10 years ago to the day, a moment that shaped me forever. Six years ago, I attempted to write about this day but still couldn’t quite find the words. This is a return to one of my earliest published pieces on this blog, with another perspective- a link to the original can be found at the end of this entry. In the ten years since many struggles have ensued but as of late my mind has opened up more, through which articulating feelings is no longer a challenge. The original journal entry felt like a struggle to write, with access to my deeper memories blocked and a lack of self awareness I couldn’t compute how I felt. So here we are, reflecting on a real fork in the road moment and a turbulent day which brought me to where I am today. The path of grief is different for everyone, and to think it’s taken me all this time of running to finally feel peace. The truth being that internal narratives can change, as ingrained in your mind as you think they may be.
Allegro
Who’s house was this? I scanned my surroundings but couldn’t find anything recognisable. My eyes felt heavy as they darted from side to side trying to find a point of reference. The past twelve hours have passed by at a rapid pace, my thoughts kept at bay with a low volume yet very upbeat playlist of fidget house music. It’s played through a few times by now, this song has been on seven times that I can remember but how many more times in my subconscious awareness? I can’t quite place the moment the cycle of tracks repeat and it’s bugging me, I made a vow I’d figure it out however I have doubts I’d still be here by the time it came back around.
My head tilted as I looked around the room again, I was drawn to the pictures on the wall, an assortment of family pictures loosely scattered around the room give off a sense of homeliness and responsibility. Within the pictures stood a man with a striking resemblance to the guy asleep on the couch, but who is he? At what point throughout the past few days did he join this fucked up parade? I can’t even remember when I got here but it feels like it was a full day. I could remember the various flickers of light through the thin crack in the closed blinds, changing the tone inside the room through the lunar cycle.
Sunrise, daylight, sunset, night and back to sunrise again?
Are we at sunrise or is this sunset? It’s hard to tell really and to pinpoint exactly what time felt like a conundrum. Even on speculation I couldn’t have trusted my own call. Trying to figure out exactly when it was I last slept, in itself being another complex equation to solve before I do anything. This was at least house number five with each party decreasing in excitement along with stamina. I was still intent on not giving in or quitting as this is the most unforgivable sin. To give up on a session was my biggest fear as I was terrified of the shame attached to it. Something which later I would realise was another self built belief with no solid roots in reality. Despite my fortitude my body ached with a blanket of lethargy draped over it, bruises all over random parts off my body finished off with a light buzzing pain where I imagined my liver resides. The shortness of breath was real too, every movement felt like a marathon with a sprint to the finish. What was the finish and what was I trying to accomplish.
It was time for another bag, this one was way past it’s prime. Battered, crinkled and nearly empty it was a sad sight. I proceeded to scrape the very bottom off the bag onto the DVD case with a mournful air, was this to be the end? The tiny pile sat sprightly on the darkened case, shining bright and about the same size as a grain of rice. It was ready and so was I.
My airwaves were compromised and my brain was scrambled, this further emphasised my inner confusion of the morning. The confusion slowly descended me into a moment of thought as I put the note in my right nostril and made the pile disappear. The last white fragments followed and entered the blackened and blocked abyss dissolving slowly into my bloodstream.
Plugging my phone into the wall, I rolled over the floor and poured another vodka. They say you can sleep when you’re dead, then so be it.
Adagio
That’s it, the message was sent as I awaited a response. My body twinged with excitement at the thought of more MCAT. A brief flurry of butterfly wings deep within my fully empty stomach. The vodka was running straight through my system without barely a chance to touch the sides, surely this wasn’t dissipating into my system at this rate.
I must have been to the toilet about three times in half an hour, wishing to continue on this multi day session I had posted a picture to social media gaining me a slither of approval and hopefully a sidekick for the day. Glancing over to the mirror I looked deeply at the figure gauntly staring back. The outer layers of my persona began to peel back, leaving a hollow centre. I know I don’t look well and that under this thin veil of falsity I was very ill, or at least very mentally compromised in a constant daily battle with addiction. I was drained, lacking in ambition and no drive in life to be better. I’d been stuck in a trance for years, leaving my best years behind me in a haze with no memories.
If I keep pushing the line surely I’ll die at some point, it’s easier than learning how to live.
A brief moment passed as I gazed into the mirror at my own annihilation and despair. Wishing for my self imposed destruction with a sprinkling of hatred bubbling under the surface, I stared at the bags under my eyes. Brief flashes of days past in front of them filling my central vision and blurring out towards my peripheral. A sense of foreboding in the backdrop trickling over the visions and fizzling out to darkness.
This intermittent daze was brought to a stark halt with a sharp peak in heart rate and a flood of anxiety through my body. My phone was ringing and in my current fugue state it wouldn’t have been possible to recognise the number. The long sequence on the screen looked like a pattern weaved onto a scarf, my vision rippling like it was blowing in the wind. The vibration was heavy and consistent as it buzzed, ignored. Should I answer or leave it to fate, let’s see what happens if I don’t. My cerebrum was tattered and incapable of forming a sentence, never mind moving one step further and trying to utter the word…hello.
It rang again, I answered and on the other end a voice I couldn’t quite place. Very familiar but also could have been sheer coincidence. “It’s John,” the voice exclaimed, “John who? I don’t even know a John.” I replied. Right away my mind froze as I was reminded that my brother’s name is John and a feeling of guilt and sadness washed over me, had it really been that long? So long that I never recognised his voice, many memories from my early years residing in others minds but now vacant in my own.
“Dad’s had a heart attack”
Everything froze and sounds around me faded, blood draining from my body whilst also rushing through my veins. A weird contradiction of sensory stimulation, rolling forward a faint feeling to my consciousness. Everything stopped at this exact moment, no feeling or reaction. Instead a confusion and an internal fight to try and feel something emotionally. Was I that dead inside? My brain was numb as was my body and I didn’t know how to react apart from letting out a drawn out “Fuuuuuuuck,”. My passion for continuing my rampage today had drawn to a rapid close as I weighed up the severity of what I’d just heard. This was some sort of weird MCAT trip right? Surely it’s not real, I’ve never had a trip quite like this before even back in mushroom season of 2008.
Trying my best to be coherent linguistically, I uttered limited words but successfully managed to get the relevant details needed to see the rest of the family. I took a second to calm down, my drunk and fried brain struggled to compute what I had been told, the booze acting as a warm and fuzzy safety blanket to keep me sheltered from the horrors of life.
Scherzo
Maybe the quest for another bag wasn’t a good idea but here I sit, stewing in my bad decisions. I was very much under the influence and now in a state of urgency knowing I had to make it to the hospital. I remember the high feeling extremely strange, amplified in ways but dulled in others. The usual hyperactivity and incessant chatter now replaced by a hollow feeling inside and a sense of dread.
I had to make a move, to get out of this bubble I’ve created in this random couch dweller’s house. This was real and I had to act. I grabbed the little possessions that I had scattered all around the room, took one last glance at the empty bag and the bottle of vodka standing tall in the middle of the room. It stood tall like a monolith, trying to lure me in for another sip. One for the road? I broke the moment reminding myself of what was happening and left the house quickly.
The air was cold and crisp yet without a cloud in the sky. It was one of those dreamy winter mornings, the unexpected late December sunny day that could almost fool you into a springtime day dream. Finding my bearings, I knew I couldn’t have made it to the hospital quickly. I took a brief moment to collect my thoughts and called my mum, her quickly assuring me that she wouldn’t be long.
The car was in the distance, I could just make it out through my now shrivelled eyes and dilated pupils, it pulled up and the sunlight reflected off of the bonnet blinding me instantly. Worried about having to make conversation in this state I braced myself. She pulled up and I stumbled to the door, fumbled for the handle and fell into the car.
Where I felt a judgement of my intoxication levels would ensue, the air was understanding and empathetic. Our relationship was never rocky these days, apart from a mutual understanding that I wasn’t okay, but wouldn’t seek help. I always was very stubborn and was convinced I could solve my problems myself despite any advice or help she gave. A saddened look washed over her face and I was silent for a moment, trying to catch words in my brain to say in this situation. I had nothing, still no real emotion perhaps shock? The car journey felt sorrowful already, and I had no idea of the condition of my dad or what the trajectory of the day would be. Surely everything will be fine, these things only happen to other people.
We arrived at the hospital promptly and I exited the car. Standing looking at the main concourse I took a deep breath in, still no emotion. I walked towards the door and remember feeling overwhelmed by the crowds of people walking around the hospital entrance. The clinical scent was in the air as I deciphered the hospital maps, each one looking like a labyrinth as I clung to any sense of energy I had left at this point.
Slowly but urgently, I navigated the long corridors like a rat in a maze, finally arriving without distraction. This brief slight sense of accomplishment was quickly drowned out by the sombre tone in the atmosphere. My vision felt dulled like a sepia filter was draped over my eyes as I entered the intensive care unit. Internally I was still sceptical that I was awake, feeling around in the world trying to trick my dreaming mind into giving in.
Staccato
In the ICU, I was greeted by members of my extended family, the tone grew sadder. A sadness stirred deep within me but not yet enough to show itself physically yet. The room itself was plain and inoffensive, boxes of tissues scattered about ready for the moment where it all turns upside down. I did notice the lack of readable material which for a split second worried me. Having to sit through some kind of emotionally charged day with absolutely no distractions freaked me out, emotions in general were never my strong point but looking at them head on in this context were terrifying to me. This minor panic could have also been emanating from my drugged up and drunk brain, the paranoia that came with MCAT dripping down into my subconscious. I was wishing for escape rather than having to confront my emotions, a bunker I could hide in rather than letting it out. I focused on a fan light slowly gliding round, hypnotised by its dance I remained quiet.
The silence in the room was deafening, interrupted by the odd sniffle. My thoughts were racing as all of the neurotransmitters in my brain fired away rapidly, shooting away a cocktail of chemicals throughout my body. Battling between all emotions and also lack thereof, it really was quite the spectacle within my mind yet I was still unable to process quite what was happening inside.
I didn’t know what to say, I was riddled with guilt on multiple layers of my consciousness. It’s one thing to be heavily intoxicated at any other life event, but surely this is towing the line of what’s right morally. I was still quiet, worried I’d say something out of line or silly and I was keeping my eye contact minimal. I was scared they’d see through it all and see me as the mentally unhinged addict that my inner dialogue frequently told me I was. The family with me in the hospital felt distant despite being close in relation, glimmers of communication over a decade grew us all apart over the years to a severe degree. Because of this, I was surrounded by family members but couldn’t help but feel alone.
A doctor entered the room puncturing the silence inside, all eyes were puffed and moist as they rolled towards the door. It wasn’t looking good, the movement of the doctor’s lips was not aligning with the muffled jumble of words, I couldn’t quite make it out. It didn’t sound like any language I’d heard before. Regardless of this I knew that this was bad news.
To be a doctor delivering devastating news must be excruciatingly painful at first, pulling on every heart string within you as you tell a family that their loved one won’t make it. It’s likely that over years this would callus over time, turning you into an ice cold messenger no longer attributing the news as human beings. This daydream faded as I entered back into the now. Our news was that my dad wouldn’t pull through, there were complications making him inoperable. It was painful, my heart hit the floor and I felt a dissociative feeling paired with an inexplicable miniature dunt of adrenaline.
It was a surreal feeling to witness as I’d never lost anybody close to me in my twenty one years, this was very different emotional territory than I’d experienced. My eyes scanned the walls and fixated on the white clock above the door realising that we’d been here for five hours. The clock reminded me of the intricacy of time and how precious it is, how fragile our lives and existence are. A mere spec of sand in the hourglass of time. Moving along and always waiting for tomorrow, never quite grasping that one day the sand will have passed through our hands.
We were guided into the ward, a solemn place. I could feel the sadness and desperation in the air as families huddled and prayed, hoping for a breakthrough. We were no different and seeing him lying there made it all feel more surreal. I guess in my life I’d always seen him moving, talking or at the very least snoring loudly with a spilled can of Tennents in hand on the couch. My mind skipped back in time, reminiscing on the old.
In this brief reminiscence were flashbacks to my childhood and how easy my life was, quickly interrupted by the situation at hand. I remember how he looked lying there, content and at peace with life and everything in it. It felt like he could hear every word we said as we offered those words of encouragement and tried in a last attempt to get him to awaken. The sadness filled the air and made the room heavy. I was still quietly optimistic he’d pull through, we all were. At any moment he’d spring up and be back to his usual self, cracking some sort of joke about still being tired.
There was a pause and everything drew to a halt. A wave through time where everything stood still, a moment of no thought. I knew what was coming, and how was I to ever be ready.
Crescendo
As we huddled round, I felt uneasy and my stomach felt sick. My mood had shifted from apathetic, to a feeling of dread and sorrow. The clinical air was back with a vengeance as the heart monitor beeped loudly. Letting out tone after tone but in an unusually slow fashion. A signal that all won’t be well, and my reality as I knew it was crumbling away. This was it, a life defining moment. I knew that from this point on I would be forever changed, but didn’t quite know in what way. There was potential of me going off the rails for sure, but the scales of justice could swing either way. The outcome of my future was more of a gamble than a given, who knows where I’d end up. This was an extremely intense hour and I drifted in and out of reality, I knew that sooner or later I’d have to face the music and traverse into the unknown. The sepia filter over my vision shifted to black and white, my thoughts all warping into a negative inner chatter.
The sounds of crying around me descended me deeper into a profound state of sadness. Memory after memory, I reflected on the good times spent with my dad. This further amplified my guilt as I knew deep down that I wasn’t the son I could have been. Especially in recent years as I was often showing up to his house drunk for a few hours and chatting rubbish, smoking all of his tobacco in the process. I felt I could have been there more. all of the moments I’d spent with him combined with the sadness that I couldn’t create any new memories.
This was it, the flatline tone droned through to my very core, echoing throughout my body and very existence. There was a brief strain of his muscles contracting, looking like he’d wake but instead the last movements of his body before the end. He lay still as the piercing tone continued in the background, an outburst of tears followed as we looked at each other through teared eyes. I felt part of me died with him that day.
I looked again at his lifeless body, still not believing what had happened. The actuality of his very quick and out of the blue death rippling through my body, making the situation infinitely worse. I had a dad six hours ago, and now I don’t. It was a concept my brain didn’t know how to handle. The guilt began to take over me, when was the last time I told him I loved him? Was I a terrible son? These are questions I would never know the answers to, somewhat rhetorical in my warped brain.
I was still running on no sleep, hours into a comedown, hungover and now after losing my dad I felt numb inside. I just wanted to fall into the floor and let the depths eat me up. Take me down into the fiery pit for all eternity, in a flame coated cocoon giving me a semblance of comfort amidst the chaos of my current incarnation. I couldn’t quite grasp how I was meant to feel or act. Having shed my tears and any glimmer of emotion I had left, the realisation that my life had changed drastically in the space of around six hours. The uncomfortable truth that everyone I know or have known in my whole life will one day die echoed through my consciousness, mortality was the theme of the day.
How was I meant to ever articulate this and tell people how I felt? I guess it would all come out if I drank enough. Over the following hours I put on a brave face fearing I’d appear weak. Still speechless from the days events a drink was in order, where better than my dad’s local. Drink after drink, I slammed them back and a sharp descent followed. Drowning my sorrows with the front of celebrating life, the perfect alibi.
Hours of drinking and a few bombs of speed saw me through the shock. Everything blurred and before I knew it, I woke up slumped on the bar top. Mouth dry and a pounding head, apologising to the bartender as they closed the bar around me. With no shame and no guilt I stumbled out the bar. Heading into the night I couldn’t help but think about the number of times my dad had done the very same thing, like father like son. A motto which ended up deeply ingrained in my psyche for years and I almost felt that was the part I had to play, a persona if you will.
Not quite understanding grief or how it works, I stumbled through life blindly and quietly. Keeping it all reserved and bubbling under the surface until one day it would ultimately burst out. The process of grief is different for everyone and because of this it’s near impossible to have a prescribed method for dealing with losses. My process took ten years and countless coping mechanisms, it could have been quicker but I was frequently running from my uncomfortable feelings, self medicating at any opportunity.
Diminuendo
Ten years later, here we are.
The processing of loss isn’t straight forward and it’s easy to lose a hold of yourself in the process. Prior to losing my father I was already lost deep within multiple addictions and struggling with my sense of identity. I didn’t have any game plan in life, taking each day as it came and really only caring whether I could get drunk or not.
There was many cycles through the process since and over the ten years, I became multiple incarnations of the same person. I still self medicated heavily and couldn’t figure out why. In 2017, I found that writing my feelings helped articulate complex feelings I’d previously just leave to fester in the pit of my soul. Even when I found writing, I stayed away from telling stories about any times pre 2013 as the shock and grief caused me to dissociate from this period of my life. This was the event that created that rift and when I reflect upon it all, I can truly see what happened and the various versions of me over the years. When I look back, I feel sympathy.
In the years since, I was simply trying to escape reality through any means necessary. Unable to express myself and unsure of inner feelings. Trying to get away from difficult feelings and evading loneliness by drowning myself in anything I could get my hands on. My pain and confusion manifesting in countless forms, taking shape behind cycles of health kicks and drug binges. The latter numbing my feelings and perceptions and the former being actually how I wanted to live, a contradiction within itself and a self defeating prophecy.
This year, I decided to go to therapy through which I gained insight into myself, how to articulate feelings and express myself without running. A weight off of my shoulders as I took layers of baggage off and unpacked, rather than adding more, multiplying the weight and further pushing me down into the ground. Every friendship and every relationship strained by my inability to talk truthfully and my reckless behaviour. Finally I feel my flow and more like myself than I ever have, there’s no longer a mountain to climb to talk openly.
A groundbreaking revelation occurred one day when I contemplated my relationship with my father. I’d put him on a pedestal when he passed, which often happens when suffering a catastrophic loss. The glossing over of any negative feelings to only showcase the good, it’s in our human nature to do this. It’s almost like we’re protecting the dead.
The realisation that I’d fabricated memories in my mind, not fully grasping the bigger picture. Skipping over the years without him adding to my lifelong abandonment issues. The stories of his drunken shenanigans, becoming my stories too. Of course there are many happy memories, but there were also vacant ones. I still love him however I can’t quite shake the feeling that I wasn’t as much of a main character in his life as I thought I was. This is my own insecurity, and I guess my problem. Brings up the question though, would you rather sit with the uncomfortable truth or a fabrication of reality.
I sometimes wonder how I could have done things differently and had I, would it have changed anything? Despite this, there’s no use in looking back. I’ve spent way too many years looking backwards without any progress, not managing to change the memories I have. What’s already in the past cannot be changed so what’s the use in spectating. Life really is quite the ride.
Dan Daiquiri 
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