With March comes the realization that I will soon be 30 years old. Truthfully, it isn't as hard to accept as I thought it should be. Like many of the "landmark" birthdays, I think this one will come and go without undo pomp and circumstance. Allowing me to continue the blissful refusal to age I started when I turned 25.
My father is dying. I went to see him last night and as I look down at this man who terrified me for so many years I found that I couldn't even tell him I loved him. I couldn't say those words to him. I didn't know what to say. Part of me wishes that I could have had the display of emotions my younger sisters had. Because in the end he is still my father. But I had to really work hard to have any feelings as I watched him. I tell Patrick that I have pity for him. Pity that he never thought we were important or valuable enough to be a father to us. But I wonder about that. I wonder if that is really the truth or if I am only saying it because I feel that I have to say I feel something. My sister describes me as being locked behind this brick wall that I will only poke my head over every once in a while to allow people to see me. Then I quickly duck back behind it. Maybe she is right. Perhaps I have cut myself off so effectively that I can't tell a dying man that on some level I do love him. As you can tell from reading this I need copious amounts of therapy. Interesting that it took my reaching 30 to realize that I really am not okay afterall.
