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Remnants

I'm home from college for winter break, and emptying some boxes that are left over from when my family moved into a smaller house last spring. After spending about a half hour unpacking these boxes full of miscellaneous junk, i'm reminded what an identity crisis leafing through all one's petty adolescent belongings can bring about. I use the term "adolescent" loosely- the pieces of history i've uncovered so far actually range from my life as a 5 year old to my life as a 13 year old to my life just within the last 2 years. I even found a Nickelback CD a friend burned for me in 6th grade....i hate Nickelback. How embarrassing.

I'm 19 years old, trying to decide on a major, trying to plan a career, recovering from a breakup after 2 years, and trying desperately not to go completely nuts. i have no idea who i am or who i want to become. I find myself constantly searching through my past and present, hoping to discover "myself"--who i want to be-- by reliving a phase or reinforcing (through emphasis) a specific dynamic of my character. My problem is that i've never felt completely content in any personal phase, and i find it unproductive and hopeless to emphasize one aspect of my character and ignore the rest. Because of this bubbling uncertainty-- this insurmountable insecurity-- I find myself constantly irritable, overly judgmental of others, RUTHLESSLY critical of myself, and wishing for peace. When will i find peace? Is this part of growing up, or is this identity crisis just a normal part of the grieving process? (Here i'll mention, in humiliatingly irreverent parentheses, that my dad died of metastatic adenocarcinoma in May of 2006.)

Actually, i guess i might as well go for it. Nothing will make sense unless i do. This is where you should stop reading if you have a happy bubble, because it's not that interesting and you probably won't get it anyway. My dad died of metastatic adenocarcinoma in May of 2006. In his obituary and death certificate, they called it "Metastatic adenocarcinoma of unknown primary origin." How awful. Metastatic means aggressive and fast-spreading, and adenocarcinoma is apparently an extremely rare type of cancer. "Unknown primary origin" means that since the cancer was in his abdomen, the doctors were unable to detect the source. I'm guessing it was probably buried somewhere deep in his intestines. My poor daddy. He was the greatest person i knew-- selfless, modest, empathetic, and completely brilliant-- just to scratch the surface. He was an excellent clarinetist as well as a respected anesthesiologist. He loved math and food. Me too, but i'll never be as smart as he was. And he loved me. He knew i was his daughter. We were like soul mates, in a way. He understood me like no one else, and i hardly ever told him anything personal. He just knew me because he knew himself, and i was so much like him. We had identical feet, noses, eyebrows, and tempers. We used to fight all the time. I wish i could take back all the horrible things i said to him, but he knows i love him. He was proud of me. He still is, i guess. He told me that one night when i came home doped out on oxycontin (you can imagine how unbearable this all was during my senior year of high school- drugs provided an escape when my friends failed to) and he was in bed. I'm guessing his pain was really bad that night, and he knew his chances of surviving were slim. I went to tuck him in. He took my hand, looked me earnestly in the face, and he said, "Sweetie, I'm so proud of you." I felt like he shouldn't be proud of me. I was on drugs. I had turned my back on him and everything he'd done for me. I think i might have protested, but he insisted. I still don't understand why he was proud of me. I wish i could.