Life in Paragraphs

It’s me again.

After such a long period of silence, I feel I have some explaining to do. Yes, of course you know about my grandfather, and the way the cancer ran it’s course as we sat and watched him wither away. There was nothing more heartbreaking than watching the strongest man I know lay down and idle his way to the end. The worst part was kissing his head and saying goodbye. The pain that settled in the deepest part of my chest has yet to leave me. I knew his death was imminent, but what happened next was unbearable. 

You know my aunt, and the kind of person she is. But the world doesn’t. They cannot imagine the vile, despicable things that woman is capable of, and for that, I forgive them for not understanding my pain. But you know, and you watched on as she tore my family apart.

Grandpa didn’t have a written will. He told us what he wanted us to have, he told us to take his things before he passed, as though he knew what she would do once he was gone. But we couldn’t know, and we refused to pick off of him like vultures circling their decaying prey. We loved him too much. But he knew. Once he was gone, we tried to gather our beloved memorabilia. For my mother: his cane, his hat, and a lamp he crafted as a child. And for my uncle, his hunting guns. Simple things, but things we would hold dear to our hearts.

But we weren’t given the chance. My aunt is vicious, and her jealousy (or maybe her narcissism) kept her from allowing us that process of grief. She convinced my dear grandma (suffering of dementia) that we stole those things, because why would grandpa ever give those to us? As though we did not deserve the physical reminders of his life. She wanted them back, so she asked, and we refused. We knew they were ours. But then they obtained a restraining order against my uncle, to recover the “stolen” guns. They threatened to get one against my mother, but her heart was too broken to think of being legally banned from seeing her own mother, so she returned his cane, his hat, and the precious lamp.

Hatred. It’s dark, and vile, and it fills my soul at the thought of my aunt and what she has done. But she didn’t stop there. We had a service planned for the 3rd of August (he passed July 17th). But she cancelled it, and decided a trip to Wisconsin would be more beneficial to my elderly grandma, to see family she hadn't visited in ages. 

While they were catching up with old friends, my grandfather was cremated and his ashes were left sitting there for weeks, waiting for my aunt and grandma to finally have the time to pick him up. The thought of him witnessing this from Heaven sickens me. My stomach turns and my face heats up at the thought of such a disrespectful act.

Lord, why?

I don’t know where his ashes are, we never got to spread them over his desired resting spot in the Colockum. It makes me absolutely sick. What’s more, nobody on my grandma’s side of the family believes us. They agree with my aunt that we are trying to steal from her and that we treated her with disrespect. They have no idea the state of her isolation and the manipulation she has endured from my aunt.

Is it possible to feel his spirit here? Because I can feel a great deal of sadness, anger, and disappointment in the way things were handled after his passing.

And Lord, I have never felt so much hurting in my life, you know this. To watch my mother break into tears over and over again. To try to be strong for her, to console her, when I know perfectly well that this kind of pain is inconsolable. I could not imagine what it would be to have my own mother and sister turn against me so soon after the passing of my father. To put myself in her shoes gives me so much pain I can hardly stand. The thought of it crushes me until I gasp for air in between sobs. I hurt for her. I hurt for my grandpa, and how we have been denied the closure that a memorial service brings. I do not feel like he is resting in peace, Father, because I know he isn’t free. And I am appalled. We haven’t spread his ashes. We don’t know what has been done with them.

I think the devil himself lives inside my aunt. The thought sends shivers down my spine and makes me cringe. I hate to think that she is the one taking care of my grandma.

Hate, hate, hate.

“Hate is a strong word.” My mother, teachers, (most adults in my life), used to say to me as a child when I thought I hated something. I had no idea. It is a strong feeling as well. Being consumed by it is a dark and dangerous thing for me. I need help finding a safe and healthy release, because screaming at the top of my lungs and speeding down the highway until I’m blinded by salty tears is doing nothing for me.

And I drink. Not as often as some would think, but when I do, I drink until my vision turns to spots and I’m no longer in control of my body. I drink until I black out nearly every time, and I’m sick of it (quite literally).

I turned to drugs. Because I tried it before, I knew pot would numb my mind to the hatred and the anger and the sorrow too deep to bear.

But, God, as you know, numbing my mind is not solving the problem. It only adds regret and self-loathing to the equation. Ah, self loathing.

My depression has raised its dark head, and I cannot put it to rest. Aside from the stress of everything I had been put through after my grandfather’s passing, I’ve killed myself in school, struggling for the best grades, and I am my harshest critic. I have always had a problem with self-esteem and self-loathing. You know that. In two weeks it will have been one year since my overdose. The Vicodine nearly put me out, but you sent my guardian angel, and my mother kept me alive. The problems that pushed me to the edge last year are absolutely nothing compared to the harsh reality that has become of my life. And that scares me. If I fell to suicidal thoughts over nothing, what am I going to do now? The thoughts still creep up on me, and I have a hard time hushing them. They are loud and they are ruthless. I struggle with the urge to cut, and worst of all, I have a bottle of Trazodone on my bedside table. Those could put me out.

Is it You who tells me to put it back down, when I pick up the blade or the bottle? When I am a split-second away from harming myself, or taking the pills, I remember how scary it felt to be so close to death last year. I remember how much pain my mother is already in, and what losing me might do to her. It all floods over me in a second, and it’s almost as though another hand holds mine and helps me drop my weapon of choice. If it’s you, thank you.

And God, I am so sorry.

My body was your canvas, you molded me from scratch and thought I was perfect. You think I’m beautiful. You loved me before I even knew who I was. You thought the world of me before I ever took a breath. And here I am calling myself ugly, defacing your canvas with vicious cuts, and ruining my insides with alcohol and drug consumption. There is nothing beautiful about that.

Please forgive me, Father.

Heal my broken soul and help me rid of this evil hatred and anger that has consumed me. Let me make peace with my grandfather’s passing, and help me forgive my aunt for her self-centered ways. I need to trust in You. I know that when her time comes, it will be far worse than the life she has lived on this earth. She will not repent. She is not sorry. But I intend to forgive her. Because after all, that is what you would do. Let me see this world through your eyes, and remember that your love, and your opinion should be the only one that matters. Help me remember that it does not matter what anyone else (including myself) thinks, because You think I’m beautiful.