Wednesday, September 5, 2007

God and Serotonins

Fuck if I know. My pop, still pretty much completely on life support, has stabilized. At least there hasn’t been a new crisis since the weekend but I still really wonder what stabilized on complete life support means. Nevertheless, Aliki is determined to take him home and I feel sheepish for assuming since the onset of this hospitalization that the outcome would be different. My role in the family, what with running the business and all, makes for a tacit understanding that I should indeed be prepared to handle any eventuality. I am honored by that trust.

I use “payroll” as shorthand for all the shit that should be running smoothly under my watchful eye. I have not lost sight of my obligations. I have received sweet calls and e-mails from loved ones and these bolster me and I presume the senders understand my desire to be sad and quiet in the little cracks of time when I am briefly free from the yoke of responsible adulthood. There is a family predisposition to suck the life from the room to become the center of attention and I am consciously trying to not let the current circumstances become my personal circus. I am feeling your love but am not sweeping under the rug my profound sadness by aggressively eliciting it.

I did receive an e-mail reminder of how fucked up I appear to be. Some of it was valid, perhaps. I did not read carefully as the shock of the timing led me to file it away, but my skimming revealed much disapproval of my current coping strategies. Not that I don’t question them myself every day of my life. But still. Perhaps I am unrealistic about love and too dependent on medical marijuana and am a lousy writer. Jackson Browne begged, “Don’t confront me with my failures. I have not forgotten them." My plea for total honesty and tough love was a sincere one and the gentle love coming to me through the ether and the phone lines and naked in the dark is comforting. Tough love, (and I do not doubt the love part) has been filed away for later reflection but, and Spuds would be proud, I suspect, for once, it isn’t all about me.

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