on Friday I finally caught the Buffy episode where Joyce dies. amazing TV.
on the surface, I was reminded of when Dizzy’s adopted kids’ mom died. but what made me weep – sob, really – was just thinking of my father’s death. it feels like there’s a short circuit in my brain, whenever I see anything about parental death, if I’m in anything resembling a safe environment, I just fall apart. and I can’t help but see it as a disability; it’s not like I’m thinking about him all the time, just when I am reminded, it opens up this hole inside of me, which I fall into.
which always leaves for me two questions:
1) what does it mean for the rest of my life? am I being silently handicapped by these emotions I haven’t entirely processed?
2) what should I do? (or should I do anything? therapy? group therapy? more writing?)
I’m torn – on the one hand, I want to understand this emotional response and figure out what it means. on the other hand, I’m inclined to think that it’s pointless (and maybe even self-indulgent) to dwell on it.
(update: strangely, shortly after writing this, I read Dave Winer’s ruminations on his father’s illness & his own heart disease, and the lovely piece he linked to about the poet Beatrice Hawley. read the poetry. oh, and K? stop smoking already.)