As a narcissist, I've spent a lot of time grieving. I am, in fact, an Olympic medalist griever. But this is the first time the grief is for the human life of someone priceless to me. My Dad. My Dad passed away. He died. He kicked the bucket. The Old Man, as he happily referred to himself, is gone. Unexpectedly gone. Gone before I was ready. What the fuck was he thinking?
This grieving is the same. But it's different. I'm not all "remember all the good memories" grieving. I spent a good deal of my life accepting my Dad for who he was and now that high road seems completely walled off. This is some crazy hard core grief. This knitter is mad. And there's nothing constructive about being mad at a dead guy.
Not to mention how impolite, tasteless, evil, you name it. A person stoops pretty low to kick a dead person when they're dead. I am that very wrong person who does it.
(long pregnant pause as I mull this last paragraph over in my rabid mind)
Now that's some technique I've got here. I've turned his death into an exercise in self recrimination. His death is all about me and I'm the worst possible type of human.
Well, maybe tomorrow I'll be a better person. One can hope.