Tuesday, July 01, 2003
this is another chapter of the book i have written since my daughter was murdered on 07-19-01...comments are really welcome. thanks
Grief tears his heart, and drives him to and fro
In all the raging impotence of woe.
- Alexander Pope, The Iliad of Homer. Book xxii. Line 526.
12-05-01 after counseling
Hi honey. Here I am, at your bones again. I feel so adrift. So wrong. You are the right one Bekah, and you have been cut down too soon. Among the flowers I got you Saturday are buds, and they are drooping before they bloom.
When I consider destiny I think of yours; it is there, or may be. But it is disallowed by the cowardly, murderous act of a stranger.
I wait for the provident peace that knows it is so and that my pleas for why will not be answered. This is another fact is all. There are many facts standing in line outside the door of my heart awaiting acceptance. There is your death. Your murder. Injustice. Interruption of too many destinies.
My heart cries today. Does it let one in? Let me find the door...oh. I get it.
It's all in pieces Bekah.
12-09-01 Sunday 11:50 a.m.
Hi Bekah. Where do the hours go, as I sit at my computer through the night? I still go to the CHP log and note the mayhem as it occurs. And why? Eh! Fuck why. It's weird that's all. And somewhat chilling when I recall that I was doing that when you died...it was just fortunate that your incident did not appear on the log I viewed. Just fucking lucky I didn't find out that way.
In one of the incidents last night a call went out for the chaplain, because, "Brother of the 1144 is 1097." Now I know very well that "1144" is dead and "1097" is at the scene. Makes me want to go hug him. I can so clearly imagine what he is doing.
Cause I did that. I have lived through the shock. Continue to hang out with the horror. Wrestled disbelief and am still pinned to the mat by it from time to time. Now I have cried until my entire head hurt. Screamed and beat the floor where my grief made me lay. Driven on the freeway calling out your name at the very top of my voice.
I have attempted to apply myself as honestly as possible to my present occupation, mourning. I have worked double, triple, quadruple overtime in order to let what often feels like endless waves of monstrous grief have their way with me.
And I can still sense that my entire being as if by pure reflex runs, cowers, and cringes from the truth that you will never be seen or heard from again.
At times I feel strong. Positively beneficent: not only did I survive my daughter's death but I allowed it to be the impetus for improving my life. Other times that is such bullshit - I am stuck it seems, in a vast expanse of pain with only my heart's denials to keep me breathing.
I am uplifted when I feel you near me. Encouraged by everything psychic that validates my feelings. What I find distressing is this complete lack of motivation toward any kind of work other than that which does not pay our bills (in other words, this). Oh well. It seems to me that it is more healthy than not that I am willing to do this. My therapist has been more or less non-committal. I want to go to Michael's for some custom chimes for you. I got you a tree last night and will decorate it at your grave very soon.
I love you Bekah...amen
X O X O X O X O X O X O X O X O X O X O X O X O X O X O X O X O X O X O mom
Who am i, what am i
A picture's worth
I stand on the sand, and I'm rocking grief to sleep in my arms.
Comments by: YACCS