my phone to begin with. If it bothers me now that I didn't have the chance to be with him when he died, how much more would it be bothering me if I had been unable to be at the hospital with my sister when the doctor pronounced him dead?

I could play this out further. What if I didn't have the memories of talking to him on the phone? Or worse yet, what if I had answered the phone one of those times when he called and I was drunk? That happened several years ago when Mother was still living and I remember how upset my dad got and how it broke my mother's heart.

If I had been drunk that day, not only would I really have had a reason to regret the past, I would fear the future more than I already do. Every time someone close to me dies, I realize how short my own life is. I would have more reason to fear the consequences of continuing in my addiction.

This pretending what if can sometimes be the cause of unnecessary fear and anxiety. On the other hand, it can sometimes be the cause of looking at life a little differently and being more grateful.

Still Struggling With Worry Over Daddy's Death

In my December 12th post "The Consequences Of Not Properly Coping With My Anger", I mentioned that my therapist Kara had pointed out that my dad didn't have control over his death and I had begun to realize that I had no reason to be mad at him.

While I was writing that, another thought occurred to me and I've still been thinking about it. I've heard about people dying just because they give up on living for one reason or another. Daddy had suffered from chronic back pain for years and it seemed, especially closer to the end of his life, not much was helping it. Did Daddy die because he was tired of living with his pain?

According to one website "Depression may play a part in premature death due to other causes, such as heart disease." Certainly Daddy's back pain caused him to be depressed a lot. That, coupled with his diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder would really aggravate his problems.

Daddy definitely worried a lot about other things. He continually worried about having enough money despite the fact the nursing home was taking care of all his needs. I keep thinking about what I said earlier about getting mad at him. I did give him a lot of grief. Maybe he never really got over that. Another log added to the fire of worry.

Does it really make sense that Daddy died because he just gave up? The coroner said he had hardening of the arteries around his intestines that caused his death. How could he have control over that? Could depression have played some part in that?

Now that I've thought of this, the O.C.D is going to gnaw at me. Yeah, I know someone would tell me " Try not to worry - there's nothing you can do to change the situation." Hearing that never helps. It just makes me angry and adds more worry.

Those Illogical Human Emotions

According to Vulcan philosophy, emotions can't be explained by logic ~ memory-alpha.org

I’ve been a fan of Star Trek since my teen years. Recently I was watching the move “Star Trek: Generations”, the one where Captain Picard seeks the help of a supposedly dead Captain Kirk to stop Dr. Soran from destroying a star system so he can enter the Nexus, a mysterious energy ribbon.

One of the storylines takes up where the series left off about Lt. Commander Data's endeavor to become more human. As usual, when Data makes an attempt to tell a joke, nobody except him finds it funny. So, when Dr. Crusher encourages Data to get into the spirit of things at the celebration for Worf's promotion, he shoves her into the ocean. When no one is amused, especially Dr. Crusher, Data decides it's time to give his emotion chip a try.

Much to his delight, Data can experience genuine emotions. However, it's not long before things go terribly wrong because he is unable to control them. On a mission with his best friend Geordi La Forge they come under attack and the once rational and logical Data is curled up in a corner whimpering in fear.

Later, back aboard the Enterprise, Data begs Picard to deactivate him until the chip can be removed. Picard refuses, telling Data that learning to control emotions is part of being human.

Despite the fact of what Spock often said of his race the Vulcans, they do have emotions. In one episode of Star Trek: Voyager, Tuvok explains that Vulcans' natural emotions are "erratic and volatile"; if Vulcans do not strongly repress emotions, they can get violently angry in an instant.

Learning to control and deal with emotions is a lesson I keep having problems with. Many times I've wished that I could just deactivate my emotions and not feel anything. At times I have really envied Mr. Spock and Data, but emotions are part of what makes us human and as Picard told Data, we have to learn to live with and control them.

If a person was truly unemotional, how could he relate to anyone? How could he care about anything? Where would be the joy of falling in love? The delight in seeing a baby's smile? How could we find pleasure in watching children grow up? How could we even care about them?

As Captain Kirk said in Star Trek V, "Damn it, Bones, you're a doctor. You know that pain and guilt can't be taken away with a wave of a magic wand. They're the things we carry with us, the things that make us who we are. If we lose them, we lose ourselves! I don't want my pain taken away! I need my pain!!"

Thanks Captain Kirk for that lesson in those illogical human emotions!

Different Relationships; Different Emotions And Thoughts

I have cried an untold of amount of tears over the loss of my mother. Just the other day I was downloading some of her favorite Southern Gospel music and a flood of emotions washed over me. I haven’t cried like that for her in quite some time.

As I was experiencing these strong feelings for her, I noticed something else. It seemed like I was grieving more for Mother than I was for Daddy. It just felt different. Last night, I began thinking again about the differences in the relationships that I had with each one.

Mother was passive, tender, sensitive and a worrier. Daddy was aggressive, domineering and sensitive in a way that was different from Mother. What I mean is, is if someone done or said something he didn’t like, he would want to get back at them. At least he was like this earlier in life when Mother was still living. Actually, Daddy would go through phases. Sometimes he was like this and sometimes not. Even living in the nursing home he would have these spells.

As I’ve mentioned before, Daddy suffered from Bipolar Disorder. But does that give a person an excuse to physically and verbally abuse people? Well, maybe an excuse but not a right. Should I look at it like there were times in his life when he couldn’t help it? Such as when we were children?

My sister and I looked at this differently. At least for a while. I seen it as something that I deserved, but later I began to think about it in a different way.

Apparently, later in life, Daddy didn’t think we deserved it either. He cried a lot over it and asked our forgiveness. I said I forgave him, but deep down I don’t think I did. I know at least one time I just spoke the words without any meaning. They just seemed the right thing to say given the frame of mind he was in. Now that he’s gone, sometimes it seems like it’s easier to forgive him. It would be better if I could forgive him now. It would help me cope with and heal from the grief.

To me, that seems selfish. Just wanting to forgive Daddy for my benefit. As I write this, I’m struggling with my emotions and thoughts.

I don’t even know if I truly loved my parents. At the end of every visit to their house, I would hug Mother bye and kiss her. She would always say, “I love you.” I would just turn away and walk out the door. I know this sounds like I was cold and perhaps I was, but telling Mother that I loved her would feel like a lie.

I believe “love” is more than an emotion. It’s more than just a “warm, fuzzy feeling” you have toward someone. As the country singer Clint Black says, “Love isn’t something that we are, it’s something that we do”. I believe when you love someone, you give part of yourself to that person. I’m not talking just about romantic love. I’m also talking about giving yourself to or doing things for your parents, siblings, friends or even complete strangers.
When I done things for my parents, it wasn’t out of love. It was more out of duty or because I felt I had to do it. A large part of the time when Mother would ask me to do something, I would raise h*ll about it. What grief I gave her!

Later, I did start tell Mother that I loved her. Once again, this was more out of duty. I began asking myself, “What if something happened to one of us and I didn’t tell Mother that I loved her?”

After Mother died, Daddy’s personality seemed to change somewhat. Especially after he went in the nursing home, there were times when he became passive and more dependent. More like Mother was. I would lose my temper with him. The only good thing that I can think of now is that somehow I learned to be more patient with him.

Right now, my heart cries out in opposition to what I done back then.

I know there are people, such as my mother, who would disagree with what I’ve said about not loving my parents. But this is just the way I personally see it.

The Consequences Of Not Properly Coping With My Anger

I continue to have the feelings of anger that are related to my dad’s death that I mention in the December 4 post, but they don’t seem to be as strong as they have been. I haven’t thought about trashing my apartment lately. I realize that I’m continuing to avoid dealing with them properly, but I’m afraid of the intensity of my emotions that I fear will be released. I also realize that I can’t properly grieve and eventually begin to heal by avoiding it. Also, if this anger isn’t dealt with appropriately, it’s likely that I could really take it out on my sister or someone else close to me.

Yesterday, I talked to my therapist, Kara, about my feelings. She asked why I was mad at Daddy. I told her because he died without giving me a chance to say good-bye. Kara pointed out the fact that it wasn’t Daddy’s choice to die when he did; he had no control over it. I began to look at it in a different light. If only a little bit. My anger toward him lessened.

If it’s not Daddy’s fault, then whose is it? God’s? Should I blame God for allowing my daddy to die? Is it right or fair to blame Him? A synonym of blame is to “hold responsible”. God is, after all, responsible for giving us life and He can take it away. Still, in a way, it doesn’t seem right blaming God. Does He make mistakes? Is God cruel and unjust? Sometimes it seems like it, but yet I feel guilty about blaming him. As I consider this, there’s a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach and I feel physically sick.

It has also occurred to me that some of the anger and blame could be directed toward the nursing home where Daddy lived for over four years. I believe some of the nurses there really cared about Daddy, but others I don’t know about. I kind of wonder about the nurses who were on duty that night, but it’s just my mind questioning things.

If there is one person at the nursing home that I would like to hold responsible for my dad’s death, that would be the administrator Mrs. R. I believe there is only one person she cares about and looks out for and that’s herself. Do I have hard feelings for this woman? You better believe it!

Daddy had bipolar disorder and as a result he had a lot of manic episodes while at the nursing home. During one particular period , I was having a very difficult time dealing with it. He was constantly paranoid, believing that many people were out to get them. He was constantly accusing the staff of stealing from him and plotting against him. He was also very grandiose; “I’m the king of the mountain. I’m absolutely right and everyone else is absolutely wrong!”

Yes, Daddy was extremely hard to be around during these times, but I expected someone like Mrs. R. to be a professional and try to help the family. But did she? H*ll no! She raised as much h*ll as Daddy did. She wanted him put out, threatened to have him arrested. She angrily told me that he couldn’t get along with anyone. She emphasized “anyone!” I discovered later that Mrs. R. didn’t know her staff very well. There was more than one nurse who told me they didn’t have any problem with Daddy. Undoubtedly, they had a more professional and caring heart about them than their administrator did.

After Daddy got better, but still sometimes accused the staff of stealing something, Mrs. R. would say “There he goes again!” According to her, there wasn’t anyone else in her nursing home that was as bad as Daddy.

Whenever I would go see her about something where the nursing home was at fault, she would always do one of two things. She would either just sit there and look at me or she would say “You’re free to take him somewhere else if you’re not happy with him being here.” Not one time did she every say the words “I’m sorry”. It was different with the assistant-administrator and the social worker. They seemed to at least have some compassion.

During the time that Daddy was experiencing his manic highs, I really wanted to go off on Mrs. R. and tell her exactly what I thought of her. Probably the only reason that I didn’t was because a close friend cautioned me about trying to get along with her for Daddy’s sake. Now that he’s gone, what’s stopping me? If that woman had went through the motions of expressing her so-called sympathy, that might have been my breaking point. I really would love to ask her why she would start showing concern now.

While sharing this post with you, I’ve begun to realize that I have more anger than I thought. While writing this, I wondered what good does all this anger do for me? Once again I need to remind myself that anger is a part of the grieving process and needs to be worked through in order to heal properly. Even without the grieving part, anger is still part of being human and needs to be properly dealt with.

When I begun writing this, the anger was like a spark within me. Now, it feels more like a fire beginning to blaze.

Confessions From An Alcoholic/Addict

There's a saying in AA that we're only "as sick as our secrets." Well, I have a secret that I need to get rid of. Last month, right after my dad passed away, I visited my pdoc and reluctantly asked her for a prescription of Ativan. I was afraid that she wouldn't give it to me because a couple years ago I had abused it for a little while.

My doc did agree to write the presciption, but said she didn't trust me with it. I agreed with her. She wrote it with the provision that when I got the bottle filled I would bring it to her nurse and let her keep it. I would only get enough for a week at a time. The script was for .5 Ativan twice a day.

Everything went OK for a short time. I took no more than she prescribed. Even then I was hesitant to take as much as it was prescribed. I didn't want to become hooked on it again.

A few days after taking it, I couldn't tell it was working that much. So, I decided to stop taking it. I felt there might come a time when I might really need it and it wouldn't work.

I have this habit of sitting up sometimes all night. I don't want to go to bed. If I could, I'd rather be able to stay up 24/7 and still be able to function properly. Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way.

For the past few nights after I sit up for so long, I begin to get angry about everything. When this happenes, I feel a rage coming on. I want to throw things. So far nothing important. I've resisted the urge so far to trash my apartment.

Either these feelings peaked last night or I just got tired of having them. To make a long story short, I took 5 .5mg of the ativan fairly close together. It mellowed me out some, but didn't come close to giving me the feeling I had gotten a couple years ago. I think then the meds were a little stronger.

What was left, I flushed down the commode. Now I realize there may come a time when I would really benefit from taking the meds right. After all, my grief for dad is still extremely fresh and I don't know where it will take me. I know for a large part, I'm still in denial about it.

The way my thinking works is this. Since I've already abused the pills, I might as well go ahead and get my drug of choice which is whisky and indulge myself. I've only abused ativan and one other drug, hydrocotone for a brief time. My real choice is the whisky.

The thing is, I already feel enough guilt about abusing the pills. I can only imagine how much more guilt I'll feel if I get drunk.

Up until Oct. 2 I had a year of sobriety that I was proud of. Then I gave into the desire to drink... No excuses... I drank because I wanted to. It felt like an overwhelming urge that I got tired of resisting.

I was both open and honest with my counselor and my AA family. I had enough guilt. Lying about it or denying it wouldn't have anything better. I'm grateful for the support that I recieved from all of them.

I just wanted to share this with you and get it out in the open.

Thanks for listening!

Daddy, I miss you so much!

Originally written on 11/9/09

Toward the end of the day is the time when my thoughts of Daddy are the strongest. I don’t know why that is, unless it’s the time when I feel the loneliest. Tonight during the AA meeting my feelings were the strongest they’ve been in several days.


Daddy had never been to Calvin and Sherri’s house, but it was like I could almost see him sitting beside me on the couch. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but I could “feel” his presence there. As I write this now, I “feel” him near me, but not like it was earlier.

I’m not saying this is anything mystical, but I think it’s just me wanting him to be near me again. I miss him so much and he’s only been gone a little over two weeks. How much more will I miss him in the days to come? I never, ever want to stop missing him.

I am so glad that I had the opportunity to talk to him several times the day he died. That morning he seemed to be so happy go lucky. There didn’t appear to be anything bothering him, except maybe his back. He didn’t even get upset when I told him the bank made a mistake and put his check in my account.

I thought that was both funny and ironic. In the past when it was my responsibility to see that his check was deposited, a lot of times I would be late taking care of it. As a result, there would be months when no deposit showed up on his bank statement. He would get upset and think I was keeping his checks for myself. Even after I showed him the statements where there were two deposits, he still didn’t seem to understand that I always put his checks in the bank.

Then just two days before he left us, he took his check to the bank and it was mistakenly put into my account. I discovered what had happened that Friday morning. I called to tell him what happened and that I was going to take care of it. It didn’t seem to bother him a bit. We discussed it a few minutes and he finally said “oh well”. My reply was “Oh, really? Does that mean you don’t care if I keep it?” I don’t think he knew what to say about that. I just laughed and said I was joking. I think Daddy laughed, too.

It’s not surprising that I have regrets when I think about Daddy. There are things that I wished I had done with him. I am glad that I had been able to take him out to eat at least once before he left us. There should have been many more times besides that.

Now, there are things that I’ll never be able to do with him. Such as invite him to my apartment for lunch. Ask him to spend the night with me. He would’ve loved either one of those. I can’t even remember the last time he was in my apartment. He never got to watch a movie with me on my new TV.

Then there were my intentions to do something like a life story about him. I had a list of questions that would have documented his life from the time he was a boy until now. That project will never be done now. I think he would’ve enjoyed that, too.

But don’t I think that Daddy enjoyed talking to me several times that Friday? I believe he did that morning and I would like to think he found some kind of comfort in talking to me that afternoon when he was in such pain.

I only wish that I had known what was causing some of his pain in his stomach. I wish that I could’ve been there with him when he took his last breath. I would have loved to have held his hand, giving him what comfort that I could. I wonder what kind of pain he felt up until the end?

But there’s something else that I keep thinking about. It might have been the very last time that I talked to him at 4:05PM. He said that he wanted me to get back in church. Not for him, but for my sake. I think he wanted me to promise him that I would. I reluctantly said that I would think about it. When I said that I loved him, he replied in a way that he usually did. He said, “I love you with the love of Jesus.”

So, was Daddy really alone when he took his last breath? Could Jesus really have been there holding his hand, giving Daddy comfort that no one on earth could’ve given him? I want to believe when his time was over the angels escorted him to Heaven.

Daddy, I miss you so much!