i've been dreaming about my dad again. when he first died, i dreamed about him several times in a night, every night. but that lulled for quite a while. i hadn't been dreaming about him for at least a year until recently, and now it seems to be every night again.

the dreams are weird. it's my dad's body, but his character is strangely altered. he's usually mad and angry, but in the dreams, these aren't just temporary mood shifts, the mad and the angry are always there. but somehow, in my dreams, i know he's acting this way because he's sick, and for some reason, his illness has altered his personality.

this is nothing like real life. besides that my dad so rarely got mad or angry, no signs of illness existed until that very morning. we had no idea he was dying--no idea his heart was struggling as it was.

in my dreams, too, i know he's on the very verge of death. i know he could leave us at any moment, so i can't leave his side, no matter the strange alteration of his personality. i want to be around him. i want to cling to him, to get every last possible second with him that i can. i wake up every time. i never witness his death in my dreams, for which i'm thankful. but i'm not sure the constant waiting for it doesn't do more damage. it's like he's back mysteriously in our lives. i can't really figure out, in my dream, what happened, why he was gone in the first place, all i know is that i have a second chance to be with him, and i'm on the figurative edge of my seat in every dream, afraid that he's going to leave any second.

strange as it may sound, i'm grateful for these dreams. even though they're exhausting and sometimes heartbreaking, they're also small images of my dad. small chances to sort of be with him and remember him. i don't mind too much that he's not "himself," because even in my dreams, i can remember what he's really like, who he really was. i remember his smiles and his laughter, and i remember how he looked at me with that very special look that only daughters know. that look that says there's nothing in the world he wouldn't do for me. that look of sweet admiration. that look that says all he sees when he looks at me is the little girl he used to hold in his arms. i still know that look. i still remember those eyes. i remember his smell and the sound of his voice. i remember how he felt, where he was squishy, and where he was only bones. i remember where his tan line started on his arms, and which veins popped out that i liked to squish.

i remember it all. i remember it so well that it both hurts and delights; so well that most of the time i try not to remember it so i don't have to deal with the hurt part.

....

I feel strangely free tonight. Free from worry, free from grief, free from the constant weight that is life and the future. I don't know how. I don't know what's different tonight than any other night, but this is a precious sensation. No matter how long or short it may last, I must (and do) treasure it.

The most prominent freedom I'm feeling is from my constant worries about love. I want to be in it desperately, and on a normal evening, my heart hurts because no one I know is him. But tonight, i feel strangely free. He is there, or he is not, and either way I'm going to be okay.

This feels glorious.

two years.

TWO YEARS. the fact is glaring, and obvious, and brightly lit in front of me. i knew over Thanksgiving that then was the two-year mark of my last time seeing and speaking with my dad. hugging him. sitting next to him. joking with him. being lectured for not checking my oil in my car.
TWO YEARS. the fact screams at me, like it's trying to force me to acknowledge my dad is never coming back. he's not going to show up at church one day. he's not going to come home for lunch tomorrow. in five more years, he still won't be here. in 18 more years, i will have not seen my dad in 20 years...and someday, that reality will be in front of me.
TWO YEARS. and i wonder if my brother will call this time. he must care..? is he hurting, too? should i be calling him? but i'm here. with my mom. he should call. he should call more often than he does anyway. he should visit our home more often than twice a year, too. for all intents and purposes, he should need us as much as we need him. we're family and we lost someone dear two years ago, and we need each other.
two years. i can't believe it. multiples of years. an S on the end of year. i still think to myself, "how did we get here?" partially because i don't really see how we've made it this long without my dad, but also because i just don't know how we got here. how we're here and he's not. it doesn't make sense in my confused head. it doesn't make sense at all.
24 years. that's how long i knew my dad. i'm so grateful for those 24 years, and i wouldn't trade those years in for anything. but two years is not a long enough time to be only grateful, and not sad. no, i will be a combination of grateful and sad on this day, and 364 others for the rest of my life.
i miss you, dad.

Over the Rhine, one of my favorite bands of late, has a beautiful song called "Latter Days." If only I could project some meaning, understand what they're trying to say. I'm far too careful with that, if it's possible. I despise the idea of labeling things I have no business labeling. The chorus, though, of this beautiful song, says, "There is a me you would not recognize...Call it the shadow of myself." I love the line. Applying my own meaning, which is terribly unlike me, I must say, I come up with obvious parallels to my battle against determining who am, now that my dad is dead and life is no longer what it once was.
I feel terribly like this person I am today is a shadow of who I used to be, before my dad died, before I lost important bits of faith, before I changed my mind about my purpose, if there is one, to my existence. But at the same time, in the same instant, with the raging battle between rational and feeling, I feel more alive, more like "me" in these latter days, than I ever have...my whole life.
I've picked up a smoking habit. I like to drink, sometimes in excess. I curse and I lie and I bare this general weight on my shoulders...something about, "What does it mean to be real?" Feeling all these things, while tragic, makes me feel more real than I have, maybe ever. Feeling doubts and angst and anger makes me feel like I'm finally feeling something of value, something beyond this eternal and optimistic hope in Christ. It's like now I have this reason to understand grace to its fullest.
To add more cliches, it's like a veil has been lifted and I'm finally experiencing life, in all its ugliness and tragedy. But instead of feeling hopeless, or instead of feeling overwhelmed and empty, I feel grateful. Grateful for this opportunity to understand.
I am a dualist. A double. A complex. I am in a constant, never-ending battle with myself over my mind and heart. Which should win? Which should sustain? I'm learning, slowly, neither must beat out the other. Mind nor heart must win this so-called battle, because one cannot do without the other. ...
I'm not good at endings. That's all I have for now.

My moments of missing my dad come and go in waves, as is expected, I suppose. Some days I think of him every minute of every hour, and others maybe only a few times a day. Sometimes I can go a few days without misery, sometimes a week, and other times I'd rather die than feel the crushing pain of such a loss.
Some days, like today, I find little ways of bringing him back, of feeling him, of making him more real. These days I do something tangible, like wear his shirts, or play his guitar, or, as in today's case, build things.
I strapped on his tool belt, filled it with nails and screws. I used his chop saw, his electric drill, his battery-powered drill, his hammer, and I listened to his favorite CD. I stood on his ladder in that tool belt, hammering nails into 2x6s, humming along to Bill Mallonee and the Vigilantes of Love. "Welcome all you suckers to Suckerville..." Working hard with my hands makes me feel like my dad. Feeling like my dad helps me feel my dad. The pit of my stomach twists and turns and like so many other times, I'm pounded by the incessant silence of his voice that he's really, truly, endlessly gone.
I hate to be so glum. I hate that I can't yet put a smile on my face and be glad for him, where he is, and that even though I had 24 perfect years by his side, I can't for a second be thankful while I'm perseverently wishing him back. I'm not there yet. I pray, pray, pray that someday soon I can banish the cloud of sadness and grow in the light of the Hope which exists as my dad's legacy and love.
...

today.

i stood there, today, looking at his back, at his cute little tush (not too little, just perfect), thinking "he's one of the good ones, i think." and still, i stood there wishing, from the depths of my heart, wildly unknown to me until it creeps into my late night thoughts, as it so often does, wishing, dreaming, pretending he was someone else. someone i know is so much "worse." someone who broke my heart once, has never apologized, and who, undoubtedly, i would let break my heart a million times more, if he would.
why is it that heartbreak from some people is so much more priceless, so much more sought after, than happiness with another? how can i even think about letting him break my heart again? and again and again and again until the day i die. is this love? that i sink so low, willing to break for someone who doesn't need me? that i'm willing to leave every good path i know and travel, to follow someone whose value for me doesn't extend beyond occasional sex, and some fun times?
love is so many things. it's sacrifice, dependence, loss, pain, need, and passion, and does not abandon for mistreatment, rejection, dishonesty, or betrayal. love is so beyond reason, i lay myself aside one thousand times a week to pour my soul into another being, whether he accepts my soul or not. and in this case, he does not. he only takes advantage, and takes for granted, and takes whatever i give him, absorbing what he chooses, and banishing the rest to be swallowed back, choked down, and regurgitated later--by me.
this is love. a very one-sided love, but marked with all the intensity and passion of a love so true. where does it end? when does it stop? at what point, do i say "enough," and choose to move forward? more importantly, can someone please, please take me to that point and throw me over the edge, that i might jumpstart this process called "getting over him"?
the process has begun. it began when i saw the glint in his eye. the glint that spoke a million rejections, a million betrayals. the day i got on a plane and left his arms, i began the process, the long, trying, immobilizing and paralyzing process, of doing this thing called moving on. who knows how long it will take. i just passed the two-month mark, and time is moving slowly. but time is like medicine, healing and soothing, and powerful. it will end, this pang, or "knife" as some say, stabbing through my heart when i wish one man were another. time is my mother, my best friend, my physician and my comforter. today, time is my ally.

i sort of have this feeling i could write. right now. but i'm terrified of it. of writing, of the feeling like i could. what if i try and i fail? what if i DO write something, then tomorrow i'm back to what's lately been "normal," the extended power writer's block of this millennium. i'm not going to try. i'll just do my normal thing here and write what i can.

i went to the gravestone today. at the memorial gardens. i didn't feel like i was going to cry when i pulled up, but i always cry at the memorial gardens, sitting next to that impersonal gravestone marked Edward E. Schorstein, who's my dad, but how can it possibly symbolize reality? reality: he's gone. he's dead. he's not coming back tomorrow, or next week, or when i'm 50. that's the real and terrifying kicker... he's gone forever.

that's all i have for now.