Skinny Girl will freeze in the freezer; just to make you aware of that fact.
This is the end of two full days of carrying a heavy burden of loss and trying to handle things differently. I am tired but unable to sleep so I am on my computer drinking a bottle of skinny girl margarita...the things you get to do when you live alone.
It's not really doing much and I've found I probably have the tolerance I had when I first got out of the military and could do 5 drinks + shots and still function and wake up normal the next morning. Thankfully I do not have that kind of alcohol in my apartment tonight...I may be tempted to drink it.
I have my window open and I'm listening to the late night street racing going on in the neighborhood. I'm 'watching' an episode of Supernatural on netflix. I've gotten a decent amount of schoolwork done and have a schedule, tentatively, for the weekend.
But now I cannot find things to pass the time anymore. The things I could be doing, would be more beneficial to do, are too far away-both physically and psychologically-to grasp. So I drink.
I wish I could drink to sleep, drink to forget, drink make everything better. But that only works when I'm in groups. When I'm alone the alcohol goes down more like it's tea. What's the point in that?
I realize how much of my father I do have in me, especially at times like this. I can imagine him sitting in his apartment right before he died on May 26th listening to similar sounds. It's like I'm in the room with him as he wrote his final letter and stepped out to the neighboring apartment to give it to his neighbor. My hand is his hand as he rigs the lock to not open. But I careen back into my own apartment before he takes his life.
I would rather remind people of my father than have people I am a dead ringer for my mother. I see my mother as weak, insufficient, and neglectful. Every time I have a family member make the 'you look like your mom' comment on FB pictures I cringe inside.
It's easier to identify with the man I never knew than the mom who didn't take care of me. I wonder if she broke that year and the brokenness kept her from being what I needed. I wonder if she was already broken and his suicide was just the nails on the fragile coffin.
It's hard to believe that he didn't know what he was doing right over my mother's birthday. Suicide rates are higher after holidays because so many people wait...did part of him narcistically make her remember his death as 'her fault' every year for the rest of her life?
I am so mad, and I wish I were able to bury my head in the sand this weekend. I wish life were easy and I had it all figured out. I wish I didn't see myself creating a noose from a jump rope and knowing the aftereffects of that cording on my dads neck.
I wish I had something stronger than skinny girl margarita