This is a blog. About grief. A glog.

This is a blog. About grief. A glog.

Sunday, May 17, 2015


What am I doing?
I graduated today.
And I'm crying so hard that I can't swallow because the snot in my nose is so thick and abundant that my ears will feel the pressure of a swallow.
Why did I do that? I could have just stayed and gotten a normal degree and I could have fixed my fucked up grades. (Cum Laude is so kind of embarassing.)
And what if I never see my best friend from this year again? We got so close this year, and watched so many movies and I'm going to miss him. Dammnit I miss him now! And he's just left town sometime... probably. I don't know. This year, he developed deeper friendships, and I, I just lonlied. Why did I do that? But I did this before! This feels like graduating from high school. Nothing like big celebratory events to make me feel lonely. But I had such a great year. I mean, it sucked, but I had the best spring I've had in three years. And now? Now I'm going to write out what I'll say to my mom when she tries to comfort me about a poem I wrote. She snuck a peek into the poetry compilation when I couldn't stop her.

And I miss dating. Not that I ever did much, but I miss feeling physically close, side pressed to side. And I want so desperately to cry in front of someone. Someone who I can be held by.

Everyone is so happy for me, so surprised, so congratulatory. And I just want someone to mourn my previous life with me. Even though I'm staying here.

Staying in the same place after I graduate is leaving and staying all at once. And it feels like it's mostly staying behind.

Lingering here after I graduate is leaving and staying all at once. And it feels like it's mostly staying behind. 

There are photos everywhere already, of everyone else. I have a few pictures others took, but I couldn't bring myself to ask for pictures of me on my phone.

  • Was I celebrating? Or just mourning my success here?
  • They were better friends with each other.
  • Why should I draw attention to myself. I'm not really even proud of what I did--because I just rearranged my old accomplishments to get here. I had no finals, no senior presentation.
So now, I'm just, being here. No pictures on facebook to say the words for me: Surprise! I graduated with a less difficult degree because I didn't want to spend more time and money here after a mental health year! Yay!

Friday, May 8, 2015

A Museum Tour

I wish you could meet my Dad.

I would take you on a tour of Dad, like in a museum. “This is my Dad. Everyone says he could get along with anybody,” I’d say.

“Not always,” he’d say, and then he’d charm you and surprise me with a new story about that one time.

Moving along, in the next exhibit, you can observe his beer growler collection. You can tell he had taste because liked such a variety. And next to this perfectly preserved collection, there is an audio recording of him raving about the German beers he imported, in case you doubted his enthusiasm.

That collage right there shows him entertaining various children, mostly the kids of his sisters and my Mom’s friends. Note that dangling upside down by one foot technique: astute scholars of my father’s life will draw connections with my ability to entertain one- and two-year-olds by tipping them upside down while held in a tight embrace. It turns out, children find it difficult to cry when upside down.

Now we come to the sailboat wing. This one is the first one he owned. I actually saw it once, when Dad recognized it on our favorite lake. But this one is the one he brought everyone out to the lake to sail on during my childhood. I’ve preserved the feeling of the tarp on my fingertips, but luckily he’s the curator here, so he can answer questions about ropes and how to fly a hull.

As the tour guide, I would also be sure to take you on a detailed examination of his physical characteristics, in order to point out where I inherited things like height, teeth, my nose, and slight freckling as a kid.

And as always in a museum, I’ll probably learn something, too. People don’t like to tell stories about dead people being dicks. So how would I know about his prejudices?

If you met him, maybe I wouldn’t have to explain so much. My mere description would not have to stand in for a whole person. And my memories of Elementary school wouldn’t need prefaces. And you would just understand.