Quatsch

I may sit here and write these things to you in the late night or the wee hours, dear reader, but what am I trying to accomplish? For that matter, am I actually writing for you? Or is my imagination of a "reader" really the advocate for which I'm writing; is my imagination of a "reader" the other person to whom I constantly speak in my head? I suspect I know the answer, but I lack the conviction to state it.

And, while we're being semi-truthful... why am I writing? When I say the things I say here, whom am I trying to convince; you? I doubt it; that I'm trying to convince myself is more likely. So what am I doing here now? Why am I writing to you (me)? I once heard a psychologist say that we talk to them, psychologists/psychiatrists, in order to justify what we, in our minds, have already decided. Is that why I'm here? To justify myself to myself under the guise of justifying myself to you, the real or imagined reader? Again, the answer seems obvious... but I also know that this late night writing works for me; it settles my nerves and convinces me my convictions. So the more I write and attempt to sway you of something I advocate to be true, especially about myself, I'm actually not trying to convince you... I'm trying to convince myself.

Again, why am I here, now? ... I've taken care of my father for the last week. He's 79 and has Dementia. It's not always present, his particular flavor is distinguished by the fact that lucidity comes and goes. Some days he is himself... other days he may ask me the same 12 questions the entire day.

My father was always the anchor in my life. He was a very smart man, who lacked a strong education, but stuck to his convictions. He had an amazing stare, quiet but intimidating; one that never made you feel fear so much as shame. He always had good advice, and is one of the 3 people that understood the thoughts in my mind without my having to actually voice them. Insightful was a fitting word for him. I say was, because that man is gone. He's reached another stage in his life... and my anchor is suddenly missing.

Maybe that's why I'm here. I miss my anchor, the person who kept me bound to my life. I've tried to be my own anchor... I've found it very difficult... actually it's quite impossible to truly achieve. I'm searching for another anchor I guess. I've met three people who intrinsically understand me, perhaps I will meet a few more... but it seems obvious my next anchor will have to be one of these people few people who understand. Until then, the best I've decided I can do is remember who my father was, and be the best extension of him, as his son, that I can be. That's all the more anchor (the ties to my life as I am and as I wish to be) that I have. It's not enough, I think, but it must do for now. I miss my anchor, my sense of place and purpose in the world.

I recently heard a very powerful and self-made person say that it wasn't enough to believe in yourself... we simply are not that strong as people; we require that someone else also believe in us, so that our times of weakness aren't catastrophic. Maybe such is the anchor of which I speak... maybe I will find the one I need.

(God, could this get a little more sad and depressing?)