As Told by Brandt

Writer’s block is real.  It has taken a hold of me.  So, with that, this is going to be an exercise to EXPELL THE DEMONS.  I will write a gibberish filled non-sequitur blog until I am properly cured of the “blocks.”  Much of my issues are stemming from the loss of a friend.  We shared the love of language, and a bond through our writing.  This forum is lost on me right now. 

So, here it goes.  Today is National Sons’ Day.  I have been on social medial a bit, only to see photos of happy young men.  I even participated, with tears dripping from my eyes.  I will tell you what I think about when I see photos of your sons.  My first instinctual feeling is anger.  I’m not angry at you, or your child.  I am mad that mine isn’t here so I mutter angry shit to myself derogatively about someone I don’t even know.  “What the Fuck…”

This weekend I watched my niece, Kendall, play hockey.  She’s heading to Nationals for Penn State.  Naomi and I stepped into an ice rink together, for the first time since seeing Jacob play.  His equipment is still in its place, in the garage.  Every time I try and take the equipment in for cleaning, I get paralyzed.  We enjoyed every second inside the rink watching our Kendie.  She won.  We struggled in the aftermath.  While I see the passion, the duality of life rears its head.  My passion for the sport is dormant, sans a proud Uncle rooting on his niece.

Last week, I blew up at my dear friend, over politics.  As this country heads into the next presidential race, I need to make sure I am taking care of myself.  I don’t see this climate dying down anytime soon.  This incident proved one thing:  I need a precise plan before the campaigns hit full speed, to rid myself of vitriol resentment.   

I am sad.  I am not going to say I have more than usual, but this feels different.  The weather is changing and the days are getting hypothetically longer.  With that, I find myself thinking even more about Jacob.  I cry more in private.  I cry more in public.  I cry a lot. 

I look through my pictures of Jacob multiple times a day.  I took a lot.  I’ve recently found a few when he was very sick.  I am not sure why I took them, but find it hard to erase them.  I cannot erase ANYTHING having to do with Jacob.  Sometimes I get pissed off and want to show people pictures.  A way of saying, “do you know what the fuck that kid went through,” but that doesn’t do any good.  It’s self-serving. 

Where do I go from here?  This question is more rhetorical.  I have typed 395 words.  Six months ago, I would hit 1,000 words and realize it was time to edit.  Grief is a mother fucker. 

I heard someone recently say that she actually got mad at her family member for dying.  This isn’t the first time I’ve heard people say this.  I was also watching something the other night and a grieving father was speaking of his deceased daughter and shrieked in anguish, “Why MY daughter?”  Both of these, are two things I’ve never done.  I will never get mad at Jacob.  He fought this fucking shitty disease for 613 MOTHER FUCKING DAYS like a warrior.  If I were to ask why him then I’d be saying that someone else deserves his fate.  That’s simply not true.  I don’t want anyone to deal with this.

In other news and happenings, I don’t talk often to my daughter.  Last year, her freshman year in Chicago, we spoke about 40,000 times a day.  She’s got a LIFE and is self-sufficient.  I am so beyond happy about this.  I also miss our chats.  We even went 3 whole days without talking once.  This is historic. 

Grief is in the way.  This is clear and present and will never change.  I know this.  The phrase, “This is a marathon, not a sprint,” has never been more apropos.  I now live a marathon with sprints along the way, just to fuck with me.