Riddled with Emotions

Cold air swells through the crack in the window as I bring my Nightmare Before Christmas thermos to my dry lips and take a drink; flooding my mouth with that strong aroma as hot coffee pours down my throat and spreads an invisible hand of warmth deep within my stomach.

Another day with little sleep, the mind angered and restless as the body aches its protest. Another quick drink of that dark nectar followed by a slow intake of air.

I don't want to be the broken record, conveying yet another rough night due to the disease that's devouring my father's body. The very same demon that's trying to take me with it. 

I feel listless and hollow, standing on a precipice of doubt and heartbreak, wondering when this will end... Wondering if there's a chance in hell he'll ever get the miracle of a liver transplant. Is it too late? The damage he's caused himself, the symptoms he has... It's bad.

Keep your chin up, the mind whispers as the spirit snarls in enraged defiance. A primitive beast that's been forced to crawl its way from the depths of my inner abyss, a mouthful of death waiting to bite down into any obstacle that gets in its way. But frustration streams along its deadly form, unable to do more than growl at the invisible killer that's taking my hero away piece by piece.

*sighs softly and takes another drink of her high octane*

Too many thoughts and not enough time to sort them out and make sense of them all. T'would be better to just become still, push away these feverish emotions and become stone. But the light inside me feeds off the world around it, forcing the empath part of my mind to remain hypersensitive to everything at all times. Especially now. The slightest indication from that baby monitor, no matter how deeply I may be asleep, I'm suddenly and sometimes painfully awake. Every muscle tightens, tendons and ligaments poised to throw me into a leap at any given moment. I'm constantly on edge, even when I'm supposed to be sleeping. The only time I start to relax, even just the slightest, was when Dad was admitted in the Hospital or when he was in the Rehab center. Yet, I wasn't quite at ease. I would still wake up every hour or every twenty minutes thinking I would hear a voice calling out to me in the darkness. 

Is this what being shell-shocked is really like? Constantly on edge, never truly still. Every muscle thrumming, waiting to throw you into a frenzy of movement. Anxious of the slightest sounds, the world becoming so much louder and brighter than ever before... Feeling the Fight or Flight response ruling your every moment.

It's friggin' exhausting. I suppose you can get used to it, but at what cost? What long term effect will this have on my body? Recently I've noticed that my skin condition that's been blissfully calm has started to flare up and I'm finding myself in more pain on a daily basis.

*sighs and shakes her head*

Apologies if I seem less peppy than I used to, but I suppose it's just a phase and it too shall pass. At least that's what I keep telling myself. Best form of encouragement is telling yourself things will get better even though you're trying to put the bloody chunks of your heart back together.

Damn, kinda morbid... *Smirks* Heh, ah well. I don't think it helps that my hormones are starting their monthly count down toward my internal self destruct sequence. I'm not so much moody, I'm more sensitive; lights, sounds, touch, scent, taste, emotion. Everything is amplified, which isn't exactly good times. I feel hurt and it literally feels like a knife being dug into my ribcage. My temper gets triggered and I have to bite back the urge to start growling through my clenched teeth. Volatile...fun fun.

I'm sure being tired doesn't help with any of that, so I try to suck it up as best I can and resume my day as calm as physically possible. I have noticed that my anger has risen to that level where I just become very quiet and speak very clearly and calmly. You know the kind of tone; the one you use when all you want to do is scream. Hey, at least I got a handle on my temper no matter how much I've been pushed recently.

When my Dad gets into those 'confused' moments, he has a tendency to get really nasty. Mean in a way that's like a pre-teen who talks back and makes you want to back hand the smart ass right outta their mouth. I will never raise a hand to my Father out of anger. Period. I literally have to just stand by, keep my mouth securely shut and breathe. He's like a dementia patient that will cuss you out if he thinks you're trying to 'Dictate' his life. He doesn't like being told what to do, what he can eat, when he can sleep and when he can get up. If he were in a lucid state, there would be no problem. He'd be nothing but understanding. But he's not all up there anymore; drowning in that poison is liver can no longer filter out. It's eerily similiar to those days when he'd have one too many beers and take it out on me. For so many years I dealt with it and the next day I'd tell him about it and he'd apologize and would do his damndest to not do it again. I could Talk to him.

Now? Even when I make a gentle, helpful suggestion, he turns on me like I'm some kind of monster. The first few times he told me to 'Fuck off' or 'go the fuck away' or 'fuck you' I just brushed it off because I knew he wasn't in his right mind. But after hearing it more often because he thinks I'm his personal outlet... My patience is wearing thin.

I told him if he doesn't meet me half way, if he doesn't realize all I'm doing is trying to Help him, he's gunna end up with a caretaker that's no where near as patient as me. If he thinks my gentle suggestions are me telling what to do, he'll definitely not like a stranger Making him do what needs to be done.

I love him so very much... It's just hard to want to help someone who's becoming progressively more negative and vile toward you. I know he can't help it, but I don't think it's right for him to constantly call on me every 15-20-30 minutes to an hour because he has something to say...and I'm trying to sleep. You can't reason with someone who's lost the ability to think rationally anymore.

It's heart breaking because this was the hero I could have long and incredibly deep conversations with over a cup of coffee. I'm not hyping it up when I say my father had the mind of a genius. It's hard to admit this and stop the hot sting of tears from falling from my red eyes. I honestly feel as though more of me is breaking inside every day that passes and see what's happening to him.

It's hurts so fucking much...

It feels like I'm being forced to mourn who he was but also watch as he's slowly taken from me. I try to not think about how much this devastates me let alone talk about it. Because since I started writing about this, my face is flushed and I have streams of hot tears pouring down my skin. I miss my Dad so much... I honestly pray that there's a way we could save him.  A liver transplant would give him a full recovery. But I don't know if that's even possible...and he seems to be getting worse and I just want my Dad back...

*wipes the offensive moisture from her face and feels a horrendous weight crushing down inside her ribcage*

Alright, enough of this emotional bullshit. I'll be fine. I need to stop here, dry my face off and go outside and have a smoke. Maybe the cold air will help.

-Anon-