On July fourth 2012, my father had a stroke.
On July fourth 2012, my father had a stroke, and I watched the ambulance leave and I sat in the hospital, wondering why, Why should a family that was burdened with my father's brain cancer twenty years ago now receive another challenge?
On July fourth 2013, I didn't see my father.
On July fourth 2013, I didn't see my father because I didn't want to, because I spent the day with someone who actually cares about me.
When he said goodbye to me that night he said this to me;
“Did you ever think that in one year, so much would change?”
And he held my hand so tightly you'd think I was trying to pull away.
He said to me, “Did you ever think, did you ever think that in one year you would be spending your time with someone who loves you?”
No.
I didn’t.
On July fourth 2012 I didn’t think.
I didn’t think about what would happen,
I didn’t think about pity,
I didn’t think about the looks I would get from the teachers when they say that they know it’s hard and I didn’t think about the confusion coming from my peers because everyone around me wouldn’t understand!
On July fourth 2012 I didn’t think about it all, I only thought about how I was losing my father again and how horribly ironic it was that it was July fourth.
Growing up I saw my father so little that holidays were almost like magic. He was home. And you know, when you’re little, you love your parents no matter what because you can believe that they love you just the same.
By July fourth 2012 I no longer believed in that magic, but that didn’t soften the fact that half of my father’s face was frozen and that he couldn’t stand without help and even through all these things he still insisted he was fine.
The month that passed, followed by eight more after, were filled with forgetting.
They were filled with the forgetting of my father because there wasn’t much to remember about a man who sits as still as a statue, soaking in the television, because that’s the only thing he can do anymore, because he refuses to work with us, because physical therapy is apparently impossible, and because sometimes when he refuses to swallow his pills I wish that he would choke on them.
And for the first time, at the end of those nine months, I wrote about him.
The first time I wrote about him I was angry, and when my bloody words filled the page, I was filled with release.
And I could take breath.
I had turned my passion into my way of coping, like the way that my mother laughs at our situation’s wickedness, but instead of laughing I could use my anger and I could use my sadness to fuel my art. Now, I knew that no matter what emotion I was feeling, that no matter what mood I was in, I always had someone who could listen because paper can’t help but listen to the words that are written on top of it.
And if you ask me, if you ask me how my emotions become my words I will tell you the truth because the truth is...
I bleed words.
Cut me, and I will bleed words.