Dad

I’ve been sharing bits and pieces of my life, my professional journey, and my grief over the past couple years. It’s been important for me to use this sharing as part of figuring out my own creative process - whatever that may be. But I’ve been hesitant to share the biggest part of my grief, the part that changed the course of my life. Sometimes I feel a barrier to sharing certain things, debating how much is too much or too little. A larger part of me has already spent years in this particular loss, going over it again and again and again when I was younger. I have so much peace around it now that it almost doesn’t feel as necessary to share, or force myself to re-experience.

So this is where my professional and personal collide, because the ache in my story propels so much of the way I move through this world and my relationships. It will also have the potential to highlight some judgments and assumptions we make around others. Statistically speaking, I was categorized to less likely become successful, more likely to do drugs, have a multitude of mental health disorders, and be shamed for being the “bastard child.” Thankfully, none of these things are true. But if you know grief, well, you know it’s complicated.

My Dad died when I was 2 years old. My mom didn’t really know how to tell me this news as I was getting older (and I imagine started having curious questions), so she told me he loved playing guitar and one day he died of a heart attack while playing his guitar with a friend. It was surely a romanticized death ~ dying doing the thing he loved. However, that wasn’t the thing he loved most before he died. My Dad died of a heroin overdose. Let me tell you right now, this blog will not even begin to encompass all the life lessons I learned, or the immense pain I felt, when I discovered this fact.

I must have been a pre-teen or younger when my Mom sat me and my brother down to watch one of those after school evening educational shows. If you’re a Millennial or older, you may remember these tv specials about serious topics. This particular evenings topic was about heroin addiction. My brother and I were not in the mood for this and were doing what siblings do best - goofing around and making jokes - far from feeling serious. I remember my mom got really upset over this and blurted out how my Dad died and I think she might have left the room. The mood sank and the details are pretty hazy. But there it was, my young brain absorbing, my Dad chose to leave me.

You can defend a lot of things for an addict, or try to soothe over their behavior to humanize them, but at 8 years old I couldn’t absorb any justification whatsoever. I constantly oscillated between sadness and anger, then sadness and guilt for feeling so much anger. Sometimes I was scared that such a tiny body could feel so much rage and frustration and sadness, and eventually I’d collapse into tears. Sometimes I’d cry so much until I couldn’t breathe, until it felt like there was nothing left inside of me. For years as a kid, I wasn’t sure I could ever be a whole person without my Dad. My destiny felt like I was always going to be half broken.

How could he leave me? How could he do this? Why did he ever try that terrible drug in the first place? Why didn’t his friends help him more? Will I ever feel like I have a whole heart ever again? And what does this all say about me? Am I so unlovable? Was I not good enough to stick around for? Why couldn’t he stay for me? Was I not enough? Will I always feel this way? When will these feelings stop?

Developmentally, I’ve grieved my Dad many, many times. As a young child I couldn’t make sense of the permanency of death. I’d cry and sob and then have a thought that it would all be ok because he’d come back. Followed by the counter thought, he’s never coming back. The oscillating between the thoughts was maddening at times. As I got older, I started to wonder what it meant about me that I wasn’t enough to fight and stick around for. I also started to wonder about him and what kind of person he was. I’d stay at my Grandparents house and by the end of a week I’d find myself crying in the bathroom being completely overwhelmed being surrounded by everyone who ever loved him, but I didn’t know who this man was in all the photographs. I was always holding such gratitude for the love I received from his side of the family, while crushed by how abandoned my Dad made me feel.

Around 15 years old, after spending many years holding all these intense physical and emotional reactions, there was one profound thought that finally carved a new path towards acceptance of my loss. I started to see my Dad as a whole person. He wasn’t just my Dad, but he was so many other things. He was a first born son, a brother, a friend, a class clown, a wanderer, a veteran, a musician, a lover, a cartoonist, a dad, and an addict.

I realized that all my questionings around why I wasn’t good enough for him to stay, had nothing to do with me. The question was really ~ why didn’t my Dad think he was good enough to stay? I felt bad for him. And whenever he comes up, I still feel bad for him. He’s missed out on such a wonderful life, but I don’t know if that would have been his life trajectory. He picked a beast of a drug to become addicted to and to be honest, he could have broken my heart and made my life hell had he never gotten into recovery. Those closest to him believe he didn’t know just how much he was loved, how good and wonderful a person he truly was. I feel sad for him, that the demons that lived inside him darkened his light, until it was all gone.

As an adult, it’s rare that I get emotional anymore over my Dad. I hold a lot of love, peace, and connection with him. Through stories and my own inquisitive mind, I’ve pieced together chunks of his life, his hardships, and his joys. I know enough to know that he loved me, as much as he could. I do believe he would have been a great Dad, but only if he had gotten better and it’s something we’ll never know for certain.

Developmentally, even as adults, we still see our same grief through different lenses over the years. It’s constantly morphing and evolving and always existing in some way within us. Life will still hold those triggers or those moments that just tug extra hard at your heart strings. Like when my Dad’s best friend, whom I had not known prior, sent me a box with a picture and a note before my wedding day. I hadn’t cried in years and there I was crying in front of this small brown box, with this picture of my Dad as best man in his best friend’s wedding. It was the emotional release to something I had already given thought to - my Dad would not be walking me down the aisle, sharing the traditional Daddy-Daughter dance, or any moment at all. It sucked. I had felt peace and acceptance for years, and it still just sucked.

So on my wedding day we framed photographs of everyone we love who has died. I danced with my brother and cried. On that day, unspoken but true, I know my family also made space for that bittersweet swell in their hearts. Grief doesn’t negate joy, they need each other. My grief hasn’t ruined my life, even though for years it certainly felt like it might. Us grievers see the world differently. There is no changing my story, all I can do is make space for it to exist and honor the impact it has left imprinted on me. A small, childlike part of me, may always hold space for what might have been, but a larger part of me has learned how valuable it is, to just be here, right where I’m at.

If you related to any part of my story, I wish I could give you the biggest hug. I also hope that you’re okay, and if you’re not, to keep going and have faith when it’s time, you will be okay.

With love & immense gratitude,

Amber