I need to vent somewhere and its going to have to be here. Sorry folks.
Well... this such a weird thing to post on a British football (well) forum with a bunch of people I've never met, but then that goes for a lot of things I post here.
If I post something on Facebook, too many people I know get too emotional, and I don't want to be a burden to anyone. I know many people struggle more with bad things in life, getting severe depressions and eating antidepressives or ceasing to exist or whatever, than I do. So I never/rarely talk about my own problems as I've got nearly insane coping mechanisms.
As a kiddo I was wild and violent, struggling to express myself. Was taken to a therapy school for two years and came out of it as something of a machine, able to turn every negative thought to a positive one and so forth. A life saver, but not always practical.
I also started smoking weed when I was 18. Not because I needed or wanted it but because all my friends did and they had such a good time, so why not. And it was lovely, especially the music.
As time went on, weed became more and more of my main coping mechanism. I remember a close friend dying from an MDMA overdose at Roskilde and when I was told about it I was so baked I only thought "ok this is sad but I'd like to not think about it" and that has been a solution for me whenever shit gets too hot to handle.
Now my father is dying.
He's only 62 but has been struggling with his health for 5+ years.
When he got a throat tumour in August or September last year he was considered having 1/3 of a chance of surviving it. Two weeks ago there was finally an end to this as a friend of my dad (he doesn't like sentimentality either) told me "Petter doesn't have long left. The doctors said 'weeks, not months'".
I said "Ok, not good". And obviously I've been staying away from the roughest emotions through various inner coping methods: "well, he doesn't like modern life anyway", "he's suffering so much, it'll be good for him to go", "once he dies I will carry on his memory through collecting his writings and publish it, he'd be happy with that". And so forth so forth.
Combined with a situation where I no longer get social welfare and cannot pay my rent, the situations are adding up and all this coping takes a lot of effort, ESPECIALLY since I've decided not to smoke any weed; I'm not going to watch my dad die and feel nothing and carry around that bad concious for the rest of my life.
Another mindfucker soon appeared: I realised I have absolutely no clue what to do when he dies.
Am I supposed to drag his dead body to the morgue myself? The vague Swedish bureacracy seems to think that I should be responsible for taking care of his belongings (value ca £0), the cleaning of his apartment, arranging the funeral. I wouldn't be surprised somewhere within these vague instructions includes "oh, and bring a shovel".
Probably doesn't work the same here as in UK but any of you have any experience of NOT knowing what to do in a situation like this? Or do people learn this in schools at some lesson I didn't attend?
I'm not his only kid though, so I'm also supposed to somehow involve my heavily autistic half-brother (who I haven't met since another relatives funeral 16 years ago, when my brother was 4) and my psychotic half-sister who is a shell of a human since her Postpartum depression ~8 years ago.
So yeah me, the soon to be homeless guy, my sister who believes her kid and everyone else are demons and my autistic half-brother - who appears to have emigrated to somewhere or another - are supposed to throw some kind of worthy funeral. I think. Or maybe the state pops up and says "yeah you can't afford this so we're digging a hole somewhere and arranging the little church thing and all that shit", but I would'nt expect it.
For the first time in my life I feel as weird as I am, and its just massively impractical to the point where I've decided that once all the fires have been put out, I MUST change.
But right now... any perspectives and insights are welcome, because I'm almost paralyzed with confusion and worries... and you know, I've never sought help for anything. I don't want to be a burden to society or the people living in it, I don't want to steal time and resources from those who really need it. This means I actually don't have a damn clue what society has to offer when it comes to solving intricate puzzles.
Thats that. Thanks for reading this ventilation piece. Now I gotta go home to my dad (he has decided to die in his shitty apartment, probably because he can smoke cannabis there) and talk. Its ok, 5% old memories, 95% gallows humour; I'm saving sadness for when the moment comes.
Well... this such a weird thing to post on a British football (well) forum with a bunch of people I've never met, but then that goes for a lot of things I post here.
If I post something on Facebook, too many people I know get too emotional, and I don't want to be a burden to anyone. I know many people struggle more with bad things in life, getting severe depressions and eating antidepressives or ceasing to exist or whatever, than I do. So I never/rarely talk about my own problems as I've got nearly insane coping mechanisms.
As a kiddo I was wild and violent, struggling to express myself. Was taken to a therapy school for two years and came out of it as something of a machine, able to turn every negative thought to a positive one and so forth. A life saver, but not always practical.
I also started smoking weed when I was 18. Not because I needed or wanted it but because all my friends did and they had such a good time, so why not. And it was lovely, especially the music.
As time went on, weed became more and more of my main coping mechanism. I remember a close friend dying from an MDMA overdose at Roskilde and when I was told about it I was so baked I only thought "ok this is sad but I'd like to not think about it" and that has been a solution for me whenever shit gets too hot to handle.
Now my father is dying.
He's only 62 but has been struggling with his health for 5+ years.
When he got a throat tumour in August or September last year he was considered having 1/3 of a chance of surviving it. Two weeks ago there was finally an end to this as a friend of my dad (he doesn't like sentimentality either) told me "Petter doesn't have long left. The doctors said 'weeks, not months'".
I said "Ok, not good". And obviously I've been staying away from the roughest emotions through various inner coping methods: "well, he doesn't like modern life anyway", "he's suffering so much, it'll be good for him to go", "once he dies I will carry on his memory through collecting his writings and publish it, he'd be happy with that". And so forth so forth.
Combined with a situation where I no longer get social welfare and cannot pay my rent, the situations are adding up and all this coping takes a lot of effort, ESPECIALLY since I've decided not to smoke any weed; I'm not going to watch my dad die and feel nothing and carry around that bad concious for the rest of my life.
Another mindfucker soon appeared: I realised I have absolutely no clue what to do when he dies.
Am I supposed to drag his dead body to the morgue myself? The vague Swedish bureacracy seems to think that I should be responsible for taking care of his belongings (value ca £0), the cleaning of his apartment, arranging the funeral. I wouldn't be surprised somewhere within these vague instructions includes "oh, and bring a shovel".
Probably doesn't work the same here as in UK but any of you have any experience of NOT knowing what to do in a situation like this? Or do people learn this in schools at some lesson I didn't attend?
I'm not his only kid though, so I'm also supposed to somehow involve my heavily autistic half-brother (who I haven't met since another relatives funeral 16 years ago, when my brother was 4) and my psychotic half-sister who is a shell of a human since her Postpartum depression ~8 years ago.
So yeah me, the soon to be homeless guy, my sister who believes her kid and everyone else are demons and my autistic half-brother - who appears to have emigrated to somewhere or another - are supposed to throw some kind of worthy funeral. I think. Or maybe the state pops up and says "yeah you can't afford this so we're digging a hole somewhere and arranging the little church thing and all that shit", but I would'nt expect it.
For the first time in my life I feel as weird as I am, and its just massively impractical to the point where I've decided that once all the fires have been put out, I MUST change.
But right now... any perspectives and insights are welcome, because I'm almost paralyzed with confusion and worries... and you know, I've never sought help for anything. I don't want to be a burden to society or the people living in it, I don't want to steal time and resources from those who really need it. This means I actually don't have a damn clue what society has to offer when it comes to solving intricate puzzles.
Thats that. Thanks for reading this ventilation piece. Now I gotta go home to my dad (he has decided to die in his shitty apartment, probably because he can smoke cannabis there) and talk. Its ok, 5% old memories, 95% gallows humour; I'm saving sadness for when the moment comes.
