This is usually a sign of many things. Me and dad are a very special design. We are usually so good people actually envy us, until suddenly, one darned night, it all goes downhill. Like tonight.
Dad is passive aggressive. After the likes of those altercations, he retreats into my worst nightmare. Depending on the mood and the heaviness of my sins, he might cave in there for weeks, leaving me wallow in my wordless suffering. The thing about all of that, the thing that hurts me the most, is that I know that I am good egg. I am not a bad son. He himself vouches for this, to many people, to me through his lovely prayers, and, I hope, to God. That’s my definition of breathless pain, for me to doubt whether I’m even a good human being.
This usually crushes me. I am not up to a grind now, at all. I really hope this wears away very soon. I want to do many things with my life, the least of which is handle friction with a diabetic father, and the most of which is be a good son. The man has enough to shoulder as it is, and I am trying to soldier on to my crush of lungs as it is.
Sometimes, with the people you love, you just don’t meet halfway. Both of you are often candidates for parties who should’ve known better, but it just happens. Its candidness takes a dark twist; it’s like the downside of having a home of someone. Things just happen at home, you don’t plan them, or even intend them. It wouldn’t be home, otherwise.
I never thought I’d say this again on this stupid blog, but I am depressed.
Gimme a prayer or two, will you?