We’ve already established I’m not a shoulder to cry on, as well as that I’m an aspie.

In terms of emotions, I’m not the most emotional person. I’m also a woman. Aren’t women usually perceived as emotional?

Yet, I’m not emotional, except for under circumstances where I lose it with my depression, or PTSD, or something else. You know, where and when all control is lost, and I don’t know where to look for my sanity to be found.

The fact that I don’t express myself in the same way is oftentimes perceived as “I don’t feel”, which is later used against me.

“I know you ‘don’t feel’ or anything, but can’t you please [something similar to requesting me to ‘be normal’]?”

I don’t think and make decisions with my heart, I made them with my head: is it logical, or is it illogical? Dancing is a decision I make with my head and my heart, i.e. it’s more logical to do something I love and will be happy doing than to do something that’ll merely continue my depression and PTSD symptoms.

My grandfather took his last breath today at 1:50pm. You needn’t apologize, because there is nothing to apologize for.

I haven’t cried, and I wasn’t in to see his body after he passed. I didn’t go see it, because he’s not in it anymore; it’s not him, and it’s not his. It would not have brought him back, either. He was fighting a cancerous brain tumor and dealing with Parkinson’s; he was in pain, and now he isn’t anymore.

I’m not sad. For some reason, everyone associates death and grieving with crying, and they assume those who aren’t crying are terrible people.

Heartless people.

I express emotions in a different, possibly strange, way, and death is a situation I cannot mentally process.

I can’t wrap my brain around it enough to comprehend it.

I’m indifferent to death and the idea of death, thus I do not have any emotion attached to it in particular other than the realization that it has happened.

When Papa Al, Mama Lois’ husband, passed away, I was a child. I don’t remember my exact age, but I was small enough to fit in the floorboard of the truck we — Mimi, Mimi’s now-ex-husband, my aunt M, and Mama Lois — were in. Dangerous? Yes, but meh. I wanted information on how he had died: Was he in pain? Did he die quickly? How did he take his last breath? I was curious, but I remember being scolded for asking such questions.

Perhaps it’s a coping mechanism for such questions to be asked, or maybe it’s the fact that people are born only to die shortly after is a really fascinating occurrence that makes living in general seem and feel and appear pointless.

I mean, compared to all the years in the world, we as humans only have 100 or less years we get to live… isn’t that kind of boring? Death is what makes life short, and it makes the idea of actually living seem so much shorter as well, i.e. go to school, attend college, get married, have kids… and it’s kind of over after that, isn’t it?

Mama Lois passed away 8 September 2010. They sort of went the same way; Papa hadn’t eaten since Sunday. I understand it’s hard to watch someone die, and the thought of being without someone who means a lot to you is difficult — scary, even — but I can’t sit around and think of the things I could have done, because I can’t let my non-therapy-getting self go down that road, because it’ll only absorb into my skin and knock me down some stairs that I’ve come up on my own merely out of regret.

I wanted to make him the chicken enchiladas he loved so much one more time before he couldn’t eat them anymore, even though they made me sick, and I wanted to play games with him some more, because I feel bad thinking about the few times I replied, “I don’t feel like playing games right now.”

However, I can’t let myself get there; I can’t let myself think like that, because 1) I’m not in therapy regularly right now, and 2) even if I was in therapy regularly right now, I’d still be knocked down a flight of stairs.

I can’t drop everything I’m doing because of the death of a loved one; instead, I can only try to cope with all the criers around me who are dropping everything and continue to dive into doing what I love, especially since I’m working on something that will have a wonderful, lovely and happy outcome once it’s all finished and set up.

I’m not sad that he’s passed away or that I didn’t get to do the things I wanted to do with him again, but I’m sad I won’t get to see him again tomorrow, or next week, or next year. It’s hard to get used to when you rely on routine and consistency to keep you sane; I’m not a friend to change, but I’m going to have to adapt. That part is hard.