Things changed pretty fast. Making out on the first date, going way past second base on the second and having full sex on the third. Of course, as nothing in my life is simple, that was a pity fuck. I had matched with her on Hinge, which is an app for serious dating. “Made to be deleted,” as they advertise it. So I found myself in Stefanshus on that Friday evening, drinking excessively to convince myself I was attracted enough to her to actually consider a future together. But no. Then on my sofa, the next time, I wanted that oxytocin running through my veins to convince me this was all I needed to settle down. But, again, no. So I decided to call it off on a long SMS. And that was it. Until my father almost died.
My sister called me on Tuesday, when I was at work. She said that they had to rush my dad to the hospital, because they found him unconscious on the floor at three in the fucking morning. He was unresponsive for a while and, when he woke up, he couldn’t talk nor walk. After all the exams and scans that doctors ran on him, they found out that his deadly mix of high blood pressure and diabetes had developed a blood clot in his brain. He was lucky that he made it that night.
I reached out to my former date, pulling her out of the figurative freezer I had put her on. Against what any healthy person would have done, she was very empathetic with my turmoil, as her mom had passed away last year. And I know I should have been more emotionally responsible and steer clear from her, but my anxiety was too high to make good decisions. I headed to her place, ate her food, drank her wine and fucked her when the chance came. And it didn’t feel good in my head, but it was enough to stop my mind from spinning over my father’s impending death.
It’s been a few days from that now. She decided to pursue healthier relationships (or, at least, so she replied my bootie call text with.) So that awkward conversation further down the line won’t happen, which is a win. But it leaves me now with no -toxic, I know- mechanism to cope with the mess that’s going on back home in Chile with my dad’s quick physical deterioration and all the shit that’s beginning to stir between me, my siblings and my mom. This all seems to be happening way too fast and, though I’m around the corner from turning 40 and should be mature enough to handle it, I don’t feel ready to deal with it. It’s too soon. Too devastating.
Maybe I’m freaking out way in advance, when my father is still not released from the hospital. We are yet to learn what the next few months of years will look like. We’ll he be able to walk and do his live unaided? We’ll he be constantly falling ill or simply collapsing as he did this week? I don’t fucking know. Hopefully my dad won’t become crippled and, instead, will maintain more than just a little resemblance to who he was. Not that he was the greatest man, either. And that’s the biggest part of the problem. It seems we are all fucking skeptical about helping him out, because deep inside we don’t really feel he deserves it. Or well, perhaps that’s just me. I can’t tell what these reluctant and discomforting feelings within are yet, frankly.
My oldest sister is taking the lion’s share of the responsibility for both my parents. Because my mom, well she’s another mess. Her body works fine, but her mind is not completely there anymore. She’s already proving to be very challenging, which is a bad mix with my dad’s current situation. And, as the oldest son, I feel I should be doing way more than I am, but I cannot really. What am I supposed to do? Leave my life here in Denmark to go to Santiago and help out there, somehow? I know my mom will drive me fucking mad and my anxiety will do the rest. Also, how helpful can I really be if I lose my job here and then become broke? Because surely my Danish money is helping a lot more than whatever the fuck I can do by being back home, in the flesh. But yeah, I feel morally obligated to… It’s complicated, innit?
I miss when all my troubles were inside my head, instead of real. When I could bitch and complain about the existential weight I was carrying, but in somewhat of a poetic way, as The Writer. Now it’s all about arguing with my siblings about fucking money and responsibilities, passing on blame from one to another. That my sister is completely broke and cannot emotionally cope with shit anymore. That my brother is a fucking dick and don’t wanna give up “his” room for my dad to have a decent place to rest at home. That my little sister complains about not really being able to afford going to Chile, but yet she’s gonna anyway, but then I have to also come, even though I don’t wanna… Then, in the background, my mother’s oblivious to everything, just amplifying the shit by being obsessed with the dog shelter she’s taking care of. As if one parent in a dire situation weren’t enough.
This fucking mess is just so damn low in comparison with what I have dealt until now. So goddamn petty and sad. And I thought we would know better, after seeing my parents’ relatives being shitty and selfish, all of our lives. But of course not. Why would we have learnt from other’s mistakes, like rational and empathetic human beings? It’s easy to end up wondering if all families are as fucked up as mine. Or did I just hit the jackpot?

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published.