I grew up in a fairly happy home. My mother and father remained married for almost twenty years before their marriage fell apart. I’m not quite sure what caused it, and I may never know. All that I know is that one day, my father was gone and my mother told me and my elder sisters that he wasn’t coming back for us. I remember crying as she told us that he didn’t love us anymore.
My dad moved to another state. Alaska. He married a witch from the depths of hell and divorced her less than a year later. Good riddance, I had thought. I didn’t care for the woman at all, and her verbally abusive nature only furthered my opinion that my dad was too good for her. She didn’t deserve him.
But nothing about my life seems important now. When you die, all that matters is how you died and why you died. Any period of time before that just seems to become irrelevant. And it was in this position that I find myself in. Try as I might, I can’t summon enough desire to talk about the life I had. Granted, I remember it with a certain fondness – I miss being a human – but I don’t care for it if it’s not a bittersweet memory.
I had two older sisters. They’re still alive to this day, but it’s been a while since I’ve looked in on them. After a while, it becomes painful to be among the living without living yourself. Most of the time, I find myself isolated and just waiting for a vision to come. Something to tell me that there is someone who will need my help.
But I’m not there yet. You’ll learn about my post-life after I’ve told you about my favorite moments of the life I lived. My real life.
I used to go camping frequently. My mother often too me to Sequoia, while my father preferred Yosemite. I hiked up to Half Dome (in Yosemite) twice. On my first time up there, I ended up waiting for my father to come back down. My asthma wasn’t agreeing with the thinner air. I was alone for maybe ten minutes when a girl came down and began to talk to me.
Even with the clarity that the afterlife has given me, I struggle to remember her name. Heather seems to suit her, though. Heather informed me that she was from a city that was, literally, named Paradise. But there was nothing special about it, it just had a strange name. I talked with her for almost an entire hour. Through this hour, I learned several strange things about her.
First of all, she hadn’t worn shoes for the hike. Her feet were pretty cut up, but she didn’t seem to mind. When I asked her about the lack of footwear, she told me that bare feet were better for gripping things than covered feet were. She figured that the pain of her bare feet would be outweighed by the benefits when she got up to scaling the mountain.
I also learned that she didn’t know where her campsite was. She didn’t know at all. And the rest of her group had gone on ahead. When I was told this – towards the end of the hour – I urged her to catch up to the people that she had come with. With that, Heather was gone from my world… Forever.
Another fond memory I have is of my father and I sitting on the balcony of a condo he just bought. We were talking heart-to-heart and I remember how full of love I felt for him. How much I cared for him and what he meant to me.
I remember my dad taking pictures of a bear until the bear lunged at him.
I remember hosting a murder mystery at my sixteenth birthday.
And my trip abroad, to Germany.
These are all my favorite memories. The ones that I cling to when the loneliness becomes almost suffocating and I can’t stand it anymore. These are the memories that I won’t let go of.
I suppose you’d like to know about my death now.
Very well. Might as well get this over with now.
View User's Journal
Random Musings of a Bipolar Tangerine
Stuff goes in here. I'm not quite sure what stuff, but things will go here. Perhaps my thoughts, my current situation with pain or medication, or even random amusing things I find on the internet. Won't be too exciting unless you're THAT bored.
 |
Bipolar Tangerine
Community Member |
