My daddy died today. Well, actually he died June 4th, 2008, but each day is the same for me. Now I lay me down to sleep doesn’t work. When I close my eyes I see my daddy lying in his coffin. I know he is not going to get up, so the vision never changes. My mornings are identical; I wake up tired and want to stay in the bed until. If I didn’t have to “live” I wouldn’t. Routine – open my eyes and listen to my mind complain, get Dasia ready, take her to school, and go to work and “function.” Thank God for Dasia. Monday through Friday I remain under my sheets until I’m late enough for work - not enough for my boss to complain, but enough for me to fuss as to why I continue to fall into the late schedule. People lose their jobs everyday, but my working depression won’t fire me.
I’ll settle for a layoff if it’s long term and the position won’t call me back. I can’t shake this. One minute anger is my best friend, the next hate, and I try to reason with it all. Tolerating things that I paid no attention to previously burns holes into my soul. My mouth, oh, the words that can come from my mouth. My dreams tremble me. One night I had one about a basement full of rats. The setting was on a street that my family resided on when I was a child, but in a neighbor’s apartment. The rats crawled into the cement wall, the wall closed and all their tales fell off. The next one I can remember contained dogs, spit, singing and skin. Working depression, please fire me.
I don’t write anymore. I figured getting this out might help. Lying on a couch talking about my feelings would be a waste of time and money. I’d make myself late or not show up. The someone that I need to talk to is dead. The woman that raised my father said it would get better; she died less a month after my daddy did. What am I looking forward to?
Patience is invisible in my world, although I’m not as mean as I was a few months ago. That’s my opinion. I still like to blast certain people who say dumb things with no meaning. You can’t have an opinion about someone else’s opinion, but I don’t care. I’m talking shut them down and get out my face blast. Rude for Miss WandaLuv, but effective.
See, I had this multimillion-dollar empire planned for my family. The dream that my daddy chased all his life ran to me. Miss Luv’s Books was formed, NYC was the place where my astronomical comedy career would blossom - my father would lavish in it. He pushed me, he told me that I was still young and it took work. My daddy told me to keep at it. “Babygirl people work their whole lives to make it; you got plenty of time.” I wish I had enough time for him.
My prior life of hustling for it is somewhere. I don’t make any effort to develop the uniqueness that is I. In all honesty – I’m all fucked up. Just tired, angry and aggravated. Am I going to commit suicide? Hell naw, fool! My daddy would kill me! This is my attempt at getting back to the swing of things. Misery could care less about who it chooses for company.
On March 2nd I’ll be forty-three. Before June 4th I loved my birthday. I’d buy myself a present, go out or celebrate with friends. When I turned thirty I threw my own birthday party. What a vain heffa I was. This year I will think about how my daddy felt the day that I was born. He had something that was for him and still is his. I’ll get it together one day.
When will these weird dreams stop? Why do I wake up tired when I don’t dream? Why do I keep seeing him lying in that coffin? By the way, he was laid out in a gold-ish tan colored suit that matched the coffin. He was always a suit wearing well-dressed man. My father’s love of clothes, his laugh that I can still hear, and his voice. These are some of the things that I never want to forget. Do you forget?
I want to sell books and perform on stage. Book clubs need me to make their meetings exciting. Comedy shows need a little luv. My Blog Talk Radio Show – Wanda’s Way - was HOT. Wait for Love: A Black Girl’s Story, LuvMe, the book and the fragrance, and A Sheltered Life need me to make it. I need a stimulus plan custom designed for me.
How do you live with depression? It’s easy. Take a shower, go to work, go back home, take a shit, and go to bed. Plenty of us do it everyday. Many of us have been doing it for years. When distress happens in your life most of us call our mother. My mother doesn’t care to talk about my daddy. They were divorced after twenty-seven years of marriage. They both remarried, but she still brings up things that happened in 1970. The husband-wife relationship is totally different than the father-daughter one. The first person I called when I found about my daddy was her. She told me to be strong. She didn’t realize that she was talking to a baby and babies aren’t supposed to be strong. I don’t give a damn about her past and I guess she doesn’t care about my present. All fucked up.
A good job is challenging to find and to quit a job is idiotic, but one day I have to resign from this one. No unemployment for quitters, which would mean no Cheetos for Dasia…back to my first request. Working Depression, Please Fire Me.
I love you, Daddy.
Wanda D. Hudson