Sunday, June 16, 2013

Dear Dad,

Where did three years go? Back in 2010 I stopped writing this blog because I got the check from the final settling of your estate and it felt like the final, dangling piece was sewn up and it looked as close to "closure" as I'd ever get. That and the fact that writing those letters to you was both cathartic and incredibly difficult. I think I was soaking in my grief a bit too much; it was coloring and shading so much of my life that I couldn't separate even the most mundane moments from the monolithic presence of my loss. Three years later, I am not in the same place as I was then. But "closure" is a slippery state at best, implying something tidy, final and closed. But I see it differently now. There was a sense of closure on Father's Day three years ago, but it was a closure of one aspect of this larger state; one door closed and a seemingly infinite number left that may never be closed.

When people talk about grief or trauma or pain, there's often a component about needing to "get over it" or "move on"; both of which are comically impossible and point to a great deal of either ignorance or denial on the part of whomever is suggesting such actions. Personally, I think "move forward" is a more accurate term. When you move forward in life, actually walk/bike/drive/whatever in a forward direction, you aren't actually eradicating what's behind you. It's still there. The movie theater I walked away from on my way home tonight still exists even though I'm not inside of it. Much like my grief and sadness over your death still exists even if I'm not as inside of it was I was three years ago. It's funny how this is both a positive and difficult thing. There are times when I feel guilty that I am not as consumed by grief as I was before. Last year I let the anniversary of your death pass by almost completely unnoticed; caught up in my daily tasks and barely cognizant of the date until the day was nearly over. But then I know this is good, this is forward movement. And then other days, like Father's Day and the days leading up to it, it's as if the intervening years vanish and I am very close to where I was when I first lost you.

Today at the salon, a longtime client told me about attending a retirement celebration for his father and spoke at great length about how proud he is of his dad and how it was a further revelation of what a great man he was when he heard his father's colleagues speaking so highly of his manner, accomplishments and impact. It was a curious experience because I simultaneously felt moved by my client's clear love and respect for his father and also could experience myself actually disassociating from the whole conversation and becoming especially absorbed in the task of cutting his hair. At almost the same time I overhead a coworker speaking to her client about her father and their relationship and the sensation of drifting out of my self became even stronger. I realized that sometimes I can't believe anyone else still has a father now that you're gone. Don't they know the only dad that matters has ceased to exist? How is it that Father's Day still even has a market to sell to? All of this sounds ludicrous of course, but it's the closest I can come to describing the disconcerting, disconnected, alien experience of listening to people rhapsodize about their living fathers.

On top of all of this, my friend and housemate lost his father just last weekend. It's an interesting thing to witness someone else's loss once you've experienced your own. In the past, I always felt a sense of powerlessness and of being too inarticulate to express my sympathy, support or concern. Now I feel such an instant connection that I simultaneously want to give them anything and everything of myself so they don't feel alone or abandoned in their grief while also being wary of wading too deeply into their process because there are whirlpools of my own I can succumb to. But at the end of all of this analysis and intellectual insights there is just this: the grief is still there. The ache is never fully soothed. "Closure" is not a permanent state in the least. I can move forward, I can heal, I can carry my grief in a different place and even become unaware of it for longer stretches of time. But the one thing that doesn't change is you're not here. And when I look behind me I can't see you in the distance no matter how much I want to.

I love and miss you so much, Dad,
xo C.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Dear Dad,

My roommate and I both forgot to check the mail yesterday. When I got home from work today he went out to get Saturday's mail and waiting for me was the check from your finally settled estate. It's been 1 year, 8 months and 22 days since you died and now it's finally finished. I'm sure I don't even have to say how perfect it is that I am getting it on Father's Day. And of course it's not about the amount of money. It's about the fact that this chapter of your post-death business is now closed. I don't have to wait and wonder and call the lawyer and Uncle C or feel like there's this dangling piece, this moment that needs to end but won't resolve itself. I don't know if there's such a thing as complete closure when someone so loved dies. But there has now been closure in this specific area. And I am so grateful for it I don't even think words capture it.

Thank you for your generosity, Dad. And for your love. If I could have you back I would tear the check up in a heartbeat.

I love you,
C.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Dear Dad,

I have to confess, I've been avoiding writing to you. Work got really intense and shitty and I ended up leaving that salon and am now at a new one - happy and loving my work again and feeling really good about life in a lot of ways. And I don't know if it's a coincidence but I've found myself thinking about you a lot less. The way things have been lately, when I feel really low or sad or vulnerable everything about missing you comes rushing to the service. Being in a highly dysfunctional situation at work that was causing me to feel depressed on a regular basis had me thinking about you almost more than I could handle. But now I find you receding into the background a lot more. You're still here, don't get me wrong. I somehow manage to think of you at least once a day. But there's not the same feeling of crashing, overwhelming sadness and desperately missing you. The edges are dulled a little, the waves aren't so tidal. But we all know that today is Father's Day, so naturally you've been creeping into my mind more and more as the week has moved toward Sunday.

I have never been much of a fan of Father's Day. And a lot of that had to do with you. But not because of issues of your parenting. It had more to do with the fact that you were the WORST person to have to shop for in the history of gift giving ever. I swear, I've never met anyone who was more useless at offering up suggestions for gifts that they might like. And what was your usual response when asked what kind of a gift you might like? A package of t-shirts with front pockets for you to put your cigarettes in! Seriously! I mean, sure, it was easy to buy you those and I did way more often than I care to remember. But I like to buy something with some actual meaning or quality for someone I love. Although I won't deny that I didn't heave a sigh of relief when you told me you didn't want me to buy you anymore Father's Day gifts or even send you a card. I remember that you said you didn't think you should get anything because you weren't the best Dad of all times. And I'm sure I said something to placate you or argue the point but I was mostly glad I didn't have to drive myself insane shopping for you for that occasion! That left only your birthday and Christmas. Two shopping events was plenty for a year when it came to you.

This now marks the second Father's Day since you died. And I loathe the holiday even more than I did when I had to shop for it. It's just so much salt on the wound again and again and again. Everything is about Father's Day: a display of hair products for men at the salon, several of the emails in my inbox from mailing lists I am on, Facebook sidebar ads, print ads and TV ads and mail circulars and people all mentioning what they're doing for the day with their living fathers. I just can't wait for it to be the day after tomorrow, you know? But I was thinking that maybe for Father's Day I should start getting a gift. Maybe everyone who has lost their father should. Something to recognize the loss and memorialize the father and maybe just soothe the hurt a little, little bit. I wouldn't even mind a tie - I like ties. Just no t-shirts with front pockets.

Happy Father's Day Dad, I miss you and love so much.
xo C.

Friday, April 23, 2010

Dear Dad,

When it rains it pours, right? I write about memory and then it seems like everything today is reminding me of you. Stupid shit, too. Why can't I just go see a silly action/comedy about real people trying to be super heroes without it having a father die in it? Why does my friend have to call her father right after the movie to let him know about a pending job interview? Why does every fucking thing seem to be about fathers some days??

Oh, and don't even get me started on movies in general. I've always loved watching movies for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is the brief escape from the stress and mundanity of the world around me. But now I often get this weird sinking feeling when I "return" to my regular life from the fantasy vacation of a movie. It's like my brain re-realizes that I'm back in the world you're not in. In a fantasy world you never existed, so I have nothing to lose. But here in the real world it suddenly feels like all loss all of the time. And sometimes it makes me feel a little bit crazy, to tell you the truth. Or, at the very least, really out of sync with everyone around me. I hate how much my moods can volley these days. It reminds me of when I was a teenager and I was so prone to depression. It's like a tidal wave of shadows just crashes over me and everything feels so dark and hopeless. I just wish I could train myself to see it coming so I have time to put on my goggles and nose plugs.

The other day I was reminded of the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and I found myself wondering if I would ever erase anything from my life because it was too painful. And I found myself, just for a moment, wishing I could erase my memories of you. Thinking of how much easier it would be if I never knew you existed so I would never have to miss you like I miss you now. And then I felt horrible immediately - like I had actually visited the man who could make such a thing happened and asked for the procedure. But I didn't. And I wouldn't. Or at least I want to hope that I'm the kind of person who would be strong enough to say no if such a thing were ever offered.

Love,
C.

Dear Dad,

Memory is a tricky thing. I never know how anyone can write a memoir or autobiography and fill it with such detail. I mean, even conversational detail. How does anyone remember so much of their lives so specifically? Do they keep a journal of every second always and forever? I don't think I could do it, Dad, to be honest with you. I find myself confounded by memory these days. As part of my work in therapy and trying to intentionally think of you and your death, I find myself trying to sit quietly and let thoughts and images wash over me. But what I'm having a hard time with is how I seem to be only able to conjure up visual memories of you from when you were sick - thinner than usual, your hair short and your face becoming gaunt; your movements and activities wrapped in pain and difficulty. It's not a mental image I cherish and yet it seems to eclipse so many others.

I know I have photos of you and I can look at them. But trying to conjure up pictures of you in my mind from actual interactions we had before you got sick seems harder and harder. It's like I can only remember seeing you through my own eyes from that time period. The other night I laid in bed deliberately thinking about and started to make myself go through memories of times we had together: The time you took me to my first comic book convention and bought me all 50 issues of the original Spider-Woman series. The time I got so freaked out from late night horror movie previews that I thought someone was breaking into your house and you jumped out of bed stark naked to confront them. The time I tripped and landed on my knees on my Chinese Checkers marbles and you told me I had to "walk it off" to make sure my knees didn't cramp up. The time you helped me pack up my apartment in Brooklyn so I could move to San Francisco and you joked that I should've worked in construction with you because I loved dismantling my old platform bed so much. And the memories kept coming like waves and I fell asleep remembering. But in each instance I couldn't seem to conjure up your face at the time, only the interiors and objects that surrounded us. But maybe this is normal. Maybe this is how memory works. We only remember people's faces and bodies from the moment we most recently saw them. But when I push myself to try this exercise with other people, my theory kind of falls apart.

But maybe that's actually only how memory works in tragedy. The physical changes you went through were more extreme than any I'd seen you go through in my life. You were always comfortingly the same, give or take a longer or shorter haircut. Your dress sense didn't change all that much and you always had the sort of permanent tan and lined face of a man who worked outside building buildings for most of his adult life. When Uncle C. gave me pictures of you from your childhood and teenage years I almost didn't recognize you from the smooth, paler skin of your face. And I don't dislike the memories I have of you from when you were sick. I would hate to have you think that because I know you didn't like me seeing you that way. But I am still going to try to conjure up your face in my mind from the past because I feel like it would be useful to "see" you in the memories I have. But I'm also going to keep reminding myself that it's the feelings those memories conjure for me that are far more important than the pictures in my head.

I love you, Dad,
C.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Dear Dad,

It's like you went away and all the old demons came back to lay beside me at night and hold my hand while I walk down the street. I know it's not a simple matter of one instead of the other, but it suddenly feels like so much work got undone. Like I got to a certain place and then got cannonballed in the gut and found myself much further back then I expected, sitting in a mud puddle of shit that I thought had dried up and faded away.

Apparently one of the stages of grief is anger. I totally believe this. But trying to feel angry at someone who is dead is so fucking unbelievably hard. Trying to engage that anger and deal with it and process it feels like the last thing on a long list of Shit I Would Rather Never Have To Do Ever. But I know it will be dealt with eventually. I just wonder what will be left of my already shredded soul afterward.

I love you anyway, despite the rollercoaster I've been on.
xo C.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Dear Dad,

I miss you so much. I don't know anything else to say right now which is why I haven't written here for awhile. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I could say it one million times a day and it would never diminish the feeling. It would never take away the giant hole left in my life caused by your absence. I keep waiting for someone to tell me what to do without you and no one has the answer. At the very least, could someone give me the acting lessons I need to pretend I know what to do?

I wish I could have you back in my life. I love you so much,
C.