PlazaJen: Passion Knit

Somehow, I think I might've titled a previous blog that same way. Who knows. I'm tired. The trip back to the farm takes right around 7 hours, 425 miles, and I've made the trip five times since the beginning of April. That's 4,250 miles roundtrip, which I had to use a calculator to calculate and that right there should tell you I'm still working hard at becoming whole and in posession of all my faculties. Because the old Jennifer would know to take 2 times five first, giving you ten, just add a zero to 425, but instead I took 425 times two, and didn't feel like calculating 850 times five. Sigh. In addition to not being a mathematician, I can tell you right now, I was never meant to be a trucker. I might swear like one, and I might haul across the miles like one, but the notion of getting up the next day to keep on drivin'? Makes me want to crawl back under the covers.

We drove home separately, because we brought home the truck my father left me. I had no desire to drive it, because it is one size smaller than a semi, and I could keep track of JWo just by the wingspan of the mirrors on the thing. I'm going to sell it, because it's ginormous, it gets 12 mpg, and even my dad had suggested doing so. The time driving separately meant we each listened to music we preferred, but I discovered I had a big mix that included Sarah Mclachlan, and so I wept and wailed and bawled until my vision was blurred and then I remembered I was driving, and the last thing any of us needed was for me to shoot LaFonda right off the interstate. It was a lot of time spent in my head, and the swirling and the hamster wheel and the imagination of things got to us both. Dying is easy, it's getting through all the shit left behind that's tough. There's things related to the will, to how things were left, to having this whole new family who was the center of my Dad's life the past 6 years, there's all the bullshit that goes with small town living, and I'm angry. I'm pissed off that all these things cloud my mind and jump in front of the true task at hand, mourning my father. They're worth addressing, they do require thought, but all the same, I hate how they suck me dry and work me up and cause me angst & worry.

I always, always excelled at walking away. I walked away from that small town, because my father conditioned me my entire life to never want that existence, to go out and find the whole world and achieve my greatest potential. Now I find myself like Brer Rabbit and the tar baby, as I punch it to leave me alone, I only become more stuck to it, and all I want is for everything to be resolved, to be fair, to be back to normal, and I fear normal will never come again. So I keep walking, dragging all this crap through the darkness, everything's sticky, and I hope that I am at least getting through, not going in circles.