My father couldn’t speak by the time he was bed ridden. He could only sort of mouth words.This was a result of his liver failing, and thus an inability to send the right nutrients to his brain for it to work functionally. He had colon cancer that spread to his liver, and he was going to die very, very soon.
He lived a fruitful life, being born and Brooklyn, getting married once only to be used for his money, and then again to be appreciated for the incredibly kind man he was. He was intelligent. He had a doctorate in philosophy, and eventually became a nurse. He was arrogant, he thought he was better than everyone, and in many ways he was right. He wasn’t recognized for the talent he had, but that was his own fault. He stood up for himself, but never flaunted his qualities.
I know for a fact he enjoyed many, many women. While looking through letters of his after he died, I found many that were from women detailing their experiences with him. It made sense, he was a charming, attractive, wealthy, and very cunning man. He was never alone, and if he was, it wasn’t for long.
Here’s where it gets tricky. As I previously mentioned before, he thought he was better than everyone else. He knew he was. This leads me to believe he probably spent many nights with women that were completely empty and void of emotion. I imagine he spent many nights enjoying the comfort of these women.
I can say this because that is exactly how I am, and I am exactly like my father.
By the time he was dying, we all knew it was happening. He wouldn’t speak again after mouthing “I love you too” at me one last time.
I wish more than anything that he was here now to show me how to be a man, to forgive and to forget, and how to be the great person he was, or that he thought he was.
The urge to put down into words how I feel doesn’t usually strike me until 1:00 or 2:00 am most days. This is usually because the things that I am writing about take place right around then in a strangers bed. A deep wish to feel alive matched with an intense desire to feel loved sparks a flame, and I feel the need to record all of it so I won’t forget it.
Today was different. Today at 1:00 pm I was cleaning my house. No strangers were there, I wasn’t wrapped up in some woman, and nothing I was doing was stirring up any kind of emotion. Nothing should have happened that would make me love, hate, or fear. But it did.
My mother has been dead a year. My father has been dead for four and a half years. My brother has been dead for just over six years. I don’t believe in sympathy for those who have lost loved ones. I’m not saying to never feel sympathetic for them, but I’m saying sympathy for people like myself usually translates into “they’re watching out for you,” or “they still love you.” As I’ve said before, I understand that this makes the person saying it feel better about themselves, and it reinforces their hope that when their loved ones die, they will be watching out for them too. But this is false. No one watches out for you after they die, because they are dead.
With this being said, I still feel extremely sad about their passing. It’s a constant thought. Every day that I wake up, I sometimes fool myself into thinking that they are still alive, and waiting for me down stairs. Sometimes I like to pretend I can hear my parents talking, or my brother in his room. These thoughts make me feel better for a short period of time, but I quickly remind myself that they are gone, and fooling myself will not make them come back.
My mother would disagree with everything I just said. She would say “Eric, your loved ones still love you, and they do look out for you.” She was a religious woman, and I tried my hardest not to try to voice my opinions about it, even though I did from time to time. I can’t fault her for being religious, I believe that the only time being religious is acceptable is while someone is dying. It provides them a feeling of comfort no medicine can, and for that I will never disagree with someone when on their death bed, they start praying. I have never been in that position, and I have no idea how I will react when my time comes.
She died just after Christmas, and after the new year in 2011. She died of cancer after battling with it for over 14 years. Leading up to her death, she became very confused. She didn’t always know who I was, or who her sisters were, or what pills she was taking, or really anything for that matter. She was losing her hair, and had a distended stomach. She couldn’t stand, her face was turning whiter every day. Her eye lids were thickening to the point where I thought they would burst. She would mumble the things she wanted. She trusted no one. The one thing she never quarreled with or forgot about was religion. She continued to talk about God and Jesus until she couldn’t speak anymore.
Being that it was around Christmas time, and I knew it would all be over soon, I made a gesture I think she enjoyed. I bought her “The Lord is my Shepherd.” - by Rabbi Daniel S. Kushner. I didn’t know what I was doing, so I bought a book I figured would help her be okay with dying. I figured she would read it, but she never got the chance to. She would never read again after Christmas. So, being that it was her last few days with us, I read it to her. I read it to her one chapter at a time. The only time she would wake up and be coherent until she died was when I was reading to her.
I’m not superstitious, I don’t believe that God woke her up for me. I believe she wanted to hear me read something to her. Her weathered hands would hold mine, and her sunken eyes would suddenly light up. She would remember the things that I had read to her and we would discuss them. I would tell her I disagreed with what Kushner was saying, and she would discuss why she did. I can honestly say that reading that to her was one of the happiest, things I’ve ever done. It was a final good bye, it was a good way to end almost 21 years of a mother/son relationship.
She died January 6, 2011.
I hadn’t touched the book or even thought about the book in over a year. I find myself trying to forget about happy moments to avoid nostalgia. That all came to a halt today at 1:00pm. I held the book in front of me, and tears welled up. I wanted so bad to read to her one more time, and have her say something that made me feel better about the situation I’m in. I wanted her to show me how to fix my problems, and right all of the wrongs I’ve done since her passing. I wanted right there to really, and truly believe that she was looking out for me, and that she still loved me.
I couldn’t. She is dead, and I know that she is not looking out for me, and she doesn’t love me anymore.
I put the book back on the shelf, and kept cleaning like nothing had happened.
Hey everyone! Check out this video my friend Michael Conway made about my transformation and losing 144lbs in 13 months by switching to a vegan diet. Don’t forget to vote! Text “ERIC” to 73822.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SfBlrxpilNw&feature=player_embedded
I hear time and time again that the people I’ve lost are watching over me, that they’re listening. I understand why people say this, it’s a great feeling of comfort. They are trying to comfort me. It’s nice to think that the people I loved are still watching out for me. It would be nice if they could hear what I’m saying.
Sometimes I like to pretend they are here. When my room mate pulls in the driveway I pretend it’s my parents coming home. I’ll sometimes pretend my brother is in the garage smoking a cigarette. The truth is, though, they are not.
My parents are dead, my brother is dead. They are not watching over me because they are dead. They can’t hear what I’m saying because they are dead. I never once pretended they could because that would be lying to myself. While it may help other people in a similar situation, I cannot lie to myself and genuinely believe my parents will come home, or my brother is outside.
When people die, they are gone. There is no afterlife, and your loved ones do not watch over you. You are alone, and that’s how you will be forever.
Animal rights protester agrees to be tortured
A YOUNG woman agreed to be tortured in full public view to try and end animal testing.
Jacqueline Traide, 24, was dragged, tied prodded, force fed and subjected to all manner of cruelty in front of hundreds of shoppers, Mail Online reports.
Jaqueline endured ten hours of injections, being smothered in different lotions, having her hair shaved and irritants being squirted into her eyes as part of a world-wide campaign by Lush and The Humane Society International.
The stunt took place in a Lush store window on London’s Regent Street, one of the UK’s busiest shopping precincts.
Passers-by were stunned by the display, with many stopping to take photos and record the gruesome spectacle with their phones.
The Humane Society says animals are routinely tested in this manner for make-up and perfumes.
(via small-scale)
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Varsity font with a black and white photo of a show with lyrics about heart break? Get fucking real. Pop punk needs to stay the fuck out of hardcore.
(via hahahayleybug)
I’m not quite sure why I keep ending up in the situations I do, why I continue to fool myself into thinking each event involving women at 2:30 am will be different than the one before. Most people would say it’s because I’m lonely, but I have plenty of companions. Some may argue that it’s because I was rejected for years due to my physique, but to them I say even when I was overweight I still enjoyed the company of many women. Still, others may say I’m trying to fill a void my mother left with other women, but I feel no real loss of a female figure in my life. Tonight, I met what may have been the mirror image of the person I could have become.
This night was different though. On most occasions, the women who call me at 2:30 am don’t sound desperate for company. On the contrary, most of them sound bored with their lives and are making rounds. This one was different.
“I want to hang out kind of, you should come over,” the voice on the other end said to me.
“I got cut from work early and I’m already in bed,” I said back, half asleep.
“No, but I really need you to come over.” She sounded mildly desperate, and I was intrigued. She wasn’t drunk, so this was a sincere wish for me to be there with her. I wasn’t worried that she may be in harm, or that she really did need me for assistance, but I was wondering what about me she needed. What did I have that she wanted?
She sent me her address in a message, and I was at her front door 5 minutes later. She answered her door in a white, almost see through top, black leggings and high heels. Her red hair fell over her face, but her bright blue eyes were still visible through it. She was upset, by trying to cover it up for what ever reason.
I had met her at a popular, slightly more upscale, bar downtown months ago. I walked up to her while she was talking to another gentleman and offered to buy her a drink. To his surprise, and not mine at all, she said yes with vigor. She told me of her life mistakes within 30 minutes, she went on about her previous boyfriends, my tattoos, my beard, and my hair. I wasn’t paying attention to any of it. I just politely nodded and made witty, and filler comments ever so often. She was charmed, and I could tell.
We did not exchange phone numbers, I found her irritating, despite her incredibly good looks. Time with her body would not be worth the time with her voice and idiotic rambles about her pathetic interpretation of the meaning of life.
The night before the night currently being analyzed, I ran into her again at one of my jobs. She was not drunk, and looked better than the first night I had met her. She was wearing simple dark denim, and a dark green shirt which matched her red hair perfectly. We began to speak, and I found to my amazement that I didn’t want her to end her life right in front of me without warning. She told me she was grateful for the night months ago, and that she wanted to hang out. I lied and told her I was always free. We exchanged phone numbers.
As I walked into her apartment, I instantly regretted giving her my phone number. Her cat began to circle my legs, I hate cats. She had bottles of alcohol out, I hated being right about why she wanted me at her apartment, just like every other woman. I made the decision at that very moment that I was not going let her have sex with me.
“My room’s right over there” she said pointing. I didn’t notice any room mates as I walked to her room. Again, my suspicions were confirmed. “I’m going to call my friend real quick.”
In my annoyance I said “Sounds good, I’m going to look through everything you own.” She laughed, thinking I was joking, but I wasn’t joking. I looked through her refrigerator where I was not surprised, and was disgusted, to find stock piles of meat, eggs, and milk. I picked up the bottle of Smirnoff Whipped vodka and poured the last few ounces down her sink. I picked up a bottle of white wine and did the same. I didn’t care if she saw.
Finally I walked into her room and sat on her bed. I took off my sweater and made a few sarcastic, yet completely serious jokes about how badly I didn’t want to be there. She laughed hard at them and put her head on my shoulder. Her hair fell over onto my shirt, again covering her face. She looked up at me.
She kissed me. She drew away, as did I. We kissed again and fell back onto her bed. She didn’t taste like alcohol, and I was forced to revisit my previous wonder of if she was intoxicated or not. Things moved fast, her shirt was off without me realizing it was, and her pants were to her knees.
“Slow down” she said, “you’re too intense.”
“Am I?” I asked. “I figured this was what’s happening.”
“No, I just wanted to hang out and talk.”
“No one calls anyone at 2:30 am to hang out and talk. Never has that ever happened in the history of telephones or carrier pigeons.”
“I’m serious.” As she said this, I sat up. She pulled me back down into a kiss and wrapped her legs around me. This went on for a good 10 minutes until she stopped again and rolled over.
“So, I couldn’t help but notice you’re at odds with yourself here.” I said, annoyed.
“No, I just wanted to talk.”
“Okay, let’s talk.”
She began to tell me everything she had told me the first time we met. I didn’t listen the first time, and I completely tuned out this time too. After 20 minutes of rambling about how hard her life was, finally she said something that I could some what relate to.
“Now, I don’t want you to be all ‘I’m so sorry for you’ because I hate sympathy, but the reason I drink so much is because I lost my father two years ago.”
“I can sympathize, though I don’t give you sympathy. I’ve had a similar experience.” I responded.
She went on about how she only sees older men and how her father had a beard, was a pro athlete, was very muscular, and had tattoos. As she was speaking, I noticed every book she had was about break ups and self help. My brain put the pieces together. I reminded her of her father. “Shit,” I thought “this might be harder to get out of than I had planned.”
I stopped her mid sentence, looked at her, and said “so you sleep with lots of men to make up for the fact that your father’s not around anymore, I get it.”
She gasped, grabbed my face and drew me in for a ferocious kiss. Her hands went all over me, trying to tear my shirt off all the while trying desperately to take my pants off. Perhaps my blunt honesty drover her over the edge. Maybe no one had told her straight why she was acting the way she was. I’m sure people constantly patted her on the back and said “it’s because you’re young and you’ve lost someone.” I hate this out look, I hate the feeling people have to nurture an adult who has lost a loved one. The false care they receive only makes them weaker and reinforces their faux comfort that they are not alone, when they are more alone than they have ever been. Maybe she didn’t want to be alone, maybe I was the bearer of bad news she was falling in love with.
I couldn’t be sure of any of that, but I was sure when I told her that we had to stop. I had to hold her down and yell for her to calm down before she finally did. I let her hold onto me, but I wouldn’t let her kiss me. She put my arms around her. My phone was in my hand, and I texted a friend while she buried her head in my chest. It was pathetic.
“You can’t stay here.” She said.
“I don’t want to.” I shot back.
She held onto me, and kept saying “5 more minutes, just 5 more minutes.” She was weak, she needed someone to make her feel better. I finally left. She followed me to the door and apologized profusely. I didn’t tell her it was okay, I didn’t say “don’t worry about it,” I just kept telling her to stop saying she was sorry.
I finally got out of her apartment. I regretted being so rude, I regretted how I felt in the moment. I remembered how I felt after my father died and how I enjoyed company as well. It wasn’t like I am now, I relied on others heavily. This didn’t change how I felt, though, just a deep remorse for the person I had become.
I walked to my car and drove home listening to Anyone Night Stand. I vowed to myself to never speak to her again. The next morning I broke my vow when I awoke to a text message. I responded with “Happy Easter” and I haven’t heard from her since.
