Slow Motion

I’m alive. Thank you for the comfort notes.

It’s been 11 days and I’m still a mess. I will be for a while. But I’m out of bed. I’m showered. I’m high.

Reagan had to drive up to my dad’s beach house to drag me into the shower. Literally. Luckily for her, I hadn’t eaten except for a piece of bread here and there in eight days. I’m pretty sure my weight is below 100 lbs. I was easy to haul off.

I’m grateful she did, though I loathed her at the time. I know Dart would have done it himself, but to be honest…he’s about as depressed as I am.

We picked up my dad’s ashes yesterday. And now I’m staring at them.

I’m staring at my dad. ………. He’s giving me the silent treatment.

There are a billion things I need to do like call the RE agent, call the lawyer, pack up Poppa J’s stuff. I need to call his parents in NY, tell them that their son has passed. I need to go back to Oregon, go back to life. But I feel like I’m moving in slow motion (and no, it’s not from the pot). For Christ sakes, It took me 20 minutes to take a piss this morning.

I feel bad for Dart. I’m miserable company. I tell myself I’ll eat in an hour. Then six pass. I tell myself I’ll take Dart for a walk today. Then tomorrow comes and we’ve never left the house. I think he’s going stir crazy. I think he misses my dad.

I miss my dad.

My phone keeps ringing.

This entry took 1.5 hours to write. Fuck me.