Damaged

If I was anything less than “damaged goods” (irony) I would write some great posts about what’s been going on with my dad’s death and my surgery and the typhoons and power outages here. Suffice to say, things are suck/interesting right now.

I want to blog about these women that swooped in and helped my dad, it’s one of the more interesting and unbelievable things I’ve heard in my lifetime. If I wrote a fictional story and included what they’ve done, the readers would balk that it was unrealistic. I would have to emphasize their obvious wealth and perhaps make up a part about how they’ve watched Oprah every weekday for two decades. I guess that would make it believable. But who does this?

They’ve almost eliminated the torture I feel being so far away while my dad was deteriorating and then passed.  I’ll probably not get over it though, not being there. I could not get back sooner due to some misinformation at the embassy over a year ago (maybe more). I knew they were wrong, but they would not listen, so I attempted to comply with their request. I finally gave up and headed in there with a mind to beg and plead. Interesting, the woman behind the counter actually was going to refuse help for some other trite item that caused me to ask for the main person there. Good move. After doing so we put our heads together and figured out, yes, the first item that sent me away empty handed some time ago was a mistake.

 

(Oops upon reading this over I realize I sound like I needed money from them. Nope. We needed our passports renewed. Sounds absurd that it couldn’t be done. Well it was absurd.)

So I can’t be going over  this in my head for the rest of my life. I think this is why people say, “everything happens for a reason”. I like what my friend says better. “Everything happens for a stupid reason.”

I really really hate that “Everything happens for a reason.”, garbage. The only way to look at that statement is to understand that cause and effect exists. There is no Santa.

I hope my mental health gets better, I would like to write a book about the goings on with my dad and these ladies and there’s some symbolism with “Bridge” the game. It’s how he knew these women. The word/concept of bridge and needing people would fit in nicely. I used to be able to write. I used to know English and grammar, etc. I thought as I was deteriorating it was a temporary side effect of my PTSD, so when I get home, I’m going to work at rebuilding those brain cells that seem gone and see what happens. Maybe I’m toast for life.

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