I just read your post in TDS and was absolutely shocked at the similarity of our experience losing a parent. Maybe it will be helpful to you, or not. Reading your post in the bereavement thread and reading a few of your big posts was very insightful to me, helping examine possible unacknowledged thoughts. I may have rambled excessively, I'll let you decide, but at least read the first paragraph. I hope anything written helps us both.
My father died October 09'. His autopsy said he died from coronary artery disease. He want in the best all around health, however, he had nothing which would have pointed to such a sudden death. He died in bed. While I was not there (I was and currently live with my mother), my twin brother was. He heard a strange sound while reading around 4am in the living room. I can only believe that this was the end. My brother was there, and heard, and gave CPR. An ambulance got there within minutes. My father had many positive things in his favor and it was still quite futile. You must accept that although you were there, the type of heart attack she likely suffered was so massive (the kind where the heart just isn't just blocked but starts fibrillating in such a way that no blood moves at all) but nothing but defibrillation, within the maximum of two minute or so, would had even the slightest chance of helping, possibly significantly less time. He was Jewish as well, and from New York. (see what I mean about parallels?)
I was awoken at around 4am to my mother telling me my father wasn't breathing. I was shocked, but at that point could still cling to a sliver of hope. My mom sure could not drive, she almost created backing out of the driveway. They put us in a 'family room' (I assume that is code for 'the room which prevents the rest of the hospital from feeling any unpleasantness.) My brother arrived about thirty minutes after us. I figured this was a good sign, if they took so long it's because there was something to take a while doing. Not true at all. At all. It was probably about fifteen more minutes until three doctors scaled through the door. This was very bad. Irrational hope about to be wiped away. More parts then I was aware existed, were instantly broken. I did not find my fathers body so I cannot relate to that, I'm sure my brother could. I spent the next hour or so crying on my fathers chest. I took of the silver chain with a silver mezuzah on it from around his neck and put it on. His blood was on it, probably from a line they inserted in his neck. I asked the person (once my closest friend), to take me home. He was the only person I called to come to the hospital. I went home. Everything moves in slow motion. I smoke a cigarette and wait to wake up from this nightmare. No such luck. I spent many weeks not eating, or eating tiny amounts. I couldn't truly do justice to the feeling penetrating me, my poor words and human ability are but adequate. I am sure you can relate. I felt guilty. My parents had just gotten back from working their second job together the night before. My father was a forensic psychologist, my mother a master social worker. I heard then walk in and him leave, I laid in bed although probably around 8pm (circadian rythm fucked). I missed the last opportunity, ever, to say something, anything, to my father. Other than that I felt no emotion. I simply was not here, no way. I wanted to feel something. I took 80mg of oxycodone. I felt absolutely nothing from an amount I most certainly should have felt. I actually was glad. I didn't want to feel good.
Sureal.
I later felt anger towards the woman my father was dating. He had been stressed out from working to jobs. He had been helping her write her doctoral dissertation. This extra stress pushed him over the top? Dunno. My mother treated her nicer than she probably deserved, including her in his memorial service like family, Later my mother later told me she had hinted at not getting any money. The next day my mother gave her a check to help with her rent at her stupidly expensive apartment, because she had taken off work to write the dissertation. WTF? Money? I'm sure my mother will never see that money she leant her, out of her own pocket. so it goes.
The memorial was on a saturday. I read the mourners prayer in English, my uncle from Brooklyn read it in Hebrew. I saw people I had not seem in many years. I later felt bad I had barely interacted with some of them. I drowned out some emotional thought by writing for days scanning family photographs. Nothing like going through old pictures long since seen to make you sob uncontrollably. I probably shed my weight in tears.
The memorial was over. Relatives left. My broken heart was all that remained. Who was I going to talk to about philosophy, personality theory, life, proofread college papers? My mom is quite intelligent, but on philosophy she is unyielding to Christianity, preventing any semblance of decent discussion. Shit, without my Dad's English degree I wondered whether I wrote A + papers or it was due to his assistance. I haven't found out. Like you I have not advanced in school. I worked for a, while but haven't worked in probably 1.5 years. I'm finally coming around to being able to continue my life, but it had taken time.
Here's where we line up with drug use due to grief and maybe not do healthy choices. Within a few months I had 50k in my account. No 21 year old should have under money when they have lost hope. I started doing any drug I could do. This was the first time I'd ever experienced stimulant psychosis. I also did phenazepam, making me say idiotic things and make life stuck for whoever had to deal with my benzoed ass.
I searched for a man who had gotten his PhD with my dad. They hadn't talked for a long time (my dad sucked at maintaining social contacts, and had a lot going on). He was head of the psychology department at a major medical school in my city. The man helped a bit, but I figured he would, my dad had really liked him, and I see why. The guy had gotten his Phd in philosophy and refused he didn't wans go there so went back for psychology. Crazy. Every time I spoke with him I was strung out on methadone.
Drugs, drugs, DRUGS.
My mom told me my drug addled mind africa were getting quite thin and told me if I continued she would ask me to move out. I was furious. I told her I would move in days. I told the psych I, was talking to, it was find. Ohhhhhhh, I wish I had been thinking clearly. Things would not be fine. I'm not sure I've ever been much more wrong.
I moved into another city about ten miles away but the ghetto. Driving up to my apartment I was greeted with a sign announcing it was a high drug area. I'd never even seen something that said that. Everyone I met was poor, and the value of life was immensely cheap with these people. I started iving heroin, I tried speedballs, I filled this shit little apartment with stupidly expensive electronics and narcotics. I started taking to a neighbor and hanging out with him. He seemed cool. He stole my pure phenazepam. He probably ingested 100 + milligrams. Probably deserved it. I lent people I barely knew money from my money pit. I can relate to your post about trying to be nice and honest, and getting fucked over for putting out my hand. Shit just got crazier. I did large qualities of drugs mainly opioids (oxy/methadone). I luckily didn't start banging them.
Some one lit my fathers car on fire in the parking lot. My last place which reminded me of him. I was super paranoid and say on my couch with a tactical shotgun ready to fire. I was arrested for traffic tickets and few thousand dollars of stuff was stolen from my apartment.
Kindly my mom let me move back in, if she hadn't, I'd be deceased. I had no more money. 50k in less than a year, nothing productive, grief blocked with drugs, and no job. This was bad. I still cried myself to sleep (this was august 2010). This stopped after a few months. I was in a safe place. Finally, I could think.
My point with my personal part if if you have not had some sort of time to evaluate your emotions while sober for two or so weeks, you should consider it. I was able to reflect deeply. I had thought that nothing really was worth doing, I'm jyst nis getting over that. I became a nihilist, which I was not even close to before. I remembered the phrase my father and I had discussed from Ecclesiastes: the vanity of vanities, ALL is vanity. This was not comforting. My Mom's Mother always told her the phrase "this too, shall pass." This sounds comforting, but is also of Jewish origin, and more deeply refers to mortality. GOD, do the Jews have any comforting phrases? I questioned my beliefs. I had professed atheism, but now consider my self more properly agnostic. Still, I pondered my Jewish heritage, my name is Ben after the Jewish tribe I descend from. Far more appealing than Christianity where some people assert, Jews, for sure go to hell.
My father died October 09'. His autopsy said he died from coronary artery disease. He want in the best all around health, however, he had nothing which would have pointed to such a sudden death. He died in bed. While I was not there (I was and currently live with my mother), my twin brother was. He heard a strange sound while reading around 4am in the living room. I can only believe that this was the end. My brother was there, and heard, and gave CPR. An ambulance got there within minutes. My father had many positive things in his favor and it was still quite futile. You must accept that although you were there, the type of heart attack she likely suffered was so massive (the kind where the heart just isn't just blocked but starts fibrillating in such a way that no blood moves at all) but nothing but defibrillation, within the maximum of two minute or so, would had even the slightest chance of helping, possibly significantly less time. He was Jewish as well, and from New York. (see what I mean about parallels?)
I was awoken at around 4am to my mother telling me my father wasn't breathing. I was shocked, but at that point could still cling to a sliver of hope. My mom sure could not drive, she almost created backing out of the driveway. They put us in a 'family room' (I assume that is code for 'the room which prevents the rest of the hospital from feeling any unpleasantness.) My brother arrived about thirty minutes after us. I figured this was a good sign, if they took so long it's because there was something to take a while doing. Not true at all. At all. It was probably about fifteen more minutes until three doctors scaled through the door. This was very bad. Irrational hope about to be wiped away. More parts then I was aware existed, were instantly broken. I did not find my fathers body so I cannot relate to that, I'm sure my brother could. I spent the next hour or so crying on my fathers chest. I took of the silver chain with a silver mezuzah on it from around his neck and put it on. His blood was on it, probably from a line they inserted in his neck. I asked the person (once my closest friend), to take me home. He was the only person I called to come to the hospital. I went home. Everything moves in slow motion. I smoke a cigarette and wait to wake up from this nightmare. No such luck. I spent many weeks not eating, or eating tiny amounts. I couldn't truly do justice to the feeling penetrating me, my poor words and human ability are but adequate. I am sure you can relate. I felt guilty. My parents had just gotten back from working their second job together the night before. My father was a forensic psychologist, my mother a master social worker. I heard then walk in and him leave, I laid in bed although probably around 8pm (circadian rythm fucked). I missed the last opportunity, ever, to say something, anything, to my father. Other than that I felt no emotion. I simply was not here, no way. I wanted to feel something. I took 80mg of oxycodone. I felt absolutely nothing from an amount I most certainly should have felt. I actually was glad. I didn't want to feel good.
Sureal.
I later felt anger towards the woman my father was dating. He had been stressed out from working to jobs. He had been helping her write her doctoral dissertation. This extra stress pushed him over the top? Dunno. My mother treated her nicer than she probably deserved, including her in his memorial service like family, Later my mother later told me she had hinted at not getting any money. The next day my mother gave her a check to help with her rent at her stupidly expensive apartment, because she had taken off work to write the dissertation. WTF? Money? I'm sure my mother will never see that money she leant her, out of her own pocket. so it goes.
The memorial was on a saturday. I read the mourners prayer in English, my uncle from Brooklyn read it in Hebrew. I saw people I had not seem in many years. I later felt bad I had barely interacted with some of them. I drowned out some emotional thought by writing for days scanning family photographs. Nothing like going through old pictures long since seen to make you sob uncontrollably. I probably shed my weight in tears.
The memorial was over. Relatives left. My broken heart was all that remained. Who was I going to talk to about philosophy, personality theory, life, proofread college papers? My mom is quite intelligent, but on philosophy she is unyielding to Christianity, preventing any semblance of decent discussion. Shit, without my Dad's English degree I wondered whether I wrote A + papers or it was due to his assistance. I haven't found out. Like you I have not advanced in school. I worked for a, while but haven't worked in probably 1.5 years. I'm finally coming around to being able to continue my life, but it had taken time.
Here's where we line up with drug use due to grief and maybe not do healthy choices. Within a few months I had 50k in my account. No 21 year old should have under money when they have lost hope. I started doing any drug I could do. This was the first time I'd ever experienced stimulant psychosis. I also did phenazepam, making me say idiotic things and make life stuck for whoever had to deal with my benzoed ass.
I searched for a man who had gotten his PhD with my dad. They hadn't talked for a long time (my dad sucked at maintaining social contacts, and had a lot going on). He was head of the psychology department at a major medical school in my city. The man helped a bit, but I figured he would, my dad had really liked him, and I see why. The guy had gotten his Phd in philosophy and refused he didn't wans go there so went back for psychology. Crazy. Every time I spoke with him I was strung out on methadone.
Drugs, drugs, DRUGS.
My mom told me my drug addled mind africa were getting quite thin and told me if I continued she would ask me to move out. I was furious. I told her I would move in days. I told the psych I, was talking to, it was find. Ohhhhhhh, I wish I had been thinking clearly. Things would not be fine. I'm not sure I've ever been much more wrong.
I moved into another city about ten miles away but the ghetto. Driving up to my apartment I was greeted with a sign announcing it was a high drug area. I'd never even seen something that said that. Everyone I met was poor, and the value of life was immensely cheap with these people. I started iving heroin, I tried speedballs, I filled this shit little apartment with stupidly expensive electronics and narcotics. I started taking to a neighbor and hanging out with him. He seemed cool. He stole my pure phenazepam. He probably ingested 100 + milligrams. Probably deserved it. I lent people I barely knew money from my money pit. I can relate to your post about trying to be nice and honest, and getting fucked over for putting out my hand. Shit just got crazier. I did large qualities of drugs mainly opioids (oxy/methadone). I luckily didn't start banging them.
Some one lit my fathers car on fire in the parking lot. My last place which reminded me of him. I was super paranoid and say on my couch with a tactical shotgun ready to fire. I was arrested for traffic tickets and few thousand dollars of stuff was stolen from my apartment.
Kindly my mom let me move back in, if she hadn't, I'd be deceased. I had no more money. 50k in less than a year, nothing productive, grief blocked with drugs, and no job. This was bad. I still cried myself to sleep (this was august 2010). This stopped after a few months. I was in a safe place. Finally, I could think.
My point with my personal part if if you have not had some sort of time to evaluate your emotions while sober for two or so weeks, you should consider it. I was able to reflect deeply. I had thought that nothing really was worth doing, I'm jyst nis getting over that. I became a nihilist, which I was not even close to before. I remembered the phrase my father and I had discussed from Ecclesiastes: the vanity of vanities, ALL is vanity. This was not comforting. My Mom's Mother always told her the phrase "this too, shall pass." This sounds comforting, but is also of Jewish origin, and more deeply refers to mortality. GOD, do the Jews have any comforting phrases? I questioned my beliefs. I had professed atheism, but now consider my self more properly agnostic. Still, I pondered my Jewish heritage, my name is Ben after the Jewish tribe I descend from. Far more appealing than Christianity where some people assert, Jews, for sure go to hell.