Every year, this time of year I’ve got this feeling of impending doom that screams “THIS is FUCKING real and there’s not a damned thing YOU can do about it”. Eight years feels so short and so far away all at once, and the feeling leaves me wondering how the hell people can ever get over stuff. Mind you, losing your parents and your sister all in one go is, believe it or not, much worse than you would think it would be, even AND especially after all this time.
About eight years plus three months ago I was maybe sitting in a lawyer’s office while they spewed bullshit at me about how things would take time and that they’d be on it so it wouldn’t be too long and I’d be able to get on with my life. I already had signed some papers and closed some bank accounts (much to their surprise I wasn’t as dumb and stunned as I looked) to speed things up and keep myself moving. During that time I mostly drank coffee and ate mangoes to stay productive. I think at one point I weighed 102 pounds, an all-time low in my adult life.
Months and months later, my dad’s will still had not been probated, despite talk of things not being too long. I remember one day being a pissed off and traumatized nineteen-year old sitting across from the lawyer giving him a mighty stink-eye and a cold shoulder as he rambled on about how things were taking so long but oh they would keep moving and things would get done. I’m positive it was my bitch-stare and terse words uttered that afternoon that was the final impetus for the probate to go through.
I sit here and think about these things eight (fucking) years later and it feels like a dream. Memories that feel like dreams during the day and dreams that feel real in the night are the lasting essence of trauma.