One year

I've been running, I've been creating, I've been getting out, and I've been seeing the ocean.

There have been developments over the last few weeks that have made me question how far I've really come this year, how strong I really am. Do I still have shaking, uncoordinated calf legs or am I surefooted enough to navigate some rocky paths again?

I've cauterized parts of me, either purposefully or unconsciously, in an attempt to staunch widespread malaise and ultimately heal myself. Now I'm finding my scarred tissue being picked at. Sometimes I pick it out of boredom, sometimes I do it in my sleep, sometimes I cover my eyes while someone else does it, but more and more I've been doing it with intention. What am I going to find under there? Are the scabs going to be even thicker when they grow back or is this more of a controlled burn that will ultimately lay ground for better things to come?

I'm sorry to be talking in abstractions. I just don't know how else to describe the way I've been feeling lately. The anniversary of my dad's death is this week and it's got me thinking about this past year and the changes that it has caused. Are these for the best or do I need to realign? How's this grand rebuilding really going?

Like most things, only time will tell.

For Sarah

by pankaj via Flickr

Almost 5 years ago, I spent a week in the hospital after overdosing on sleeping pills. My dad found me in my apartment after work notified him that I hadn't shown up and couldn't be reached. My dad, quite literally, saved my life.

The anxiety from adjusting to life after I broke off my engagement and trying to maintain an incredibly unhealthy new relationship with a guy with severe mental health issues of his own completely hollowed me out. After three days of not being able to sleep on my regular dosage, I decided that perhaps finishing off the whole bottle of over twenty pills might do the trick.

My dad visited me everyday I was in the hospital. A few nearby friends also visited. My brother tearfully told me he couldn't get off of work to come down. My mother never broached the subject of seeing me.

Many people, including hospital staff, friends, and fellow patients, told me how lucky I was to have such a supportive father. I casually mentioned this to him during one of his visits. The next day, he gave me an envelope containing two pieces of paper. One was a letter, explaining, "I don't know how to be anything except what I am- truth be told, I'm the lucky one." He went on to say that the second piece of paper was ripped from one of his sketchbooks and it contained a poem he had written the day I was born.

The paper is very yellowed and brittle. It has that distinct sweet, earthly smell of old paper. The letters in pencil are faded, but are still undoubtedly in my dad's distinctive, all caps handwriting. His words are as follows:

"If I could give you the sun,
I'll surrender the mountains I'll climb
To give you the sun, if I could.
The gold I'll catch and save the rays,
the shine from within.
If I could, the yellow white sky."

I was less than 24 hours old and my dad loved me unconditionally. He didn't know what I would become, but he wanted everything for me. The fact that he is no longer living, the person who has loved me most of all, fills me with an almost inexpressible loneliness.

I could sure use the sun's rays at times like these.

2013

by aerust via Flickr

It's difficult for me to wrap my head around the enormity of 2013. There were so many changes- both good and bad- that I can't believe they all took place within one single year.

I moved across the country by way of a cross country road trip, started a new job, made new friends, lost my dad, became closer to my brother, had my heart broken twice, started seeing a therapist again, traveled way more than ever before, sold my car, bought a bike, and somehow survived.

I don't like to admit how bad or hard things are because admitting it somehow makes it more real to me and makes it an actual problem when I'd rather just be in denial and continue to solider through without comment, but you guys, 2013 was hard. I feel like I have a hangover from that year that will just not go away no matter how many times I throw up and no matter how many glasses of water I drink.

January 1, 2013 was the last time I ever saw my dad alive. I was never a huge fan of New Year's, but now I have a whole new level of animosity for that day. Now, when I am trying to be hopeful and optimistic toward starting a new year, I won't be able to help myself from thinking about the death of my father, how eager I was to leave him and start a new chapter of my life, how he cried at the realization of me leaving, how I'm pretty sure I consoled him with the words "you'll see me again soon." Oh, how wrong I was.

As I mentioned previously, I've been thinking a lot about how to make 2014 a better year. While I can't stop things like death from happening, I feel as though I should try to improve upon the things I can control so that I'll be able to be happier while also withstanding the bad with more stride. Thinking about a whole year is rather daunting; however, and I may need to break it up into smaller chunks of time to be able to imagine and implement any kind of change.

So, day by day, this is the new year.

What no one tells you about losing a parent in your 20s

by yogendra174 via Flickr

Originally posted 8/7/2013, updated 9/21/2016

“Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death. We misconstrue the nature of even those few days or weeks. We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock. We do not expect this shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind." -Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking 

 My dad passed away almost 4 years ago when I was 26. He died suddenly and unexpectedly from a heart attack. Prior to this, the only people in my life who had passed away who I felt remotely close to were my two grandfathers, an uncle, and a great uncle. While I, of course, cared about all of these men and was incredibly sadden by each of their passings, the loss of a parent digs in much deeper, stings much sharper, and alters your world in unimaginable ways. When my dad died, I felt as though I either hadn't seen or hadn't paid attention to many accounts of grieving the death of a parent in your 20s. This lack of information spurred me to write about my experience and to share the following things I'd learned about myself and others from encountering my father's death at a comparatively young age.

Grief is not a perfect, linear process. After the first few days of barely sleeping or eating and bursting into tears at the slightest remembrance, I asked myself, "When does this end? When can I feel okay again?" I fooled myself into thinking that if I went through the steps, if I followed the stages, I would come out on the other end as a whole, smiling, fatherless girl. Yes, my dad died, but my future is bright! Instead, everyday is different. Somedays, I'm happy and productive and I think about my dad with a smile on my face. Other days, I wake up from having a dream about my dad and sulk all day. Somedays, I'm moody as hell. Other days, I nearly forget that my father died at all. Somedays, I'm angry that people who are twice my age still have their fathers. Other days, I silently cry at my desk at work while I hear a coworker talk to his father on the phone. Yes, I cry less and generally feel better about the whole thing than I did during month 1, but it's not a perfect, logical, point A to point B progression. It comes in waves; sometimes with tsunami-like force, but usually more like the daily tides.

Life does not stop. While asking myself when the painful grieving process will be over, I also asked myself when I could do normal things again. I thought that I could compartmentalize the grief. If I kept it in its own box, it wouldn't bleed over into the rest of my life and so, when I returned to the rest of my life, it would be exactly the same as it was before. When and only when I stopped crying all.the.time., I could then resume my life. While people are generally sympathetic to your loss, your bills still need to be paid, your friends still want to see you, your bathroom is only getting grosser, and the days keep flying by. If you wait until you feel 100% back to normal, you will sit out the rest of your life. Once I realized that I needed to create a new normal instead of wait for my old normal to return (which it never will), I placed pieces of my life back. I started reading again. I watched a movie. I started introducing my routines back into my life. I allowed myself to date again. Life stops for no one, no matter how much pain you may be in, no matter how much you wished you could stop time so you wouldn't have to live your life without your dad to share it with. Life goes on.

You learn who your true friends are. After being woken up by the phone call from my brother telling me that my dad was being rushed to the hospital, after the initial shock, after the first shouted "no," after the first cup of tear tainted tea, I reached out to my closest friends to put them on high alert, hoping that my messages wouldn't put a jinx on my dad. After the second call from my brother, starting with the dreaded, "Sarah, I'm so sorry," after the shouting of the repeated and pathetic "no," after the uncontrollable crying and shaking, after the shouting of the repeated and pathetic "why," after the dumbstruck silence and emotional exhaustion, I reached out again. After their brief moments of silence and processing, my phone blew up. Friends called me crying before they even heard my first whimper. My friends flocked to my dad's memorial service like it was a pilgrimage to Mecca. They came unasked- it was a given to them. When things needed doing, I could barely put the words together before I had multiple hands reaching out to help. When I needed to vent, I had an inexhaustible audience. When I couldn't remember to eat, my sister in law fed me. When I couldn't stand, my brother carried me. When I couldn't compose myself, my brother had unyielding resolve. When I couldn't find a light at the end of the tunnel, my brother lit a candle.

Unfortunately, there's a flip side to finding out who is really on your side. My dad's girlfriend turned out to be a thief, a liar, and an incredibly weak woman who was promptly thrown out of my dad's house and karma gave a good ass beating to.

No one can say anything to make you feel better. My first reaction to people telling me they were sorry for my loss was to say, "It's okay." My second reaction was, "I hope you never experience this." My loss was not okay and almost everyone will have to deal with losing a parent at some point in their lives- what silly things to think. I guess in some weird, backwards way, I was trying to make them feel better for feeling bad. Finally, I came to terms with just replying with a simple thank you. After talking to friends who sat in stunned silence when I told them how I was coping, after writing emails in the middle of the night about how I was feeling and receiving only a few words in response, instead of getting angry at their apparent disinterest or apathy, I realized that my friends were at a loss for what to say because they have no idea what it is like to lose a parent. The vast majority of my friends, and none of my closest friends, have not yet had to go through what I am currently going through. Even hearing stories about your dad or hearing how much he talked about you to other people aren't very comforting because you can't help saying to yourself, "That's nice, but it would be way nicer to have my dad alive and still creating stories and talking up his children." Barbara Kingsolver in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle describes this situation perfectly: "People who are grieving walk with death, every waking moment. When the rest of us dread that we'll somehow remind them of death's existence, we are missing their reality ... A rendezvous with death, for them, was waking up each morning without their [father]." Despite the nonexistence of the right words, someone ignoring the fact that your dad is dead is way worse than them saying something that does not provide comfort. Sharing memories, asking questions, letting the griever grieve allows the parent to live on in the only way he or she can now.

I feel like an orphan most days. My mother still hasn't talked to me about my dad dying. She has little to no idea how I've been dealing with it all. To be honest, somedays, it's easier to pretend that she's dead too. My brother, his wife, and my friends have been absolutely wonderful, but, because I am not currently talking to my mother, did not have a significant other at the time my dad died, and live so far away from my closest friends and family, I felt, and occasionally still feel, incredibly alone in all of this. Mourning hangs on you like a shadow during your day to day movements. You don't have to talk about it or even spill tears to feel it. It's just there and can fill a room if you let it. Even though my brother and I shared our father and share our grief, he can experience that grief with his wife. He can be, or at least should be, happy knowing that his wife got to know her father in law for a few years and their son got to play with and be held by his pop pop. I don't have those luxuries. My father will not be there for many of the milestones I'm yet to experience- getting married, having kids, buying my first home. The man I'm to marry can't ask my dad for my hand in marriage; my father can't walk me down the aisle; if I have children, they will never know their maternal grandpa; my dad can't show me how to repair things around the house. When older people who have lost a parent reach out to me and tell me they understand, I appreciate the sentiment, but they can't possibly understand the full depth of what I'm experiencing. Unless you are a 20something, single female who has a bad relationship with your mother and you recently lost your father, I just don't think anyone can really understand this.

Dating is really hard. My first concern was that the guys I would start dating after my dad died wouldn't understand and would feel uncomfortable when I started talking about my dad or if I was having a rough time dealing with his death. They would think I was broken and give up on me. That fear has mostly been allayed as I've found most men I've dated handle the situation well. While they don't often understand what it's like to lose a parent, they understand that things are going to bother me sometimes and that all I need is patience and open arms. I felt more insecure than I felt in years and it caused me to react/overreact to things that I would have otherwise let roll off my shoulders. Because my mother was never very affectionate, reassuring, or encouraging, losing my dad meant losing the biggest figure in my life who told me without pause that he's proud of me, that he thinks I'm beautiful, that he thinks I'm great. This absence caused me to seek constant affection; second guess silences, conversations, and actions; feel incredibly sad during family gatherings; and generally jump to the worst possible conclusion if there's a sliver of a doubt. While I rarely acted out or started fights because of these things, I let it dominate my thinking and deflate me to the point of tears. Most guys, if they were worth their salt, let me get it out of my system, but built me back up with the truth- that they think I'm great too.

Paperwork and possessions. In the midst of trying to mourn my dad's death, my brother and I had to deal with an enormous amount of paperwork. Death is a very messy business. Since my dad was not married and he did not have a will, my brother and I had to go to court to become the legal administrators of my dad's estate. We had to scramble to find account statements, passwords, assets. We logged countless hours on the phone explaining that our dad died and we need access, we need closure, we need our peace. We had to go through my dad's possessions, trying to decide what to keep, what to toss, what to give away, what to sell. We had to remember to pay his bills on top of our own bills every month. We had to try to sell a house that was a day's drive and a day's flight, respectively, from either of us. Thankfully, my dad did have life insurance and that made many, many things much easier, but I never in a million years thought that the process would be that stressful or drawn out. That is the one thing that took me most by surprise because I had never been that close to anyone who passed away before.

You learn you're not the only one who thinks your dad was awesome. You also learn how much your dad would not shut up about you. Countless strangers have told me, "Your dad loved you very, very much. He was so proud of you." The stories we heard and continue to hear about my dad have confirmed what I've known all along: my dad was one of a kind. He will be missed by many, many people.

The lost email

by gregoryjordan via Flickr

A few days ago, I logged into an old email account to retrieve a password. I only check this email once every few months. For some reason, I was slow to give my dad my new email address when I switched a few years ago and, on the rare occasion he emailed me, he almost always continued to send it to this old address. Before I found the password I was looking for, I searched my inbox for my dad's email address to see if he had sent me anything since the last time I checked this address and before he died. Lo and behold, he had.

He emailed me the day before he left for vacation with my brother, sister in law, and nephew, which is when and where he passed away. The email was mostly full of news about his progress restoring his home and working on his art. His last lines, however, sent me crying instantly. The words are heavy with extra meaning considering the context, but the message is still excellent advice regardless of when it was given:

"Be good, keep your chin up and be your best.
love ya, dad"

I'm trying, Dad. On all three counts, I'm trying.

The artist's daughter

This past weekend, I visited the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (SFMOMA) because it was the last weekend they were going to be open before they closed for 3 or 4 years for a major expansion. My interest in art coupled with the knowledge that my dad would have loved to go further propelled me to make the effort to visit.

The museum was incredibly crowded because they offered free admission to everyone on their last days. I slid in and out of the groups of people to see photography exhibits, dystopian architecture drawings, and even some Matisse before I drifted into the rooms of abstract paintings. My dad was primarily an abstract painter and was incredibly influenced by Richard Diebenkorn (who just so happened to live the Bay Area for a large chunk of his life and so his paintings are found all over around here). Going into the museum, I was worried that I would be flooded with memories of my dad, but the way that the museum was arranged, I got distracted and kind of got lulled into a false sense of security. That is, until I went through a room of nothing but Clyfford Still and then, bam, turned my head to see this Rothko:

No. 14, picture from Wikipedia

I don't know if it was the radiating orange glow or the sudden realization that I was in a room full of my dad's idols, but tears flooded my eyes and I had to turn around and sit down on a bench in front of a Clyfford Still to minimize the number of people who saw me breakdown. 

On one hand, it's wonderful to have an artist father since he left so much of himself behind for us to cherish forever. On the other hand, knowing what inspired him and having his work at hand makes for a lot of gut punching moments of sadness. 

Diebenkorn's daughter is giving a lecture in a few weeks to kick off a special Diebenkorn exhibit at the De Young Museum. My dad would have killed to attend these events and so I am planning to go and enjoy the experiences, regardless of the potential tears I will cry and how much of a tool I'll make myself look. Maybe I'll even manage to tell Diebenkorn's daughter about how inspired my dad was by her dad and bond over being daughters of artists. 

From the archives: Dad's coffee mug

by drawcity via Flickr

Sometimes, especially when I feel down, I like to go back and read things I wrote when I was a teenager. This entry, written in 2004, made me break down in tears. My dad's coffee mug is currently sitting in my living room, watching over me.

Did you ever take a second to look at something that is so familiar to you, something you've seen practically everyday since you can remember, and really look at it? For the first time, you actually see its details and realize that maybe things wouldn't be the same if that object were never there to begin with.

My dad has always sipped his coffee from the same set of mugs since I was a wee tot. The set consisted of either 4 or 6 mugs that my grandma (my mom's mom) gave to my parents in the late '70s sometime when they were married, but now only one remains (just think crash, bang, boom). It's kind of odd that over all the years I've seen this mug and my dad drink from it, I never really looked at it much, nor consciously acknowledged its details. I looked at it tonight when I was finishing my dinner. It's white and stained. Inside there's dark brown coffee stains that fill in the enamel cracks that have formed over the years. Some of the stains appear in rings with scratch marks from stirring spoons through them, revealing the mug's true color. Outside there's mostly unidentifiable spots; some paint smears, some coffee drips and age is a thin film along the creases of the handle and the rims of the mug. The design is perhaps one of the least masculine there is and some may think it strange that I would associate its image with my father. The only remaining mug has hand-drawn red plums on the front and handwriting on the back. I always see the plum side because my dad is left-handed, therefore the most appealing side is facing away from him. The plums are on a branch with plum blossoms in bloom. The handwriting is in cursive and looks as though a woman wrote it. I've never read what it says, but I know that it's about those depicted red plums. One day I should read it when the mug is lying unused on the counter, next to the coffee machine.

Along with my dad's paintings, drawings, and other various artwork, I want that mug to remain when he passes on. I hope to place it on a shelf somewhere, perhaps on a bookcase, and leave it stained and spotted, exactly how it looks today. The one thing that pops into my mind when I think of my father is not paint or abstract art, but that coffee mug. I will probably cry if it is ever broken because it is the one thing that conjures up memories of my father over the whole span of my life, from when I was three up until an hour ago. It's like the timeless object ever-present in my memories of my father. 

One day, I should seek out those other mugs that were broken sometime along the way and give them as a gift to my father. I think he would enjoy that.

Somday is Today: passions and happiness

One thing that's been bothering me the most about my dad's untimely death is the fact that he died before he was able to do everything that he wanted to do. Now I know that the chances of anyone being able to live long enough and have the opportunities to be able to accomplish everything they want to accomplish are very slim, but knowing that my dad relied heavily on my often talked about someday thinking makes me incredibly sad.

He talked so much about wanting to retire as soon as he could so he could paint and pursue his myriad of hobbies all day. He hated his day job even though he was very good at it and watched the clock the entire time he was there. He talked about having a house at the beach or a house in his beloved West Virginia mountains. He thought that someday he would be happily retired. Clearly, that someday never came for him. He didn't get to fully enjoy the fruits of his labor. He didn't get to pursue his real passion, art, at his own pacing and timing. He made me promise that I would tie his paintbrush to his hand if he became too frail to hold it himself, often citing other artists who had their family members do the same. He never got to see me fulfill that promise for him.

Seemingly everyday, I've been learning new lessons about living from my father's death. This particular lesson is like a punch in the gut for me. I keep asking myself if I am really living my life in a way that allows me to pursue my true passions for an adequate amount of time. How many hours have I piddled away doing asinine things instead of writing or traveling or pursuing a hobby or doing something that makes me genuinely happy? Is my job really making me happy or does it just feel like a waste of my time? Is the stress I feel from my job and the relationships I have worth it? If I died today, what would I have to show for my time on earth?

Sure, I have to pay the bills somehow. Sitting at home and reading books wouldn't be sustainable. My dad pursued the career he did because it provided a decent living. But wouldn't it be worth it to make my passions more of a priority and to even attempt to make money while doing so? Even if I failed, I would know that I tried and that I spent more time doing what I loved in the process.

At my dad's memorial service, a priest who volunteered to help officiate asked my brother and me two questions so that he could know a little bit more about my dad: what was the best thing about my dad and what was one of the best things he ever did for me? I started crying when he asked us these questions because, really, how the hell does a child answer those about their father? The best thing about him was that he was my dad and that he quite literally gave me life. I was flooded with thoughts and memories and I had to excuse myself instead of give him answers. I've thought about these questions since and I have to say, I think one of the best things he ever did for me was to show me how important it was to pursue the things in life that give you the most happiness. Above all else and no matter what, my dad was an artist. He sketched and painted and breathed art. My dad's creativity lives on in me through writing. I can't not write even if I wanted to stop. I need to write and read and breathe the written word in order to be the happiest and the most fulfilled. There's no sense denying myself and allowing feelings of regret to rob me of the best parts of life.

Eulogy

Below is the eulogy that I gave at my dad's memorial service (with names removed). I wrote it at 3am the morning of the service with a migraine (I got four migraines over the course of the week following my dad's death which I think gives an accurate indication of what kind of stress I've been under). I somehow managed to deliver it without breaking down or crying a single tear.

Thank you all for attending today. The support we’ve received has been immense and overwhelming. For those of you who have never met me until today, I’m Sarah, [...]’s daughter. But even though you may have never met me previously, I have no doubt that you’ve heard many things about me, as well as my brother [...], because Dad had a tendency to talk to anything with ears about his children.

A quote that has been repeating in my mind this week that has given me comfort is the following from Longfellow: “Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies.”

For me, it is nearly impossible to separate my dad, the man, from my dad, the artist. Almost every memory and association I have of him involves art in some way.

Growing up, on evenings when he wasn’t nestled on the couch with us watching Rocky and Bullwinkle and The Muppet Show, more likely than not, he could be found in his studio on the third floor of our house. Many nights, I would follow him up there so that I could paint and draw too, alongside my daddy. I would climb the steep staircase, seeing light seeping out from the cracks around the studio door. About halfway up, I could hear oldies music playing from his stereo. On the landing outside of the door, I could smell the mixture of menthol cigarettes and oil paint. Pushing the door open and peeping my head in always produced a smile and an invitation to join him.

While in college, I took a creative writing class. One of our writing prompts involved writing a list poem about a childhood memory. I quickly jotted down the following poem about my father’s studio. I think it communicates my feelings and memories in a pithy way that would be difficult to recreate.

The third story window whose view made my favorite climbing tree appear small and obscure.
The slanted ceiling that threatened a bumped head.
The faded and torn psychedelic poster left over from his college days.
The baskets and tins full of crimped and crumpled paint tubes.
The canvases finished, half finished, turned to the wall.
The stained, cluttered drafting table, always too high.
The corner where I joined him in artistic discovery.
The cigarette smoke, oldies station, and heavy scent of oil paint floating, mingling through the room.
The closet with a child size door, opening to past failures and successes.
The paint brushes stained, bristles soaking, handles chipped.
The drawer full of his most treasured works: finger paintings and crayon sketches from his two children.
The piles of art books, engineering books, antique books.
The palate layered, rainbow swirls.
The framed masterpiece I pasted together in third grade.
The mutual pride and affection for father and daughter.

Being in Dad’s studio again with my brother this week has produced more laughter than tears as we shared our joint memories about the objects we rediscovered. Regardless of the fact that the room was a different one than the one from my childhood, it still smelled exactly the same and is undeniably my father’s space.

If you’ve spoken with my dad for any length of time, you quickly realize that he often used the same couple of quirky phrases and sayings. “It’s all happening at the zoo” was one that I thought for the longest time was just something he had made up. I discovered embarrassingly recently that it is, in fact, a Simon and Garfunkel song. “You’re a pain, but not a window” was directed at my brother and me a lot when we were young and blocked his view of the television while we were playing.

One of the top sayings etched into my memory, however, was one he used exclusively with me and was in the form of a question. He constantly asked me, “Do you know you’re my favorite daughter?” My typical response was a sigh and the comeback, “Dad, I’m your only daughter.” He was always quick to shoot right back, “Yeah, but you’re still my favorite.” As I got a little older, I matched wit for wit and responded instead with, “Well, good, because you’re my favorite dad.”

Now that my brother and sister-in-law have a son, [...], do you know what I find myself saying to him when I play with him and help put him down for naps? “[...], do you know you’re my favorite nephew?”

Thank you for being with us today and sharing your memories with us.

The turn out for the service was amazing. The room was packed. All of my closest friends came from near and far to pay their respects. I have some great people in my life, not least of which is my brother (who literally carried me when I was breaking down), and I am eternally grateful for each and every one of them.

April is the cruelest month

by arleach84 via Flickr

Thank you all for your kind words and understanding while I stepped away from the blog for a little while.

For those of you who have been long time readers or who know me in real life, you understand that losing my father was a huge blow since my mother and I have such a strained relationship. I've stated many times that I feel as though I turned out so "normal" despite my hoarding mother because my dad had been my rock and his immense love and support counteracted the pain my mother has and continues to cause. My rock and my balance is now gone and I have to find new footing in order to navigate having a dysfunctional parent in my life.

My mother took four days to call me after my dad died. Four. I didn't see my phone ring and she left a vague voicemail that ended with her telling me that she was going to call my brother instead. She hasn't bothered to try to contact me again. I don't really have much to say to her and I highly doubt there's anything she can say to make me feel better, so I haven't felt inclined to call her back.

Many of my friends have stated how unfair it is for me to lose my dad since he was my only solid parent. I have to agree. It is unfair and cruel for me to lose such an awesome dad so young. It pains me everyday that I cannot share my life with him anymore.

I don't think there's anything that can prepare you for losing a parent and I don't think there's anyway to accurately describe how this feels. Everyday I have to remind myself that he is really gone. I'm just trying to take one day at a time and to consider that my dad would not want me to be sad and lethargic. All he wanted was for me to be happy. So that's all I want too.

Unbelievable

My father passed away unexpectedly last week. People keep asking me how I'm doing. While I usually say, "okay" or "I've been better," I think the only way I can get close to explaining how I'm doing is by explaining that I feel as though someone ripped off my limbs, pushed me into the ocean, and I've been drowning and sinking for days.

I have no words.

Just breathe

from Office Space

Dear self,

I know that you are hurt right now. I know that what she said to you and how she said it was unfair and it made you feel so hurt and so small. But guess what? You are bigger and better than her misconceptions. What matters is that Dad loves you and things are fine with him. You are moving soon, a mere three weeks, and you will no longer have to see her, no longer have to deal with her. She is nothing, no one, and will continue to be nothing to you. Just hang on. You have had to deal with much worse for a much longer amount of time. This can be done.

Love,
Me

P.S. The truth always wins out. It may not be revealed or realized immediately, but it is there and it is unwavering.

Like clockwork

As soon as I talked about how positive I felt about the future in my last post, wouldn't you know it, I got into a humongous fight with my dad and have been resurfacing from that experience since.

Our argument was based on a lot of miscommunication regarding health issues, responsibilities, and expectations and lasted for days. It reached a point where I felt that the only way to resolve it was to move out. Luckily, at this proposition, my dad balked and began to see reason again. It largely seems as though things have been resolved and we're all living together harmoniously once more.

What surprised me most about this experience was how deeply it affected me. I used to argue with my mother all of the time. If I still talked to her and saw her on a regular basis, I have no doubt that I would still argue with her constantly. On the other hand, my dad and I rarely argue. I think I can count on one hand how many times we have ever argued. I grew up in a living situation that was horrible and I didn't want to be in, so how could an argument about my current living situation that caused me to not want to be there anymore plunge me into a depression?

I think the root of the problem was the fact that it was my dad who I was arguing with and it was about me living with him. I've joked in the past that if it weren't for my dad being so awesome and supportive, living with my hoarder mother would have seriously screwed me up for life. Going through the confrontation last week made me realize how true that statement is. When I felt like I couldn't talk to my dad and I felt unwelcome in his home, I felt like I had absolutely nothing. Having only one "good" parent throws the whole parental support system off kilter and causes me to rely much more on my dad. When it's not status quo with my dad, I essentially feel orphaned.

It took me most of this week to feel normal again. Now that I'm back into the swing of things, I hope like hell that my dad and I won't have to butt heads like that again for a long, long time, if ever.

If you have one hoarder parent and rely more on the other parent for emotional support, have you ever felt the way that I did when you've argued with your "good" parent?

Gossiping men

Smithsonian's Archives of
American Art via Flickr

While my dad and I were driving up to Pennsylvania last week, he told me that he had an interesting conversation the night before. "Oh yeah? What about?" He told me that my uncle had called him. Now, this isn't his brother we're talking about. We're talking about my mother's sister's husband. Let me put it this way: my uncle on my mother's side called my mother's ex-husband.

This uncle and my dad had gotten along well when my parents were married. They used to grab beers together at the bar down the road from my grandma's when the family used to get together over the holidays. My mother has never really cared for him and I'm sure the fact that he was buddy buddy with my dad didn't help his case. After my parents got divorced though, my dad's connection with my mother's family ended. It wasn't until my brother and sister in law's wedding two years ago that my dad got to see or talk to my mom's family again. This uncle and my dad caught up and my dad got to hear about all the family dirt that I hadn't heard from the female family channels that worry too much about keeping face. They must have exchanged phone numbers at the wedding because my uncle decided to call my dad last week to talk about my mother.

Yes, that's right: my mother's sister's husband called my mother's ex-husband to find out what the hell is going on with my mother. My brother and I apparently aren't the only ones feeling my mother's arctic chill these days. My uncle wanted to know why she was being so distant lately and why she seemed so disconnected with and unconcerned about her family. Her lackluster attitude has some other members of my family turning their heads. And so, my father told him. Everything. Hoarding and all. And, of course, my uncle had no idea.

My mother's secret is starting to unravel despite her best efforts to keep it from those closest to her. All I can do is smile.

The big six oh

Today is my dad's 60th birthday. To be honest, 60 seems so incredibly old to me. It's hard to believe that my dad could be that old. My dad has aged well for the most part. He's in pretty good health, he's still got a pretty full, albeit gray, head of hair. Sometimes I think his mind is going a bit, but at other times, he's still sharp as a tack.

I'd be far worse for the wear if it weren't for my father. He's been incredibly supportive and involved in my life and is the perfect foil for my lackluster mother. I haven't written about him much on this blog even though I'm much closer to him than my mother. I guess it's due to the part of human nature that likes to be negative and complain about things rather than to talk about things that are clipping along and in good working order.

The healthy and loving relationship I have with my dad has kept me grounded and sane through many of the trails I've had in my short life. If I only had my mother to look to for parental love and support, I can only imagine how maladjusted and unhappy I would be. I fully believe that many of my goodhearted and creative qualities come directly from my dad.

So thank you, Dad, for being a dedicated father who is everything a daughter could ever hope for in a paternal figure. I hope he lives to see many, many more birthdays.

The two extremes of parenting

"You're a horrible daughter." -My mother


"You're my favorite daughter." -My father