MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Happy Father's Day, Dad

This has been one of the most emotional weeks of my life.
It began wonderfully as I met Anderson Cooper, but as the week
wore on, I became more and more tired and emotional. I've
been helping a friend who had surgery, and I've gotten very little sleep.
I've been in and out of the hospital, doing two sets of errands, going to school and meeting with the tutor.
My kindergarten class graduated on Wednesday and today I said
goodbye to them for good (more on that later).

I've been waiting this week to hear if I made it into the Credential
Program for the Fall; I think I may have...I'm just waiting for the official word.
And Father's Day is Sunday....and exactly a week later is my Dad's birthday.
I've been happy, and up and down, and crying and not sleeping and worrying
and laughing and all over the place.

Oddly though I've really been missing my Dad this week; more than ever
and thinking about Father's Day more than I ever have since he died. This
will be my 11th Father's Day without him and really, I don't like these contrived
Hallmark holidays anyway, so Father's Day was never that hard for me. His birthday, which usually falls about a week after Father's Day, was always another story, because it was HIS birthday, and he died so young, at 53, and so
tragically.

My life is busy and honestly, I don't dwell on my dad that much. I've integrated
his memory into my life the best I can and every now and again, I'll cry (usually around PMS time) because I miss him. The first Father's Day after he died, my mom and I went to the cemetery and it was mayhem! I mean, there was serious
traffic and gridlock. And to prove how much I hate traffic, masses of people and no privacy at the cemetery, I just said, "Forget it. I'll come back on his birthday."
And I've never gone to the cemetery again on Father's Day.

I really cannot remember the last time I went to the cemetery. I don't go much because I don't really feel he is 'there' - I don't know where he is, if he is, although I pray to whatever gods there may be that he is at peace, one way or another. I do think of him whenever I see things that remind me of him; when meeting Anderson Cooper I noticed he was wearing a gorgeous and no doubt expensive watch; I immediately thought of my dad as my dad adored expensive watches and had quite a few himself. In fact, I think I have about 12 watches (though none that expensive) and I always joke I got the "watch gene" from my dad. My dad loved so many things in life, even when he began to live his life, at the young age of 38, in constant, chronic, horrible, pain.

He was an emotionally flawed man, there's no doubt about it. He lost his own dad when he was 12; I believe that scarred him for life. He was an only child, raised by a lot of neurotic women. His own father had been a violent alcoholic and sadly, my father succumbed to that role as well. So I have never sainted my father, or shied away from the truth that he had many problems. As a human being, he was flawed, mixed up, and troubled. He was dealt a shitty hand with his health. As a father, he made some mistakes, but by and large, he tried and succeeded with us more often than not.

On and off I've dreamt of my dad for 10 years. The last words he said to me, in anger, desperation and rage, were "Fuck you." He was desperate beyond belief. He spent his final weekend trying to get out of this life. I would not help him. By Sunday night he had succeeded. I know that he did not mean to hurt me, and that he loved me. And yet in all my dreams, he has always been angry. For ten years, he's been angry. Sometimes he's alive in my dreams, and sometimes, eerily enough, he survives the gunshot wound to his head and lives on. It's creepy. I had my years of anger, shock, guilt, numbness. I have told him I forgive him. I know he just wanted out of the nightmare that had become his life. I am still waiting for him to come to me, one way or another, and not be angry. I want to tell him, it's OK. It's not that I condone what he did, or would encourage it, but I understand it. I'm so sorry that that's how his life had to end, and so, so sorry about the damage it did to our family. But I long for peace with my dad, and I am still waiting for that...from him.

When I was doing bereavement counseling for survivors of suicide, we told people, 'first you concentrate on the way they died...then you concentrate on the fact that they died...and finally, you concentrate on the fact that they lived."
It's especially true of someone who takes their own life; you have a tendency to focus on that for a long time - and it takes great effort to move beyond it. But it is possible. It is possible to share the life of your loved one without focusing on how that person died. Anderson Cooper said this about his 23 year old brother, who leapt from the balcony of their 14th floor penthouse - you really keep thinking about how they died.

But I want my dad and everyone to know I really only think about how he lived now. My dad and I had a lot in common. We both loved to read - voraciously. We both mainlined Pepsi like it was heroin. We both loved fine watches and I also joke I got the 'magazine' gene from him, as his house was always filled with every kind of magazine possible. I'm a little more picky, but still, I love magazines. We both loved sailing and watching the America's Cup. We adored our cats. My dad was a brilliant man, and I don't just say that because he was my dad. He truly was so very smart. He was the best salesman I ever saw; his ability to charm people was infamous. He was an incessant talker. THAT we don't have in common and I have to admit, it embarrassed me sometimes. I mean, the man could NOT shut up! He loved animals, and practically cried when he accidentally hit a cat in the road. He was a hard worker and was never really sick a day in his life until he hurt his back at 38. He took me to Indian Princesses, he tried so hard to help me with my math homework. I think it confused him; as bright as he was, algebra was just a bitch!

We grew a lot closer when I went to graduate school. He supported me whole-heartedly in pursuing my dream of studying art history; I knew why. It was because he had wanted to do so many other things with his life - but hadn't been able to. He married, and struggled with two jobs to make ends meet, and within 9 months had a baby daughter and wife to take care of. His dreams of astronomy and sailing and designing furniture went on the back burner.

I remember he adored Shakespeare and would often be in bed, going on and on about the latest play he'd read. He loved architecture and art, films and poetry, cars and planes, sports and Victory at Sea on the History Channel. The only thing he loved that I hated were guns. He collected so many guns, and never used one, except in the end. When he brought out a gun, I left the house. He and I would fight tooth and nail over the NRA. We would never see eye to eye on that issue.

He also started to love vodka, and when he hurt his back, got on a lot of pills. That was really the beginning of the end. Fifteen long years of suffering. Still, he came to all my plays, my events, my graduations. He bought me cars and he took us on grand vacations. He helped us carve pumpkins for Halloween and swore like the devil when he couldn't untangle the Christmas tree lights. I used to be so afraid of him; now, when I do the tree myself, I understand what he went through with those $#@#!!! lights.

As with other survivors, even after all these years, I am sometimes shocked when I think about what happened. It still seems surreal. I'll think to myself, "Did that really happen?" It did.

In the beginning, I didn't know what to do with the memory of my father. Was he a sinner or a saint? A monster or a good man? Should I demonize him or lionize him? It took me years to figure out - neither. Like everyone, he had flaws. Some were major. But basically he was a good human being. There is no either or or with people. We're all a mix of good and bad.

I just want him to know that all is forgiven. I want to tell him, please don't be angry anymore. I know you didn't mean what you said to me in the end. I hope and pray he knows this. Pain can make you say and do terrible things. Throw in drugs to the mix and it's even worse. Sadly, I understand that.

So this Father's Day, you won't find me at the cemetery. Maybe on his birthday. No matter, I know, if he is somewhere, he knows I love him, despite everything. And I'll celebrate his *life* and the life he gave me, instead of focusing on how he left life. That's what true healing is all about.