One Week Later - July 8th, 2021
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure any of it out.
My dad’s funeral will be Friday, July 16th, at 11 AM. Viewing at 10 AM. It will take place at St. Mary’s Catholic Church in Corvallis, Oregon. All are welcome.
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I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure any of it out.
Am I eulogizing my dad, trying to get as much down as I can while his presence in my life is still fresh? Am I writing about myself, trying to process my grief in the only way that gives me a sense of direction? Am I offering a service to my mom, my sister, and everyone else who loved my dad, trying to put words to the tidal waves of emotion that come crashing into us over and over again? Am I trying to put something into the world that helps someone who hasn’t gone through this yet, and helps people who already have? Am I just trying to build some structure back into my life?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
Am I trying to make his death about my struggle with it, trying to give meaning back to my life by making my own thoughts and words seem important? Am I trying to bring my dad back to life, trying to write and think enough that I can start seeing him move again — through me? Am I hoping to connect with people who’ve been through this pain before, trying to build a network of fellow grievers that can maybe help me figure out what all of these feelings are? Am I looking to distract myself with the constant gushing of people who read this shit? Am I trying to blunt the sharpness of my pain with the approval of how I’m handling it?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
What is death, anyway? How many times has that sentence been written before? Doesn’t everyone die? Am I really going to make the rest of my life out of the fact that my dad’s life was cut short? Wasn’t he always supposed to die before me? Don’t people die every day? Does his death just make me appreciate him more? Am I supposed to be able to build my own identity, now that the man whose identity I was built from is dead? Are there really no words to say? Am I just pretending that if I just keep my brain and thoughts moving, if I just keep writing things down, some deeper knowledge will grow from the wreckage? Was I too close with my dad? Is all of this just evidence of the destructiveness of codependency?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
How long before I’m supposed to be able to find meaning in the things I did before? How long before I’m supposed to take up again the flailings of an unexamined life? How long before being volatile, and angry, and sad turns into being unreasonably moody, and overly sensitive, and habitually depressive? How long before it’s okay for me to meet new people? How long before it’s okay for me to laugh? How long before it’s okay for me to go minutes, hours, and days without reliving moments with my dad? How long before I’m being dramatic? How long before I’m just the dude who never recovered from his dad dying? How long before I’m supposed to be able to carry other peoples’ shit for them again?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
Did my fear bring this entire thing into existence? Did I always know this was going to happen? Was I always just bracing for tragedy, only to be broken by it? Is time really cyclical? Was this just his time, and I always knew his time was going to gut me? Is it better that he died suddenly? Would I have rather watched him waste away into nothing, if it meant I got to say goodbye?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
Do I even think he’s dead? Am I expecting him to come back?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
Is it my narcissism turning a death into a tragedy? Do the material realities of the world that have ticked on since my dad died matter less than they did before? Does someone need to tell me to snap out of it? Did I distract myself with school, and work, and the pursuit of “justice” in an attempt to make my existence justifiable? Is my existence justifiable if I do not currently think about those things? Was my life just an elaborate joke before this happened, and now a slightly more sinister joke since this has happened? Am I just going to give into desire for the next year, doing whatever I can do that might distract me from the answers to these questions that I’m asking? Will anything other than exercising or writing about my dad’s death feel productive?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
What the fuck is this essay? Just a bunch of questions I don’t want the answer to? Are there answers to any of these questions? Are they sitting right there? Do I want to see them? Do you? Are these just the ramblings of a crazy person? Was I crazy before, and now I’m just entitled to craziness? Do you even see me? Do I even see me?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
What would my dad say about all of this? Would he tell me to feel all of my feelings, to keep asking the hard questions, to be gentle with myself as I do it? Would he tell me to stop trying to figure it out?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
How do I support my mom and sister? Do I hide what I’m feeling? Do I just go about my life, as they go about theirs? Do I spend every second with them? Do I give them some space? Do I tell them stories about Dad? Do I tell them to do what I’m doing? Do I tell them to not do what I’m doing? Should I encourage them to try to process my dad’s final moments until they don’t have to do that anymore? Should I try to stop them in their tracks whenever they trap themselves in those final moments again?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
Should I be trying to make them laugh? Should I be quiet? Should I step up? Should I step back? Should I handle everything? Should I let them handle things, too? Should I be broadcasting what we’re going through to the world, so that they feel seen and heard, and supported? Should I be helping to cloister us off from the many people who think they’re helping? Should I be honest?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
Do I even think he’s dead? Am I expecting him to come back?
Do I even think he’s dead? Am I expecting him to come back?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
Is it supposed to be this hard? Does leaning into the difficulty of something make it better? Am I turning myself into a martyr? Am I doing this to punish myself for some guilt I’ve yet to tap into?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
Why am I so fucking angry? Why did I ever think I knew what anger was before? Could I kill someone right now? Would I feel better if someone looked at me the wrong way? Am I just looking around for some outlet to throw myself at? Am I just trying to push everything else I’m feeling into a little pocket called “anger?” Is “angry” even the right word?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
What do you do with anger? Do you run from it? Do you try to let it out? Do you try to let it subside? What am I even angry at? Who am I even angry at?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
Should I go play basketball at 5:30? Did I have enough coffee? What time am I supposed to eat next? What else do I need to do for the funeral? Who should the pallbearers be? What gospel should we choose? Are my feet hot in these shoes? Did I work out enough yesterday? When should I get a haircut? Do I look good? Who do I want to spend time with? Am I miserable to be around? Is it better for me to talk about everything, or to never talk about anything? Have I replied to all of the people who’ve sent me things? Should I reach out to some of the people who offered support? What should I say? Are people scared of me? Is my neck bothering me? Would I be better off sleeping in the living room? Will the Bucks win game three? Am I just writing questions down for the sake of writing questions down? Am I just writing questions down for the misery of it?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
Is this interesting to anyone but me? Does that mean I don’t care about what other people think? Does that mean I only care about me? Does that mean I only care about what other people think? What do people want to read from the kid whose dad just died? Is this grief-processing? Have I even mentioned my dad in all of this? Should I tell a story about him here? Should I tell people that I couldn’t focus last night? That I couldn't focus this morning? That I’m writing all of this in a manic hour or two?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
Do I even think he’s dead? Am I expecting him to come back?
Do I even think he’s dead? Am I expecting him to come back?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
For a long time, one of my favorite questions to ask people was, “Who are you in conversation with, at all times?” For a long time, one of my favorite questions to ask people was, “What are you working on about yourself?”
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
The basic question in Logotherapy is, “Why don’t you kill yourself?” What was my answer to that question a week ago? What is my answer to that question now?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
My dad liked to say that “the doors of knowledge open inward” — do they? What does it mean to look inward? What am I supposed to be looking at?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
Should I stop now? Should I just get rid of this essay? Should I just accept that it’s weird? Did it help me? Did it help anyone else? Did I even say anything about my dad?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
Do I even think he’s dead? Am I expecting him to come back?
Do I even think he’s dead? Am I expecting him to come back?
I don’t know who I’m writing for. Or what I’m writing about. And I don’t know how to figure anything out yet.
Am I looking for external solutions to internal pain? Is there any other option?
Do I even think he’s dead? Am I expecting him to come back?
You are doing exactly what you're supposed to be doing and you're doing an amazing job at it. Not only from the stories you tell, but through your own writing I can see that you contain so much of what we loved about him and it's so comforting to hold on to right now.
Emmett, you are doing an amazing job with your writing. It has been an outlet for you. It’s a way for you to grieve. The stories you tell about you with your dad, are awesome! You remind me so much of your father, and that my sweet friend is a blessing!!! I love reading your essays, I can imagine the love you and your dad had for one another. Thank you for sharing your closeness and love for your dad. He was such a GREAT MAN!