My Dad died in November.
Throughout my life, we have had a complicated relationship. Complicated primarily by his social anxiety. For most of my life, he was a passive participant. He was in the house, he was around, but he was not actively involved. He didn’t come to the beach, or go to camp, or come to school chorus concerts.
Ever the young girl, wanting the approval of her Dad, I tried. I made cards, wrote letters, sent him mail religiously throughout my years in college and my many moves as a young adult. I know this, because I found the pile of letters he saved, each of them with a different return address from the places I’ve been. He saved them all, as near as I can tell. I suppose they meant something to him, though he never did verbalize it.
As I grew into my role of therapist, I recognized the impact of mental illness that my Dad experienced. He always refused cognitive help, choosing to manage it through anti-anxiety medication that left his personality dulled most of the time. It was those small pills, Valium, that gave him the opportunity to attend my college graduation and several years later, my wedding. These were the only two times he left Barre, Vermont. I was grateful, but resentful at the same time.Why were we not enough to want to get help?
In the last year, he fell victim to the catfishing joy of the internet in the form of a young woman and her young children from the Philippines. We had a fight over this, because he chose time and again to send them money and support them, rather than be involved with his grandchildren he professed to love. The discord led to me setting a boundary with him, and reducing my interaction. I did not stop talking to him if he reached out to me, but I did stop putting in all the effort. I stopped the alarms on my phone to call him every week, and addressing weekly letters to keep him updated. I told him he needed to try, he needed to make an effort.
And he didn’t.
For a long time, I personalized that decision. I assumed I was not enough. This was the narrative in my head – sometimes it still is. I’m trying to change the narrative – to recognize his illness as is – separate from me. Having nothing to do with me, really.
It’s hard.
And in his death, as I sort out the unbelievable mess he left behind I have to reckon with what’s left. Some of it is sadness. Some of it is anger. Some of it is sorrow that touches me so deeply when I see a picture of us, or type away on the laptop he set up for me for work. The sorrow catches me at moments that I can’t see coming, and overtakes me like a wave, leaving behind a version of me that is drenched and tired.
The place I’m trying to get to is forgiveness. Because I need to forgive him. And I need to forgive myself. So that it doesn’t feel so heavy all the time. Life is complicated, and messy, and I’m doing my best.
And I need to remember that. So I’m working on it. I’m listening to podcasts, reading books, and trying to make space to think. Think about the good, the bad, the sad, all of the moments in between – and to make room – for the forgiveness that will hopefully help start putting the pieces back together.
My Dad died in November.
And I miss him.
