Junk Box

Untitled pt.2 (5.17.2013.)

I try to keep a open mind.

Just about life in general.

That's what my dad always taught me to do anyway.

He always told me, "Everyone is going through something different. Sometimes they handle things differently than we do."

I never quite understood why he said that till today.

Yesterday, my father died from a heart attack. 5'11". 46 years old. Healthier than weight watchers itself. Yet he collapsed at work and never woke up.

They say that's what happened.

There is a recent study saying that cross country runners have a bigger chance of having a heart attack than a regular person. Whether I believe that or not is the question.

Today, I see that not everyone handles things the same.

Today I notice grief.

My aunt for example, is publicly crying into a tissue. Snot and all the glory of crying running down her face. She wants everyone to know that my fathers death has devastated her. Though she isn't his sister. She's my mothers sister.

Me, I just stand by her side and look at the ground. Not looking an anything in particular, only looking up when I am spoken to. Most often I am being condoned for my loss. I'm polite and say thank you, but internally I am screaming at them, cursing them from bringing up the subject in the first place.

My father always laughed at my inability to handle people. "Jane, you hate people, yet you talk to everyone." I only enjoy talking to people when I can prove them wrong. Just to point out their insolence.

Nothing more.

He always tried to point out the best in people. That's what I always hated about him.

He wanted me to be a better person.

He believed that I was a better person than I actually am.

He gave me hope.

And not just me, he gave everyone hope. Thats what I always loved about him.

That's why I'm writing this.

My father, James, gave me this diary as a part of my sixteenth birthday present last year. He, of course, called it a journal and told me that I was to record my life so someone one day will find it and know what it was like to be me.

Also that I can write about the people I encounter. To at least try to give those insolent people around me the benefit of the doubt. To observe how they react and how they see the world around them.

I might as well give it to those I encounter, have them write their point of view.

I see now that my father never took his own advice. I have yet to find his diary, or journal, as I should say.

If only he did. I could've prepared me for this grief.

That is what I'll do. I will give this journal to those who need it more than I do. For them to give their perspective of those around them.