Oh father, you never wanted to live that way, you never wanted to hurt me, so why am I running away...
Written at 10:06 p.m. on Monday, Feb. 24, 2003
I have started feeling crappy again. This time its my legs and hands...they have gone numb on me. I feel like someone has strapped bands around my ankles.
I guess this comes with the territory, huh? Well, it doesnt make it any easier for me when it happens. So I have decided that tomorrow I am going to call and make an appointment with my neurologist. Its been a while since I have seen him...August I think.
And I know he isnt going to be able to tell me anything that I dont already know. He never does. But I would still feel better talking to him anyway. I just want reassurance I suppose.
Its when I go through these "relapses" that I start to think about my father. I am no longer angry with him for having left me this genetic legacy. I almost feel like this is my punishment for acting like I did towards him. I can only imagine how much I hurt him.
And now I sit here, in the very same position, probably as scared as he was. And I want to be able to tell him how sorry I am and how I want to make it all better, but I cant now. And that's the part that stabs me. Knowing I can never make it right.
I have always believed myself to be a good person at heart. But now I think that was just a lie that I made myself believe so that I could look at myself in the mirror everyday without contempt for what was staring back.
The reason I didnt cry for almost a year after he died was because a part of me was relieved. I clearly remember when my aunt told me that he had died and I just got quiet, she asked me if I wanted to know how he died. It wasnt something I thought about at the moment. It didnt even dawn on me to ask how. Nothing was going to make me feel any better or worse.
And it was hard when I went back home for the holidays. When people found out that I have the same thing that he had, they looked at me like I was sitting on a death sentence just passing time like he did. I dont want our situations to be even somewhat compared. They arent even remotely similar.
Because the difference between us is that he gave up. Which is something that I refuse to do. And it may beat me...but it may not. Its a chance I have to take, because I owe myself more than that. I owe him more than that.
And as much as I try to push it all out of my head, its him that pushes me to run on the treadmill when I cant feel my legs from the knee down. Or when I need the courage to overcome my phobia of needles because I am going to have to take this shot every week for the rest of my life.
Its then that I dont feel so alone, because I am not standing alone.