Sunday, September 30, 2012 at 7:34 pm
Someone failed to replace the vacuum bag. Now everything is covered in gypsum dust. Everything.
We are finally home after being gone for 12 days. Or 13. I’m never good with calculating that.
I would have to say this was the worst trip—and week and a half—of my life ever: speeding ticket, death of a best friend, having to call friends to tell them of said death, cracked windshield, riding out a hurricane, explaining what happened over and over again to different people as they asked who hadn’t heard of said friend’s death, waiting on friend’s body to return home from hurricane land, funeral, funeral aftermath.
There’s too much rolling around in my head right now, and some of that I’m trying to get down in different posts.
I’m sure eventually I’ll get back to my happy blogging self, but in all honesty right now I’m not in the mood.
For now, I just wanted to let y’all know we’re home.
I’ve got a lot of comments to reply to. And bloggers to catch up with. This may take me a while.
Until next time...
We left New Orleans yesterday (Tuesday) around noon, and we drove 7 hours north to Jonesboro, Arkansas to stay the night with our buddy Dwayne.
Tory’s funeral is today (Wednesday).
I’m not sure I’m mentally going to handle today very well.
Expect some random thoughts soon.
Until next time...
This post is more a chain of thoughts written at the Husbear. I post it here because maybe it will help me. I’ve had a difficult time over the last few hours especially, and had to remove myself from the public because I started crying all of a sudden and couldn’t stop.
While I cannot truly imagine what it would be like living without you, it’s something I have been forced to think about with Tory’s death. And while there have been several close calls from accidents you’ve had in the past that made me briefly ponder it, this situation pretty much ripped the door off of the hinges for me. And now it’s all I have been able to think about since that phone call early Sunday morning.
Tory’s death made me realize that I’ve never had anyone this close to me die before. While I’ve had all my grandparents die, I’ve never lost anyone who was—by choice—this close of a friend to me. Friend isn’t an accurate word. Let’s go with “family”. Because that’s what Tory and Dwayne are. They’re our family. Which is part of why this stays the focus of my thoughts. I feel like I’ve lost a brother. And it hurts immensely.
I still feel the shock of you flying out of bed when Dwayne called early Sunday morning. I don’t even remember the words you spoke into the phone as you talked to Dwayne. I just remember thinking this had to be some sort of joke to get us to New Orleans sooner so we could be with them. And then I could see it in your face—that look of disbelief—and how physically sick I felt instantly. Then holding you close to me, selfishly, and then thinking that was something Dwayne would never be able to do again with Tory.
Besides just the mental and physical shock of it, there’s also all the what-ifs I would think about. Especially if it was an untimely and unexpected death like Tory’s. Could something have been done to mitigate it? What if I had done one thing instead of another? What if I had made you go to the doctor instead of not? Yes, I know it’s the “what-if game”, but these are still thoughts I would have. Because you know that’s how my brain is wired.
And then thinking this occurred in a strange town. Not knowing anyone. What if that was the case for me? It would be bad enough if it occurred back home, but in some place where I had no familiarity at all? And no one that I knew? Luckily we were able to get there in an hour or so to be with Dwayne, but what if that hadn’t been the case?
Having to be the bearer of bad news. When we called other friends to let them know. The Facebook post. And how many times have we—and will we—get asked by people who haven’t heard yet: “Hey, where’s Tory and Dwayne?” the very thing that drove me to write this post. Yes, the reply gets a little rote sounding after a bit, but it still has to be said and dealt with each time someone asks. I can’t imagine what it’s like for Dwayne to have to answer the “Where’s Tory?” question.
Then there is all the things I don’t want to have to think about: funeral arrangements; financial and business matters. Yes, we can pre-plan for some of that, and we will revisit that when we get home. But it’s still something that seems awkward to have to focus on in the moment. Especially when there’s already a deep hole in your heart.
All the memories. Just looking at your toothbrush, or a rock, or the pets, or the smell of you on your pillow would all be a reminder of you. And the photographs and digital memories that exist in places like Facebook. I hear with time that gets easier to deal with. But I imagine it’s something that will always tear a hole in my heart.
There are times I can’t stop crying, and times I’m totally angry. I just know I hurt for Dwayne right now.
And myself, as selfish as that sounds.
Until next time...
In regards to the incident that resulted in that slight blemish on both my person and my psyche, I would like to thank all who commented on my post “Meehoo With an Exactlywatt“.
As y’all know, I normally reply to most comments made here. But in this case, this post was warranted.
It would seem that everyone who commented is in consensus with the Husbear about my actions. I’m still mentally processing everything that happened, and your comments have definitely helped me not to be so hard on myself.
Thank you all.
Baby steps for Erik.
Until next time...
As a child, I was the puny, little nerd who was used as the ball in dodge-ball. As an adult, I still mentally feel like that on the inside. I’m not a fighter. Physically, at least. I don’t think violence solves problems. I tend to run from those kind of situations.
That being said, some of you might have seen this Facebook status update on Saturday night:
And let’s just say it escalated in a negative fashion after that point. Both the vile, nasty vulgarity spilling out of his mouth, and the anger that was building up inside of me.
I don’t remember everything that happened, but I know I said something in the parking lot to him about his derogatory and offensive language. At which point something else derogatory was said by him directed specifically at me.
I then did something I don’t do and that I’m not proud of: I shoved him. What the Hell, Erik?
And then—understandably—he swung.
I was able to duck out of the way. Mostly.
I shoved back harder, because it’s what I do apparently. And while he was down I managed to get to my truck and leave. Yes, I ran. It’s what I do. I believe there’s only three ways to win a fight: the cops show up; someone dies; or, someone runs. So I ran.
Yes, alcohol was involved. But I’ve never been known to be a hostile drinker. If anything I usually get goofy. Well, goofier than I usually am.
The Husbear says he’s proud of me for standing up the way I did. But I’m not, and my actions have weighed heavily on me this week. Even though the dumb-ass guy instigated with words, I was the dumb-ass one who physically attacked first. I was raised to be better than that.
And that “mostly” I said above? This picture was taken today, six days after the incident:
I’m not proud of that picture. It was a result of the first physical fight I’ve been in as an adult, and for that I’m not proud.
More than anything, I’m embarrassed that I let a dumb-ass, homophobic idiot get under my skin.
Until next time...