Dear Daddy

As a teenager with a complicated relationship with my terminally ill father, I never wanted to say something that could potentially be the LAST thing I said so I stuffed and stuffed and stuffed. It’s not worth getting angry or sharing your pain, as it can’t compare to the pain he’s in, I’d tell myself. Truth be told, I WAS really angry but I’ve shared before here that feeling anything other than happy or grateful wasn’t welcome. The logical problem with that is that after his death, the grief pushed it all to the surface and it came spilling out in BIG ways.

A month after my father died in 1997, I attempted to take my own life. I don’t remember much about it, honestly. My therapist at the time explained that sometimes trauma can block those channels of memories that are difficult to process.

What I do remember quite clearly is the stay at the hospital when I was held on a children’s behavioral floor for a week. Early in the week, one of the therapists asked me to write a letter to my dad. There was much left unsaid in the years leading up to his death, I had told her. She asked me to write a letter expressing the things I wanted to say before he died. It felt dumb, really, writing on dead trees the dead things I didn’t express to the dead person I couldn’t talk to anymore anyway. I don’t remember now much of what I wrote, though the letter is probably in a box buried somewhere today.

What follows is a letter of understanding with the advantage of 22 years of looking into the rearview.

Dear Daddy,

Your birthday was last week and I let it quietly pass without saying anything. I didn’t know what to say, really. Because I can’t imagine you being 63, older and gray, I still see you with your thick, beautiful black hair, dark eyes and mischievous grin today and always. You’re frozen in time inside my heart but I’m not. I’ve sat by the fire of my grief and melted some of it slowly, exposing those red, raw, painful spots where the heat seeps into the dead, numb places. It reminds me of those cold winter days we’d be outside, hanging Christmas lights like we were the Griswolds, coming inside frozen, blissfully unaware for the moment that the pain was coming. Stinging. Burning. To the other side where we were warm and comfortable. And if that isn’t a metaphor my life, Daddy, I don’t know what is.

I don’t know if it’s that I’m sorting through some of this in therapy or the fact that I’m creeping up on the age you were when you died so young, but I’m coming to terms with the work I’ve been avoiding for so long. I wanted to tell you some of the things I’m learning along the way.

First, I’ve learned that grief is a shape shifter. It’s messy and there’s no clear path through it. No finish line. Some days, it looks like crying in the shower for seemingly no reason. Other days, it looks like overfunctioning and taking on so much, I can’t slow down enough to feel anything at all. That’s been especially important to remember in the middle of this pandemic. Life comes at you fast, they say, until well, it doesn’t. Slowing down to this pace has been hard. It’s like feelings are sitting in every corner of this house, Daddy. Anger. Frustration. Irritation. Shame. They make really shitty party guests, frankly. Like drunk toddlers, they get louder until their needs are met, can’t clean up after themselves and wear me out. I can’t run from them this time with more work, more social time, more sleep. So, I’m doing some shape shifting of my own and working through pieces as I can.

I remember Mom telling me the story of when you first started dating. How excited she was that we were a “package deal” and you telling her that she needed to know that I would always come first. That always made me smile. I felt that so deeply for so long. And when I wasn’t first any longer, I remember feeling so heartbroken. Betrayed even. But as the years have passed and I’ve become a mother too, I’ve come to realize that you had a life outside of being a Daddy too. For so many years, when it was just the two of us, you didn’t. I can imagine that was really hard, being responsible for a little person by yourself and working yourself to the edge of insanity to keep us afloat. I imagine now asking you about the dreams you had for yourself when you were younger. What did you want to do? What was on your bucket list? Because I know you had dreams. We all do. And so now when I think about the places where you chose yourself, as painful as it was for Mom and I, I can respect that that was part of your journey too. You can’t die to parenthood or marriage. I came into my own marriage and motherhood setting that standard for myself, but I’ve come to realize that I am only fully alive when I am also serving my own heart and dreams too. I guess what I’m trying to say is, that despite the poor choices you made along the way to finding yourself, I can now see that you chose yourself. You didn’t NOT choose me.

As a teenager, I couldn’t imagine why you would need to drink a screwdriver at 7am before work. I also didn’t know that other parents DIDN’T do that. Over the years and feeling the pressures of adulting myself, I can now see that you were simply coping the only way you knew how to. We all cope in our own ways whether they be healthy outlets like exercise and therapy or unhealthy ones like alcohol & gambling. I see now that every choice we make is a reaction to a feeling we feel in the moment. I have coped in healthy and unhealthy ways, now understanding the pressures you must have been facing at the time. You buried things with alcohol. I bury things with overscheduling & helping others to avoid my own stuff. One isn’t better than another, just different. So, I guess that made you human and fallible, Daddy, much like I am today.

So, now over half of my life later, I can see that you did the best you could with what you had. You made some poor choices, but you also made some spectacular ones. You hurt others, but you were hurt too. And so now when I picture you, Daddy, I don’t only see you through the eyes of a wounded teenager who grieves for the relationship I craved or the life I wanted for you, I see you through the eyes of a nearly 40 year old woman who knows that life isn’t fair and people make mistakes. There was a lot of life in between those dates on your tombstone, Daddy. You came into the world shaped by your experiences and you left the world that way too. How I wish I could talk to you about the things that made you who you were, but I have a feeling, honestly, that you weren’t so sure yourself. And Daddy, that’s ok. I’m still figuring it all out too. You did the best you could with what you had. I’ll be forever thankful for the years I had with you and I’m even beginning to appreciate how those years shaped the person I am today. I hope I make you proud, Daddy. That’s all I ever wanted.

Love you forever,

Punky