Dad

There are times when I am so compelled to write something that I can't breathe until every word is on the page. Other times I am too busy honing in on my nauseating anxiety and can barely put a sentence together. I ebb and flow between the two with the latter unfortunately dominating how I feel most of the time.

‍

Today however, is not one of those days. I write what I can while the motivation lasts and hope that someone, somewhere feels less alone because of it.

On the 24th of May 2018 I took a screenshot of a quote by Charles Lindbergh which said "Isn't is strange that we talk least about the things we think most about?". I often revisit that quote hoping it will trigger a reaction in me. Maybe today I will start writing about the intricacies of my very delicate and somewhat troubled mind. Maybe today I will inch closer to vulnerability and share more than the murky surface. Can I delve into the deep, dark blue? Maybe today.

Seven (7) years ago now my father passed away and I haven't quite recovered from the trauma. I'm not sure if you ever do. I remember the paramedics surrounding him in his arm chair and him catching my eye. He couldn't talk. He could barely breathe. But he gave me a look as if to say "Don't panic, I'm ok". Minutes later he was being resuscitated on the front lawn while I gazed at the scene dazed and confused, panicked and hysterical all at the same time. By the time my sister arrived the white sheet had been laid out. She gently placed her knees on the ground next to him one by one, the pain of a 3 day old caesarean still very real. Then holding her newborn baby over our beloved Dad, she cried. My niece would never meet her Grandpa. My sister would never get to say goodbye. I called too late.

Those thoughts have weighed heavy on my chest for years. They linger and fester, unwelcomed by my physical body. So obviously affected by the resulting anxiety. My legs struggling to swing out of bed in the morning. My mind struggling to find a reason to want to. And yet I have let them take up as much room as they need. Filling every crevice in it's entirety so that I become rigid with fear. Afraid of all the things I wouldn't dare say out loud. They bear down on me like bricks, each one sinking me further into the ground until I can't breathe. Some days I don't fight for air, other days I do. On those days I remind myself that what ifs are no way to live. Should I have called earlier? Probably. Could I have done more? Maybe. Would it have changed much? Unlikely.

When our Dad died it felt like my siblings and I lost half of ourselves. The half that was responsible for our politically incorrect humour, the half that made us partial to tea and cake (and maybe ice cream too), the half that made me in particular stare openly at strangers without a care in the world, the half that was always there to greet us when we came home from school. Over 2000 days later I still marvel at the fact that 7 years can seem like 7 seconds and 7 decades all at the same time.

No matter how quickly the years tick over, grief still creeps up on me just as unexpectedly as it did in the beginning – at work, on the bus, in the middle of the street. I’m triggered by the familiar smell of a passer-by, a song on the radio, the gesture of a stranger. You pray no one can see the tears welling in your eyes, that people are too preoccupied with their phones to notice your hands shaking and the blood draining from your face. You wonder if, with such a profound pain, others feel it radiate from you? I often walk around feeling like a diluted version of myself. Wishing the black cloud of darkness would envelope me rather than taunt me with memories of his smile, his laugh, the way he clapped his hands when something was really funny. I try to replay his voice over and over in my head, praying I never forget what it sounds like. Hoping that time and my memory show me some mercy, if only in this instance.

I honestly still wonder how I'm alive when I was always so sure that I would drop dead as soon as one of my parents did, but the difficult reality is that the Earth will continue to spin and we will all move with it. Eventually the flowers stop coming and the messages of support float into uncomfortable spaces of things you no longer talk about. You can’t afford to take another day of unpaid leave and the registration on your car is due. So you do what many before you have done. You simply get up. You get up so that at the close of each day slumber is similar to that of a self-induced coma - deep and uninterrupted by the pain of grief. I’m always hopeful that I will drift off before my mind starts paying attention to the beat of my own heart, scared that it will stop as suddenly as his did. Scared that I won't have the chance to say goodbye. Scared to close my eyes for the last time. Scared to die.

I will never believe that time heals all wounds but I hope that one day the silence of the night won't scare me. 31 years old and afraid of the dark. Is it just me or are you scared too?  

With love but also a little sadness today,

J