So my dad makes me nervous, so when he calls me, or when I'm going to see him, I tend to talk about him a little and how I think he's strange.
People think I don't do a lot of talking, but that's because I seen to notice people tuning out when I'm saying something, which is a bit of a downer. If I'm sure you'll listen to me about something I will not shut up. Most of the time this never happens, but my girlfriend pretty much has no choice so with her I go on at length about anything, even things I learned in class. Even things I learned in weather class.
That can't be much fun. So it's understandable that one day she gets a little frustrated while I'm prattling on about how the only stories my dad ever told me were ones about Vietnam and interrupts me to say it's pretty obvious he has post-traumatic stress disorder.
We had talked about that before, and it's never failed to upset me, and so it did again.
It's upsetting to me because:
A) It should have been rather obvious that this is the case. Ever since I was five years old 90% of the stories my dad would tell me involved the military and usually Vietnam, and since I was eight over 75% of those stories were in some way ghastly. I got used to it, hearing dad talk about torturing a witch-doctor in Zaire was normal and comforting (I didn't really have to listen, I was free to think about other things while smiling and nodding in the appropriate places).
B) While I don't like him and may never forgive him for some things, I've always admired his perceptiveness. Nothing gets past him. I've always wanted to be able to ask the simple but supremely important questions like he can. So it sucks that he may be losing his wits. Of course, all he has to do is knock around that ratty old house (which he never cleans, it is filthy and disgusting and I cannot stay there for long without getting red puffy eyes, a runny nose and a damn ass-load of sneezes so it cannot be anything but harmful to his already compromised respiratory system) with nothing but the company of four cats and a dog.
I just saw him this weekend, and he doesn't seem to be losing it, but he's getting to be seventy and I need to start thinking on what to do about it. But I really don't want to.
People think I don't do a lot of talking, but that's because I seen to notice people tuning out when I'm saying something, which is a bit of a downer. If I'm sure you'll listen to me about something I will not shut up. Most of the time this never happens, but my girlfriend pretty much has no choice so with her I go on at length about anything, even things I learned in class. Even things I learned in weather class.
That can't be much fun. So it's understandable that one day she gets a little frustrated while I'm prattling on about how the only stories my dad ever told me were ones about Vietnam and interrupts me to say it's pretty obvious he has post-traumatic stress disorder.
We had talked about that before, and it's never failed to upset me, and so it did again.
It's upsetting to me because:
A) It should have been rather obvious that this is the case. Ever since I was five years old 90% of the stories my dad would tell me involved the military and usually Vietnam, and since I was eight over 75% of those stories were in some way ghastly. I got used to it, hearing dad talk about torturing a witch-doctor in Zaire was normal and comforting (I didn't really have to listen, I was free to think about other things while smiling and nodding in the appropriate places).
B) While I don't like him and may never forgive him for some things, I've always admired his perceptiveness. Nothing gets past him. I've always wanted to be able to ask the simple but supremely important questions like he can. So it sucks that he may be losing his wits. Of course, all he has to do is knock around that ratty old house (which he never cleans, it is filthy and disgusting and I cannot stay there for long without getting red puffy eyes, a runny nose and a damn ass-load of sneezes so it cannot be anything but harmful to his already compromised respiratory system) with nothing but the company of four cats and a dog.
I just saw him this weekend, and he doesn't seem to be losing it, but he's getting to be seventy and I need to start thinking on what to do about it. But I really don't want to.
posted by Sean at 7:04 AM
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