#thinking about that time my roommate found me crying and hyperventilating all curled up in a closet

[caffeinatedopossum]

My life really is an angst fanfiction

[hamliet]

tense

this is a personal post; something I wrote to process the experience of losing my dad a year ago today.

I am leaving for India soon. I will be visiting friends. My father is in the hospital. It's nothing new, and still I feel the familiar clench in my stomach I’ve felt almost every one of my twenty-five years.

My first full memory--I have snapshots of earlier, but my first complete scene--is of waking up to find blood all over the kitchen floors and counters, the toilet, the bathroom tiles. White streaks from where someone tried to clean it up. An ambulance, coming to take my father away. The white stretcher. Our neighbor, talking to my mother on our front stoop.

To this day, I hyperventilate at the sight of blood.

He had an illness, but God healed him, my mother insists. He was at death's door and then he wasn't, his liver healed itself. At the very least, God gave him over twenty more years.

He died when I was not yet thirteen, but the paramedics shocked him back, and he got at least a dozen more years. He had forty-something surgeries by the time I was in my twenties.

When I moved to India, I was twenty-one. He called me up before I left, telling me how upset he was, how he didn't like the idea, how I was letting him down. I cried for hours. He'd disliked my choice to major in English and creative writing, disliked my choices of where to live, what I did with my hair. I'd told him years earlier I knew I wasn't the child he wanted. I was too loud, he’d said before, too too too.

He was in too much pain, and so was I. And while there was ten thousand miles between us, he called me. He said, I'm terminally ill. Inclusion body myositis. Coupled with a break-up and a crisis of what to do with me life like all recent college grads, I moved back to the US. The literature didn't match his perspective on his illness, but I believed him. To this day, I don't know what the full truth was.

I think he was tired. I tell him he better hang on. I want a family soon, and I want him to be around. I want him around. He told me he wanted me to be happy and worried when I went through a health scare of my own. He tells me I have a gift for writing. I box up his compliments, storing them in a cavernous space. The empty space I use to crush myself when he lashes out next time; the compliments I unfold on my own time.

I leave for India at twenty-five, visiting friends, when he is out of the hospital. This time, he tells me to have fun, see the friends he knows I adore. And in India, I'm in the hospital with food poisoning, and so is he, with an infection. Then, I'm back from India, and he's out of the hospital. And then he falls and he breaks his arm, and he's back in again, and out.

I see him on Easter and I think how much I dislike the holiday. I love its religious significance. I hate my Easter experiences. I do not want to go home, but I go for him. I wear the skirt I bought in India, the green and blue one made from a sari. He says I look pretty. I box it up.

This weekend, he is sick and cannot eat his favorite pizza. We watch Jumanji, but we pause it while he is ill. He laughs, says he likes it. We argue politics. I ask him if he wants anything from Japan, and he says he wants a cat keychain, and I remember how he said he hated cats until we were nine and he got his first one.

I leave for Japan four days later. My father was the one who encourages me to go anyways, telling me now was the time to travel, and I remember how he'd been so opposed to me living in India before. He's grown, too, and he gives me hope.

Four days later, I call him before I fly out to Tokyo. He tells me to have fun and reminds me, "Don't forget my keychain!"

"I won't," I promise.

I text him at the airport, when I almost miss my connecting flight. He says he is praying for me to make my flight. I do. I text him after leaving Don Quijote’s in Tokyo, telling him I found his keychain. It lights up in a combination flashlight, but I don't tell him this part. He texts me back a cat emoji, the one with the red heart eyes.

I text him some pictures throughout the rest of the week. He doesn't respond. I look forward to telling him about Hiroshima. I plan out the stories I will tell, the inflection of my voice when I tell him. It is, in many ways, one of the best weeks of my life.

The day before I leave Tokyo, my sister calls and tells me my dad was in the hospital with encephalopathy. His liver is failing him. But he is better now. He will be okay, my sister tells me. I look to my friend I'm traveling with, and I don't know what I want to say to assure myself.

My flight heading back is a disaster. When I realize I will miss my connecting flight, I burst into tears. The flight attendant asks me what's wrong. I tell her my dad is dying. It is the first time I say these words out loud with a sense of imminence.

My brother runs the Boston marathon back home, the third time, and in the worst weather in years. But he writes my dad's name on his shoes, since my dad always wanted to run it but never did. He finishes despite the cold.

I land in Boston thirty hours later and call my parents the next day. My dad is napping. That night, my mom calls me. Her voice crackles. She begs me to visit this weekend. "Please." That word is emphasized. I don't remember the other words, not specifically.

I promise I will come. I cry, too, hot tears on my face, and my roommate grabs her keys and tells me, let's go.

We drive down. His skin, freckled and marked like all Irishmen, is stained yellow from jaundice. Agony rends his limbs, and he curls up, moaning, a pink basin on him for if he vomits. I am angry and praying and ordering doctors and God to make him better. They stabilize him and I tell him I love him, kissing his cheek. He thanks me for coming, voice hoarse but still very, very alive.

I spend the next two days working, in a fog, because by that point I know. My sister and my brother still think he'll get better. I tell my roommates I don't think that any more. I've said it aloud, but to someone I don't know. Saying it to people I do: it's cold slicing through me. The coming days will be the tipping point, the cliff, and soon I will fall and I don't know when that fall will end. There is a horrible part of me that wants that rope to just break already, just snap already, I can't take dangling anymore. I know the inevitable, just let me go, I've never liked suspense, not even in movies. But I'm not ready to fall, and I'm not ready to dangle again either. I can't imagine him being gone. I try to make plans for what will happen to the cats he's rescued. My brain won't cooperate.

When I see him that Saturday, I know. I cry almost instantly. My sister sees, and she knows, and she leaves with her boyfriend to cry, to think. He doesn't recognize me, I don't think. My mom says he does. He keeps trying to get up, but his legs can't support him, and I'm scared if he gets up when I'm alone with him that he will fall and break something. I am not strong enough, but I cannot let him fall, but I can't stop it either. I pray. Daddy, I am scared.

My sister and her boyfriend return. He catches my dad when he falls. My dad keeps thinking we're leaving the hospital. "Mama, let's go," he says to my mom. They've always called each other by their roles. Mama, Dad.

I brought his keychain in a small crinkly bag from the store in Tokyo. I can't give it to him. The doctor gives us the end of life talk. I cry more, but I plan to give him the keychain the next day, once they get the medicine that will, at the very least, stabilize his brain so he can recognize me.

My mom breaks down that night. "I don't want to lose him." I hold her, as does my sister and her boyfriend.

I write a Facebook message to my cousin. I tell her, my dad is dying. She calls me the next morning, when we are already at the hospital and his breathing is slowing. My mom calls my uncles, my aunt, my father's siblings. "It's going to be today." Someone calls my brother, who was running a race six days after running the marathon. He jumps in his car and races towards the hospital.

The nursing staff have put soft, ethereal music on. It at least gives the room with its antiseptic smell and shoes squeaking on tiles a spiritual presence, something foggy and soft to wrap around us. I text my friends, asking them to bring me clothes to stay for the week, telling them this is it.

My sister leaves for a minute. I say goodbye, and I don't remember what I said. I know I said I loved him. You would think I would remember my words, but I don't, beyond a phrase I'd said thousands of times.

His breathing skips in places. My mom and I try. She tells him to hang on, my brother's not here yet. I say the same, and then, because I am scared, I tell him it's okay to go if he can't hang on. My mom says no, and he listens. Because my dad doesn't give up. He hangs on.

My brother arrives. He holds my dad's hand. It is swollen and it doesn't look like his hand anymore. He speaks to him.

My mom says "I think he's gone." He's not yet. But within ten minutes of my brother arriving, he slips away.

I kiss his cheek before I leave. He is cold.

My mom cries and I tell her the only thing that comforts me, that maybe if God exists outside of time, we are already with him.

That night, I watch Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 2 with two friends, via rabbit. It is the series of movies--the GOTG ones--that my dad and I made a point to see together.

We bury him with the cat keychain in his hands.

It's May, and I am angry that no one wants to ask me about his death. I am lonely. It's a few weeks later, and I am told I have to move my apartment, one of my best friends is moving away, and it is too much. I keep thinking, I need to call my dad, and it strikes me each time.

You can’t.

It's June, and I listen to the voice messages I have saved in my phone, the times he called me in India. It is July, and his birthday and my brother's and my sister's and mine all come during that family month, and my friends check up on me. It is September, and I move to a new place, a place he's never seen. It is winter, and I am dying too.

I wake nightly with a nauseated cloud in my head dribbling rain and memories down my spine. I dream his death again and again. I dream of my grandfather's death when I was fourteen, the one whose funeral my father missed because he was rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery. I dream of my grandmother's death, the one who told my mother she was trying to hold onto life until I got back from India to say goodbye. I didn't make it in time, but in my dreams, I do.

I don't know how to dream anymore without nightmares. Not just death ones, but the ones in which I say all that was unsaid between us. There was so much to say, and I didn’t know how in the time we had. And neither did he.

Depression, a frequent visitor since my teen years, comes to shroud me. I feel like I'm walking through a world of static mostly, the kind where I can't concentrate on colors or people. I go on a few dates. Guys will eventually ask about your family, and I can't always dodge. Nothing lasts, but more often than not, I am the one who deletes their number. My therapist and my doctor are scared. They tell me I need to do something, but I don't know what. My boss badgers me. I get a few job rejections.

I want to give up.

I am tired.

He is the one somewhere far away, and I can't reach him. And so here I am, writing. Hey, Dad, can you hear me?

There are people who reach for me, too, friends and fellow writers, some whom I’ve never met in person, and they tell me, I better hang on. I call my doctor. I increase my dose of antidepressant, a different kind but still an SSRI, from the one he started only months before he died. I don’t know if they had the chance to work on him, but maybe they will help me, hold my hand at least through the rest of this year, beyond if needed, until I can walk on my own again.

My brother runs the Boston marathon and he lays the medal on his grave. He wonders if it's morbid to have taken the picture he sends to me, the medal with its blue ribbon coiled at the foot of his grave, and I say no, it comforts me.

My sister's gotten engaged, to the boy who caught my father when his legs wouldn't hold him anymore.

It is Easter, and I wear the same blue and green sari skirt, and I think, I look pretty. I've started a new dose of Zoloft, and it's Easter. Resurrection, Love in a Human conquering death, the last enemy, a Son returning to his mother on earth and then his Father in heaven, and, I hope.

I wasn’t better yet. But I am here, writing this, and I think I will be. Time is not constant in experience and maybe not at all. It is especially the case for me with grief, so I am both okay, and not okay, healed and bleeding, mourning and laughing.

And so, again: Dad, can you hear me?

There’s a lot to say. In time, I will.

I love you.

[turtle-steverogers]

Relapse

here’s some sad stuff for @irondad-spiderson-duo who suggested ralbert angst

ship: platonic ralbert

warnings: minor character death, alcohol addiction, breakdown and shiz

editing: nah nah

Albert’s phone rang loudly next to him, and he put down the highlighter he was using to annotate Jane Eyre to pick it up.  It was his 14 year old brother, Thomas, calling and Albert frowned.  Usually if they needed to reach him, Albert’s brothers texted him.  It was rare that they’d ever call.

He picked up tentatively, “Thomas?” Loud, frantic breaths could be heard on the other end and Albert sat up straighter, instantly feeling more alert.

“Al-Albert,” Thomas panted out, sobs intermixing with his breaths, “Albert, I can’t- he, I- and dad didn’t- fuck, Albie, help.”

“Thomas, Thomas, hey,” Albert soothed, running an anxious hand through his hair, “Breathe for me, man.  I’ll help you however I can, but you need to breathe first so you can tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t do it, Albert, I,” He hiccuped brokenly, “Elijah, he-”

Albert’s stomach sank, “Thomas,” he said, dread causing his stomach to clench, “What’s wrong with Eli?”  Elijah was his 10 year old brother whom he’d raised along with Thomas.  Their father had been absent emotionally ever since their mother’s suicide in Albert’s junior year of high school.  The two of them meant everything to Albert and he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if something happened to one of them.

“Th-there was a car crash,” Thomas choked out, “And Elijah- Albert, I can’t.”

Albert swallowed any fear that consumed him in the moment and switched his mind into parent mode, “Thomas, dude, can you try and take a deep breath for me?  Do you remember how we used to do it?  In for four, hold for four, out for four.”  He could hear Thomas struggling through the breathing exercises on the other end and he patiently coached him through until he sounded somewhat calmer.  He was still crying, but he was no longer hyperventilating, which was an improvement.

“Awesome, man,” Albert praised, “Now, can you tell me what’s happening?”

“His neck snapped,” Thomas said, a fresh wave of sobs coming through the speaker, “Albie, he’s gone.”

Albert was speechless.  Suddenly, Thomas’ cries seemed a million miles away.  All thoughts slipped out of Albert’s mind as Thomas’ words bounced around in his head.  ‘He’s gone’.  He’s dead.  Elijah’s dead.  His neck snapped and he’s dead.

“Albie, I’m sorry,” Thomas cried, “I’m so, so sorry.  I should have-”

Albert snapped back to the present.  He cut Thomas off, his voice more controlled than it should have been, “Thomas, I need you to listen to me, are you listening?”

“Y-yeah.”

“This is not your fault.  Whatever happened wasn’t your fault, you hear me?”

“But maybe if I had just-”

“Stop it, Thomas, I won’t have you blaming yourself for this.  His death is not your fault,” The reality of the situation sank in and Albert felt the air leave his lungs.  Being on the phone with Thomas felt like too much all of a sudden, and before he could think about what he was doing, Albert said, “I gotta go, man, I’ll call you back in a bit.”  He hung up without waiting for an answer, feeling slightly guilty that he’d left Thomas on his own.  But these feelings were soon forgotten as grief engulfed his entire being.  

His brain felt like mush.  He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t.  He wanted to scream, but no sound came out.  He wanted to punch something, but his limbs weren’t cooperating.  

He found himself in the kitchen with no recollection of how he got there.  Numbly, he stumbled towards the kitchen sink and opened the cabinet underneath.  Near the back was his stash of liquor.  Two small whiskey flasks and one large bottle of vodka were hidden behind the hand towels.  In his freshman year of college, the first time he’d been able to escape his father’s abuses, Albert turned to alcohol to deal with his pent up trauma from his time at home.  It quickly turned into an addiction, affecting every aspect of his life.  There was rarely a time when Albert wasn’t drunk on something.  Whether it be hard liquor, or a beer, he was constantly buzzed.  It was an escape from his own mind.  He could numb out the rest of the world, while simultaneously feeling more than he had in years.  He depended on the warmth that alcohol brought him.  His addiction lasted until his liver almost failed and he had to be hospitalized in his sophomore year.  After he was released from the hospital, his roommate and high school best friend, Racetrack Higgins, put his foot down and demanded he quit.  In his words, ‘if not for your own good, then for your brothers’’.  It took awhile, but eventually Albert was weaned off his dependency, but he could never bring himself to fully get rid of his stash, always keeping some kind of juice under the sink for emergencies.  

This was an emergency.  Albert reached for the vodka and desperately screwed off the cap.  He brought the bottle to his lips and down a quarter of the vile liquid in under five seconds.  Tears pricked Albert’s eyes as the alcohol burned his throat and instantly, he felt a new sense of calm wash over him as it spread through his system.  

Closing his eyes, he took another large gulp and his brain began to feel fuzzy.  The pain of Elijah’s death lingered at the back of his mind, but for now, he was lost in the serenity of the buzz.  He drank more, half the bottle already gone.  He could tell that he was approaching drunk, but he didn’t care.  Heavily, he lowered himself to the floor and was just about the take another swig, when the apartment door opened.

“Yo, Al,” He heard Race call, “You here? Oh, there you-” Race froze as he took in Albert, sitting on the floor, bottle in hand.  His head was lolling to the side slightly and his eyes were heavily hooded.  He was drunk.

“Albert, man,” Race said, anger, confusion, and concern tugging at his gut, “What are you doing?”

“The fuck does it look like, Higgins,” Albert slurred, holding up the vodka for emphasis, “M’partyin’.”

“Albert,” Race didn’t leave the disappointment out of his voice, “You were doing so well,” he crossed over to him and carefully tugged the bottle away.  Albert tried to fight back, but he was weaker than Race in his drunken state.  Race dumped the rest of the vodka into the sink and tossed the bottle in the recycling.

“Is there any more?” He asked in the same tone.  Albert nodded wordlessly and pointed to the sink cabinet.  Race sighed and knelt down to dig through, quickly finding the flasks of whiskey.  He disposed of those as well, then hoisted Albert up.  

Albert leaned heavily on Race as he dragged him to his bedroom.  Albert flopped onto his bed, sleep overcoming him almost immediately.

By the time he woke up, it was dark outside.  A massive headache was pounding his skull and he groaned loudly.  Everything that had happened earlier in the day came flooding back and Albert had to resist the urge to vomit as guilt and grief mixed with his nausea.  Race entered his room, holding a tall glass of water and two tylenol tablets in his hands.  He handed them to Albert, who took the pills and downed the water greedily.  Race sat at the foot of his bed, waiting for him to finish.  Albert set the now empty glass on his bedside table and sat up against the headboard, pulling his knees up to his chest.  

“We need to talk about this, man,” Race said, softly.  Albert kept his gaze on his sheets, refusing to look at Race, “Why’d you relapse?”

Feeling surged back into Albert as he remembered Elijah’s passing, bringing unbearable pain with it and he soon felt like he was drowning.  The room felt too small and he pushed off his blankets as emotions suffocated him.

“Hey, hey,” Race said, eyes widening, “Breathe, dude, breathe.”

Albert forced himself to take a couple deep breaths, becoming acutely aware of the fact that his face was wet with tears, “E-Elijah,” he croaked, “You know my brother, Elijah.”

“I know Elijah, yes,” Race said, eyebrows knitting together, “What about him?”

“Thomas called me earlier to tell me there was a car crash.  Eli didn’t make it.  His neck snapped and he-” Albert let out a sob and he pushed himself further into the headboard.

Race blanched and he shifted further onto the bed, reaching out hesitantly to Albert.  He allowed his hand to hover above Albert’s shoulder in silent question.  When Albert nodded, Race pulled him in and held him tightly.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Race murmured, sounding close to tears himself, “I can’t even imagine…”

“He was ten fucking years old,” Albert cried into his shoulder, “He didn’t even get to middle school.”

Race hushed him, rubbing his bicep soothingly.  They stayed in that position for what seemed like forever while Albert cried.  Eventually his sobs slowed to small hiccups and he pulled away, rubbing at his face.

It was quiet for a few moments, then Race asked, “What do you need?” He’d learned a while back never to ask Albert if he was okay, because if they were in a situation that warranted that question, the answer was most likely ‘no’.  Instead, he had taken to asking him what he could do for him.  This way, Albert didn’t need to outright ask for help- something he was never good at- instead, he could simply request comfort.

“Could you..” He trailed off, biting his lip.

“Could I what?  I’ll do whatever you need me to,” Race said, gently squeezing his knee in encouragement.

“Could you stay the night?” Albert blushed, feeling ashamed.

Race smiled kindly, “Of course, Al.”  He toed off his socks and climbed into the bed next to Albert.

“Blankets or no?” He asked, nonchalantly.

“Uh, sure,” Albert said, settling his head back onto one of his pillows.

“Okay, let me know if you need them or me off at any point,” Race said, pulling the blankets over the two of them.  Albert curled onto Race’s chest and closed his eyes, breathing in his best friend’s familiar and comforting scent.  He was briefly brought back to high school when he’d escape to Race’s house if his dad was being particularly harsh or physical and they’d share a bed, Race holding Albert tightly.  

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Race,” Albert whispered, voice hitching slightly.

“I’ve got you, Al,” Race whispered back, “I’ll help you figure this out.”

“Thank you, Tony.”

“I’m here for you, Albert, but do me one favor.”

“What.”

Race’s voice took on a certain sternness as he said, “Next time you feel like you might want to drink again, call me first.  I swear to God I’ll come home right away.”

Albert hesitated, emotions rising in his throat again, “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Race said, “I’m not mad, I swear.  I just want you to come to me next time, yeah?”

Albert nodded, “Yeah.”

“Thank you.  Now try and sleep, I’ll be here all night if you need me.”

“Okay, thank you.  Goodnight, Racer.”

“Goodnight Albert.”

--

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu if you wanna be added to my tag

TAG LIST: @bencookisagod @we-dont-sell-papes @suddenly-im-respecsable @aw-jus-let-em-try @well-the-kids-do-too @spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn @thatpoorguysheadisspinning @labert-dasilver

@andthewoildwillknow @the-newsies-justice-for-zas-blog @sunshine-e-cigarettes @have-we-got-news-for-you @musical-shitposts @thebroadwayaesthetic

@thomasbeingthomas

@irondad-spiderson-duo