A letter from my dead dad

11/20/24

Last night I laid in a group yoga class, looked up at the swirls on the ceiling from the galaxy light projector, and asked for a message from above. It was in my head, a private thought. Between me and anyone who can hear me?

Can anyone hear me?

I came home relaxed, feeling like I might actually get to bed at a reasonable hour tonight. I took an edible, my husband didn’t notice. He was too caught up in his own head, reciting how to tell me of the mistake he made.

At some point over a year ago, we’d discussed him intercepting when my dad sends mail. I don’t recall what we decided, but I know this wasn’t something he had ever actually acted on, at-least I thought.

Last January I found out about a childhood friend’s passing. It was not a good time, certainly not the time to read a bitter letter from my father. It was a fat envelope, and nobody’s birthday, so it was definitely something intense. I don’t believe had I read that in January, that it would have changed anything between my father and I, besides fueling me with anger.

I was shocked, and definitely upset, until I remembered the conversation we had, a decision I signed off on. I also do believe that things happen as they should, no matter how painful, it’s twisted I know. But in the mess, there is reason. Life is not meant to be free of pain. It is about finding the beauty in the pain. Women often use the saying “beauty is pain” referring to uncomfortable cosmetic services. Maybe it actually just means that there is something beautiful in the pain.

He felt terrible, apologized profusely, and handed me the crumpled envelope. It was at the bottom of his work bag that he uses everyday. He had opened it and skimmed it, doing his husband duties to make sure that it wasn’t something that was going to send me over a ledge. I respect that about him.

I took the letter upstairs to our bedroom, I needed to read it alone. I quickly began to cry. And then I stopped. In this letter of “love”, it had some cutting words. I felt sad and hurt, but not surprised. A lot of blame shifting, over explaining his side, and a jaded view of mine and my sister’s feelings. Even with all of the blame he placed in this letter, and to those he relieved of any responsibility, it did not shift my view of the truth. The reality that was not just his and my mother’s life, but our life as a family of 4.

Becoming an adult, I am able to see how parents make the decisions they make a little better. I also have formed enough of a brain for myself to realize that I am an adult now too. Making my own decisions that others will disagree with. Becoming a villain in other’s stories. And having to be okay with it all. Knowing that there will be people so committed to their side of the truth, because it’s easier to digest, they will let their truth become their reality. Forgetting about the others impacted.

My father really dug the knife in when he criticized my friendships and the ability to have them. Telling me he does not like who I have become. My own father was committed to his side of the story. Not realizing I was just a kid. That while he couldn’t help his depression, I couldn’t help how much it molded me. His best memories with me were before the age of 5, the time I was quite literally the dumbest I’ll ever be. My brain wasn’t even formed enough to know what words were for a lot of that period. I couldn’t even read. But I’m supposed to owe the rest of my life to him for those few good years. Bullshit.

He made sure to tell me about having to fight my mom about having me. As if it’s something to be applauded for having to fight with your wife that doesn’t want to carry another child to convince her to do it for you. She told me that that was never true, but it really doesn’t matter at this point now does it? I’m here and writing this post aren’t I? Thank you greatly Steve, for the gift of life. This home you created was not dysfunctional at all. <— for those unsure, it’s sarcasm. A trait I’ve developed when so much of my life has been a joke. What can I say, it helps me cope.

If I wasn’t grateful enough to have a husband that understands my body my choice, I sure am now. And I am so sorry to all of the women that have been convinced by anyone other than themselves to use their body to bring life into this world when they did not want to do so. I don’t blame my mother for not wanting to bring another child into this world. Maybe she was trying to spare the family unit. Maybe she didn’t want to give birth again. Maybe she knew she couldn’t handle it. Whatever her reason, it’s valid. After all, I don’t want to give birth myself. A bold statement to publicly declare I know. Try not to get offended by the choices that I make for my body. Or anyone else about their bodies for that matter.

3/4/25

Back to the details of this letter. A little over three months have passed since I began writing this blog post. My thoughts and feelings have shifted even more so. That letter coming at the time it did, was a gift from my father, and I truly believe that. Because although there was some hurtful things written, I could see his way of trying to show me love. It was a letter from a desperate man, one filled with pain. My heart hurts for his soul, and all that he could not become. He wanted so much in life, but he struggled to achieve. The shiny things called to him, they promised perfection. He didn’t grasp what he would lose when choosing the mirage of happiness over true connection. The only thing I ever wanted from him.

My relationship with him was tumultuous. I recall yelling I hate you at him over the balcony staircase in my childhood home on two separate occasions. I know, that’s painful to hear from your child. I feel bad for all of us in that home, that just couldn’t quite get it right. Since he has died, I feel closer to him than I ever had. I have even thought to myself how dare I have a right to feel that when I chose not to have a relationship with him for 2 years. But that thought quickly passed. I have the right, because my relationship with my father, whether on this earth or beyond the veil, is mine and his. Nobody else’s opinions on the matter can take away from me what I feel and what I know. I know he loved me, he made sure I knew. In death, I know even more. I know he forgives me for lashing out on him when all I was trying to do was save him from a manic episode that I felt would eventually end in him taking his own life. I wasn’t able to calmly show him that I cared about him and what happened, and he wasn’t able to hear me either. It’s neither here nor there, I always knew he would take his own life one day. I was born with that knowing, and it only grew the older I got.

The photo posted with this blog, is the last photo I took with my dad. My sweatshirt reads “It’s okay if all you did today was survive”. When I got myself that sweatshirt, I also ordered him one that read “Don’t believe everything you think”. I decided to pay half price for a mystery item for myself, and to my surprise, it was a t shirt with the same words written on his sweatshirt. A now beloved item of clothing in my wardrobe. I always felt my dad’s pain. So much so that I tried to fix him. After some years of trying, I realized my efforts weren’t enough. They would never be enough. He had to save himself. I feel for the man that couldn’t escape his mind. For the man that couldn’t face his traumas. For the man that let a church/religion tell him who to be. In watching my dad’s struggles, I have learned what he did not. I will use my dads experiences in life, to teach me the importance of forming an undeniably strong sense of self. And when that sense of self is threatened, to know when to stand 10 toes down, and when to fold. Who I am now, will not always be. It is imperative to grow and change with new information we receive. I choose to live my most authentic life, in the ways my father could not. And when I do, is when I feel his love the most.