Choppy, clunky words

David Foster Wallace

I said to mom, I forget Dad is dead sometimes, because I still think about him so much.

She said wow, and he wasn’t even that big of a part of your life.

I was like, what?! He was a huge part of my life. Ninety percent of my brainpower was going to him at all times. I would go to his house three times a week before the pandemic. I would talk to him on the phone multiple times a day.

She said I never knew that.

But I know she did know that. We used to have conversations about it. Somewhere along the line, her memory evolved into something that didn’t resemble the my experience.

Part of the anger I feel after my dad’s death is because I don’t feel understood by those around me. I’ve had multiple people now say to me, I didn’t know you were close to your dad. It alludes to this greater shame I’ve always felt when talking about him with those who don’t like him. And also, no one ever asked!! None of my mom’s family (except for one aunt) asked me how I felt about him. How I was doing after his death. I have entire family members who have never mentioned him to me - as if he never existed, as if he isn’t 50% of my DNA, as if he didn’t help shape me into the person I am.

I don’t know. It’s all odd. I refuse, in my own life and relationships, to be the type of person that doesn’t speak about these things.

This writing isn’t beautiful or poetic. It feels choppy and clunky. But I’m just irritated as I write this. I am sick of feeling constrained in how I express my grief. I am tired of feeling misunderstood in my love for my dad. I want to be able to share my entire experience of him, and I want to do so to people who don’t already have preconceived ideas of how I should feel about him.