I've finished praying to some Goddess with whom I'm scant acquainted. I've meditated for about ten minutes. I'm lying in bed, looking across the room to my clothes rack. I'm wondering what I have in all black. Years ago my entire wardrobe was black. I have many choices. Do my pantyhose have runs in them? Thigh-highs are absolutely out of the question, and likely don't fit me anymore. Should I bring the comfy cotton dress with the ruffles, and the little bolero? Would anyone notice the little hole in the front? Would it matter? Should I bring the fancy black dress with the beaded metallic center-strap? Should I wear heels? Is this important enough for that? Maybe those flowy black palazzo-type pants I got for $2 last summer, with the tag still on them, the shirt I used to wear to bartend, and some kind of black cardigan? I think of my ex when my phone beeps for the 13th time today.
I get up. Come out to the laptop. It's cold. I'm naked. But I have to write.
The next plane ticket I buy, to go back home, will probably be one-way. My dad is now losing his ability to speak. His throat muscles are weakening. This is not a good sign. His wife tells me he's comfortable, his pain is being managed with morphine, constantly exhausted, still smiling sometimes, but becoming increasingly tired of this disease. THIS FUCKING DISEASE he shouts sometimes, though I suppose he's unable to do that now. So unlike him to shout at anything other than the ASSHOLE REFS on the hockey games, always making dick calls, calls he would have never made when he was a ref. I love hearing him shout at them. I love hearing him, even when it's racist and sexist. When we talk now, via Skype, he struggles to speak, I struggle to hear, so I mostly prattle on. About projects I'm working on, Downton Abbey, about the weather. We are Canadian after all. I thank him again for the MICROPLANER, the kitchen tool from heaven, which he gifted to me recently, and which I use at least weekly.
His wife has come in with her bowl of dinner. He can barely manage supplement beverages now. She comes to help translate, thankfully, because I feel so bad asking him to repeat himself. I tell them I have to show them something. I go to the table and bring over the vase with the dozen long stem roses New Guy sent me. My stepmom coos. Dad smiles. She asks who they're from, and I say a guy I've been seeing. I tell them how wonderful he is, how we met (Okcupid, ha). They don't need to know I'm filled with doubt, and that it's not working out with him. Dad looks happy. Like, even though he maybe doesn't believe a man could love a fat woman, that maybe I found someone who will love me some day anyways. It doesn't matter to me if it's not true. I want him to think it is. I want him to think that I'm happy. I want him to know that I will be OK, even though I don't believe it myself.
Currently, I don't. My life is stagnant. I vacillate daily between joy and pain. I laugh and cry all at once. I spend my time thinking about my ex, the love of my life, still wishing that he would be my real, legit, everyone-knows-about-us-even-his-friends-whom-I-never-met boyfriend. I worry about my friends, a lot of whom are also struggling. I think about New Guy, how things have changed, and how I contributed. I think about money and work, and how scarce both are. I think of how excited I was to be in this city when I was 21. I think about sex work, the government, the morality police who will never leave us be. I wonder what happened. I wonder how long this cheap apartment I'm so lucky to have will be mine. I could be evicted any time, and then what? I can't afford the normal rent in this city. I wonder how and when I will overcome the constant hatred I face daily simply because I am fat, and I never have an idea. I hide from people now. I wonder when and why I stopped making beautiful art, and started focusing on finding a man to complete me. A man who does not exist. Completeness coming from within, a truth of which I am well aware. I wonder what will happen when the man I've tried my whole life to replace is no longer physically here. I wonder how I will survive this life.
The bank called today, with some pre-recorded mess about my overdraft, and how my account needs to be in the positive every 30 days, as per the regulations. That means I need to deposit at least $743. I laugh, and hang up before I hear the entire recording.
I knew that I would experience the actual death of someone I love, one day. It's never happened before, aside from a few cats. I'm scared. I'm scared of what it's going to be like without him, even though we've never really been close. Even though he wasn't perfect, and hurt me so many times, and left scars on my heart. I'm scared of what my relationship with my stepmom will look like. I'm scared of practical matters like estates, wills, and the ginormous book and vinyl collection I know I'll inherit. What can someone who may not even be able to have a welfare cheque deposited when the bank suspends her account do with a thousand pounds of her dad's most precious possessions 2,000 KM away?
But it's another kind of death, too. I've been letting a lot of negative things go since last year. Drugs and excessive drinking, never really my thing anyhow. Unpaid casual sex. More recently, weed, which was really my thing. The man I love who doesn't love me back. I'm scared that, in my grief, I will go back to all of it. I'm afraid I will get drunk, smoke a joint, let him back into my bed, and spiral back down into deep depression, obsession, and self-harm. I'm scared that I will never be enough for me. I'm scared to be me, a whore, a passionate, loving, vulnerable, broken person, whose glued-on pieces are easily pried off and crushed into dust. I'm scared that I will be alone, single, unloved forever. I'm scared that my amazing friends and family won't be enough, that wanting the thing that almost all humans want, the thing that my Libra heart wants most, romantic love, will elude me forever. I'm afraid of drowning in my own tears.
I'm afraid that, when my dad is gone, which I feel in my bones will be very soon, I will be lost. I'm afraid of myself. Mostly, I'm afraid of the future, the shitty, greedy, polluted world we've all created, and how it is hellbent on destroying poor, fat, opinionated, feminist whores like me, and I'm afraid that one day, I will let it.