If God Takes Life, He’s An Indian Giver

It’s nothing personal, you see.

It’s just that my Dad died less than two months ago.

Your Dad is still alive. Maybe some of your grandparents as well. You’ve never felt a loss like this. You’ve never watched the very source of your own life suffer through setback after freak occurrence until it culminated in a complete and final emptiness.

Fuck you.

I sit here, reading about Tony Gwynn recovering ahead of schedule following cancer surgery. I can’t stop the bubbling resentment chasing me from my stomach. In that moment I hate him and I hate his family. They’re going to have this scare that will change their lives, and then? Everything will be perfectly fine.

They won’t go through this, desperately trying to get a handle on this thing that is happening. They’ll never know the many times, just when you think you have a handle on it and have it under control, you open your clenched fist and find it’s all slipped away.

It’s. Not. Fair.

My childhood tantrums at life’s injustices manifested in every item I owned being flung across the room, the impending thump against the wall an outlet to the anger, until I collapsed in exhaustion and slept it off.

I’m not much better at channeling emotions now.

I feel like a terrible person for being resentful of cancer survivors. But I’m allowed to be angry. I’m allowed to feel this burning bitterness.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

It just is.


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