Untethering from my father

One of the strangest parts of grief is taking stock of who shows up. People you have forgotten about, people who have hurt you, people that you have hurt.

It leaves you raw and exposed. Put on display. Our names said among many in households across the country. Another tragic story unfolded.

I became part of another group of people the day my father died. One that I knew would hold me some day. Sooner than it embraces most. But for some unfortunate children it’s far too soon.

I assess with each message who feels safe enough to let in on the next layer. This grief is compounding on the loss of other important relationships in my life. Those losses don’t have to be permanent, but to ignore that they are a loss for any period of time would be doing those relationships an injustice

I knew my life was going to be filled with turbulence, maybe more than a lot of people I grew up with. Or maybe just sooner. Or maybe it just feels that way, and we all feel this way.

All I know is my capacity for grief, and I try my best to honor it.

I feel it in my bones, I see it in my face, I smell it on my skin. I feel dirty. I am dirty.

I am insecure of what others may think about me right now. I fear their judgements. I remind myself that my father just died.

To the world, this loss is widely accepted as one of the worst types of losses. Even if our relationship wasn’t active. Even if I chose that. Especially because it was to suicide. And he was only 63, still seen as young enough.

Unlike the loss of my dog. Justifying how tragic it was by having to share the details. That he was only 3. That he got run over. That my sister was watching him. That it wasn’t her fault. That my husband had just left for 2 months. The husband that I just married.

And oh yeah, grieving my father the first time. That time; over our relationship.

Because I had tried everything I could. To show him how to heal.

I healed myself first, not forever, and not everything, but a lot of things. I tried to share what I learned, I thought I got somewhere. But when he told me he was depressed again 3 years ago, I knew I couldn’t save him. I sat across from him at breakfast after we just had father daughter photos done with my sister too, and I gave him all the tips and tricks that I had found helped me.

But it wasn’t enough. His pain was larger than I could hold. It was larger than he could hold. I always knew it would end like this. I hoped it wouldn’t.

The glimmer of hope inside of me imagining that maybe I’ll be wrong. But after all, he is the one who bought me a debit card shaped piece of plastic that said “Always right” when I was just a kid. And even if I don’t like the outcome of being correct. I’ve learned it will be a lot easier to digest if I swallow my grief one bite at a time.

That day I began my untethering from my father. It wasn’t a clean break, my hope began fading. I didn’t know how to be with him in his depression.

I finally didn’t live in the same house anymore, I had the space from his pain that I longed for. So much of my life I lived in a house of his pain. He was the beacon in our home, even in his darkest moments. Whatever he felt, we felt too, but only to some degree.

Depression craves company, while it demands solitude. It wants others to claim as its next victim. But it doesn’t let you go so easily.

You must hold onto a rope, or know your way back to the light. That rope is other people. The way back is in self care. Tools we learn in therapy. From self help books. In moving our body. In others stories of survival. In actual sunlight, or vitamin d supplements if you live in a place as dark in the winter as Maine.

Many turn from those suffering. Because they don’t have room in their burden backpack to carry your pain too. I did not have room for my father’s suffering. Had I known he was at the end of the rope, I would have made some room. I would have always made some room.

Suffering and sorrow are a key part of our existence. It’s what forces us to surrender and accept the help we often give to others.

My father didn’t know how to integrate his sadness into his life. Others mostly knew him as a bubbly and energetic man. Somebody so full of life. I wish I knew that version of him more.

In death, I can see it clearer. My brain signifying the battle is over. He’s not coming back this time. Drop your weapons.

I see the light in his eyes in my mind. I can hear his laugh. I remember all of the things I found embarrassing that others loved about him the most.

Having daughters doesn’t sound easy. Especially when you are struggling with as much as he did. With your spiritual identity. With your sexual identity. With your past traumas. With your role in this world.

He always wanted a son, I was the last chance. A failed attempt. Finding out on my day of birth, I was not what was desired. Being loved anyway, but the opportunity to name me after my grandfather vanished.

Would things have been different had I been a boy? Would he have gotten as depressed? Would I have been everything he’d hoped I’d be? Am I everything he’d hoped I’d be?

People tell me he was proud of me. I know he was.

People tell me he loved me. I know he did.

People say that he knew I loved him still. I don’t know if he did.

It’s an uncertainty I must live with, a burden to toss in my burden backpack. By being open, and raw. Showing my wounds as I’m bleeding.

I know he knows now. Because the part of my heart broke that had sealed itself off.

I’m not sure we could have ever arrived at a different outcome. I watched him be hospitalized many times in my life. At many different hospitals. He took every medication. He tried everything. Even shock therapy. But not for his love of other men like everyone assumes when I tell them that, for his depression.

He did reach out to people when he was struggling. But he struggled so often and the same people were on the other line. We gave and we gave, all we could. Every one of us that lent him help over the years.

I know many of us are faced with guilt right now. The question begging us: did we do enough? Some of us answering no. Some of us knowing we did all we could. All of us knowing that even if it was enough this time, it might not have been next time. The outcome would always remain the same.

Depression knew him better than most people. It lived with him for years of his life. It convinced him that their history meant more than all the glimmers of goodness other people brought into his world. It promised a future free of pain if he would lay down his trust. In a life filled with so much pain, how can anyone blame him for falling for it. Those who knew my father, and I mean really knew him, can rest a little easier knowing he is no longer in pain. In exchange for his pain, depression didn’t tell him it’s trade off.

Pain in the hearts of all who loved him. Something he never wanted. Something he tried to avoid. It’s imperative that we feel our pain. That we talk about our hurts. In however we can. Because if we don’t, it will get burrowed deep inside. Poisoning us.

Writing is my way of talking about it. Just like reading my words, will be another’s way of processing it.

I hope whoever knew my father and reads this can find encouragement in asking for support of those around you.