Rituals.

For those who read this but are unaware: My father passed away this past Saturday, December 6th. I've set up a memorial blog for him at Gwoolslayer.blogspot.com There you can see what I've written as well as others. More content will be coming as my siblings decide what they want to say. Also, there's a Paypal donation button. My father's death has left my mother with financial difficulties. If you can or want to, if you're looking for a good cause or want to help a stranger, please donate. And please pass the word on to those you know, those who may be looking for a way to help others this holiday season.

I am so sick of you all. You "real life" people. Everyone one of you has left me or stabbed me in the back. Fuck you all. Fuck this. And no, this post doesn't have my usual dystopian eloquence. Well fuck that too.

My father is ill. He is in the hospital I am supposed to be concerned. Worried. Afraid. Sad. Something. I am not. Neither am I glad. I am just....aware of it. This is not a delayed reaction. This is my full reaction. "Okay." Chief among the emotions I am not good with is grief. I just don't feel it. Perhaps at most, an absence. A space where a person once was. A lack of reaction where it once existed. But it is not in me to break down. To cry over a lost person. I mourn, yes, but in my own way. A recognition of the person and their life. And that is it. Is my father dying? I don't know. Am I worried? For the way it will effect the future, effect my mother (her ability to live in her own home, her ability to survive without him guiding her steps). But do I worry that my father will be gone? No. Do I worry what my last words to him were? No. They are not important. I have said all I need to say to him. I have told him I no longer blame him, that

I get so sick of people sometimes. And just when they start to pull me back in, I get sick all over again. I keep thinking "there's people out there for you" and for a while, it seems true. But then it just goes to hell. And then hope builds inside me again. Somewhere that I can't control. And lurks under everything I do. So I'm nice and polite and kind because I think, things will be better if I am this way. But they aren't. And every time it happens, I want a place to go back to. A home or a person that will take me in until it washes over. But I don't have a home. And I don't have a person. And I'm tired of dealing with it on my own. And I'm so sick of people who don't allow me to be upset or annoyed, or even angry. I let them be upset and annoyed and angry. Why am I not allowed to be? Why am I "rude?" I'm so sick of people. And this planet has so many of them. I think I'm too even-handed about things. I alw

I want to speak and I want to scream and I want to have things to say. But I have nothing to say except the things I always say. I have no words but the same words, that speak of misery and sorrow and absence.

Everyday gets harder and I don't know when I'm going to give up. I don't know why I haven't already. I wish there was a better explanation for being the way I am. I wish there was more wrong with me, that things were harder for me, so I could spend less time defending myself. And even though no one ever asks, I still feel like I have to defend myself. Like they accuse me without saying anything. And so I spend all this time preparing answers for questions that never come. But I do that any way. Every conversation I ever had, I've already had once before. I run over everything in my mind. Once. Twice. A half dozen times. It gets exhausting. It's all exhausting. And I'm so very tired.

I'm trying to remember what it was like to have stuff to say. To have a point of view. I use to write and those words used to carry my voice. Now I can't recall the sound of them. It makes me sad. But it is one sorrow on top of many. I'm hoping, if I can cure the one at the bottom, the rest will fall away. I just wish I had more control over the things that will make my life better.