Dear Dad

This was the best way I could express the twisted assortment of feelings I have pent up about my Dad who took his own life October 5, 2003.  

Dear Dad,

Eight years ago you made the choice to end your life and eight years later I still find myself asking the same question.  Why?  Why did you choose to leave me forever?  Why did you permanently say goodbye to your three children who loved you?

I know the circumstances and chain of events that led to that fateful day, but that was just a trigger.  I can promise you one thing, the pain you felt after being hurt by that woman is NOTHING compared to the pain I felt in losing you, nothing compared to the pain that still haunts me eight years later, the pain that will haunt me until my own existence comes to an end.

I was the last person to talk to you that evening.  Do you remember the conversation?  After months of sobriety you had been drinking and taken some pills.  You apologized to me for setting a bad example.  I told you it was ok.  Then you apologized for being a bad father, and that was when I knew that you were serious about this.  You were saying your good byes.  I tried to talk about the future, I told you I loved you, I told you I needed you.  I don't know if you heard me, I don't know if it really sunk in.  Did you understand what I was saying?  Did you care?  Did it occur to you that your life affected more than yourself, that it affected so many of us?  Did you know all this and then still pull the trigger anyways?  I tried to keep you talking, knowing the sheriff was on the way.  I tried so hard, but you finally hung up on me.  I called back over and over and over, but you never answered.  The whole time my stomach was in my throat and I was clinging to the hope that you had just passed out and the sheriff would find you asleep on the floor.

Less than 10 minutes after you hung up on me, I got the call.  As soon as the sheriff identified himself and confirmed who I was, my stomach dropped.  And then he said the words that changed my life forever, "I'm sorry to inform you your father has committed suicide."

I remember hitting the floor.  There was screaming coming from somewhere, then I realized it was me.  I lost complete control.  I cried, I screamed, I rocked back and forth.  My boyfriend's roommate picked me up, got me to the couch and gave me a beer.  He didn't know what to do, who would?

The days that followed were exhausting.  We had to plan your funeral, pick out little prayers, flowers, an urn, a casket for the viewing, so many little details that seemed so trivial and yet at the same time so significant.  Every decision made, we asked the question, "does this represent our Dad?"  Do you know how hard it was to pick out that urn?  We chose the oak one with a little deer engraved on the side.  You loved being outside and watching the deer up at the cabin, and yet the cabin was now tainted because that was were you chose to end your life so violently.  All I could hope for those first few days was to survive, that was my goal.  Everyday I would pray, "dear God, please let me make it until the sun goes down tonight."

Despite all the confusion, the heartache, the flooding emotions, I did in fact survive.  As the days went it became clear that I could not stop living myself, that the world was still turning, that life elsewhere was still thriving and so I began to move on.  Its not to say that I forgot, I'll never forget, but I had to adjust and then continue to live.  That is what you should have done, that is what you needed to do, but ultimately that is exactly what you did not.

Eight years later in addition to the linger question of "why?" I also have to wonder, "do you know what you missed out on?"  Let me fill you in on the highlights.  I found a passion and built a career in construction management.  I sit in progress meetings and utility coordination meetings and as I deal with Subcontractor representatives I sometimes think of you, because your job required you to be in those same types of meetings.  I think that it would have been fantastic because you and I would have been able to speak the same language to share stories, to have some common ground.  When you died I had just moved home after an unsuccessful year living with some loser while working retail for just above minimum wage.  I wish you could have seen that I eventually found what I wanted to do with my life, and even better, I am damn good at it.

My career eventually prompted my move to Florida.  I've lived here almost six years now and I often wonder what we would do if you were around to come visit.  Shortly after moving I met my husband.  An engineer who is smart, funny, pulled together and treats me better than I deserve to be treated.  You missed walking me down the aisle, missed seeing me take those vows.  You never got to see the house we built, a nice little place out in the country with enough land to have our two horses.  We have all kinds of wildlife roaming around and you would have loved it.  You missed seeing your youngest daughter graduate high school.  You'll miss seeing her graduate college.  You'll never be there to walk her down the aisle or meet her husband.  You weren't there for your only son when he returned from Iraq the second time suffering from PTSD.  You never got to see that he went back to college after leaving the marine corps.

There is so much you have missed and so much more you will miss out on in the future.  But last November was the hardest when I had my son.  He would have been your first grandchild.  The only grandchild right now, but there are sure to be many more to follow.  I wish you were around to see the greatest accomplishment of my life.  I would have loved to see you play with him, I remember you playing with my little sister when she was his age.  Of all the things you have missed, this one pains me the most.  I don't know what I will tell him about his grandfather when he's older.  I don't even know what name you would have wanted.  Grandad?  Poppop?

When I look at my son and am filled with that overwhelming love, that love that pulls at your heart and consumes your every thought, I cannot even begin to imagine making the choice to leave him.  I know I was an adult and he is only 10 months old, but I still can't imagine that at any point in my life no matter what age, I would voluntarily make that choice.  Which brings me back to the question, "how could you leave your three children?"

I know my questions will never be answered.  I know there will always be that void in my life where you should exist.  I know that there will still be days where I break down.  I know that there will still be days where I curse you for what you did to your family.  I know there will still be rough times ahead in my life, but at least it means I still am living.  I'd rather suffer the greatest agony the rest of my days, then choose to abandon my family.

Please understand that I do forgive you, but ultimately forgiveness is not mine to give.  I wish you could have seen there was so much left to live for, but wishing won't change anything.  You made your decision and now we all must live with the consequences.

I miss you Dad, and I hope where ever you are, you finally found peace.

"Ssshhhh! Don't talk about it!"

Suicide is one of those subjects that people tend to avoid, especially on a personal level.  Tomorrow will mark eight years since my Dad "passed away."  He didn't really pass away.  He propped a hunting rifle on the floor, sat in a chair, and shot himself through the heart.  I can't exactly go around stating it that way, because it makes other people uncomfortable.  What makes ME uncomfortable is saying he "passed away" like he just gently slipped out of existence.  Not only did I lose my Dad at a fairly young age (I was 23, my sister was 12, my Dad was only 50) but I lost him in what I think is the worst way possible, by HIS choice.  That is the part that hurts the most, he had a choice and he chose to leave - permanently.

I wish I could say that my Dad's death was my only experience with suicide, but it wasn't.  When I was 14 my uncle on my Mom's side (that's right, I have suicides and addicts on both sides of the family tree) committed suicide.  He chose a handgun through the mouth.  My uncle actually lived for several hours with half his head missing, and my Mom and grandparents sitting in the hospital waiting room.  I'm being blunt and a bit graphic intentionally, suicide is not a pretty subject and it diminishes the full impact of what it truly is when we try to talk about it in pleasant terms.  There is not a damn thing pleasant about it.

I was not close to my uncle at all.  In fact, quite the opposite.  We mostly saw him at family holiday functions and when I did see him he just gave me that creepy feeling.  He always had a cigarette stuck to his bottom lip and it would bounce up and down as he talked.  I don't know why, but I can't stand when smokers won't take the cigarette out of their mouth while they talk.  Anyways, as long as I can remember he made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.  Later in life I learned there was a good reason for that.  He was a heroin addict by the time he was 16.  A drinker, a smoker, and a user of every drug he could get his hands on.  In high school he stabbed a kid in the neck and my Mom was known as "Slash's little sister."  Of course all this was kept from me until I was an adult, but it really proves the point that its not a bad idea to trust your instincts.

I honestly had no emotion on my uncle being dead, other than situation being unexpected and shocking.  What made that situation tremendously difficult was watching my Mom and my Grandparents handle his death.  Parents should NEVER have to bury their children - period.  It goes against the natural order of things.  Watching my grandfather openly break down, over and over, was one of the hardest things I've ever dealt with in my life.  It was hard watching my Mom and grandmother mourn as well, but for some reason, I would get pangs in my chest listening to my grandfather bawl.  My Mom dealt with things a little differently.  She had a lot of anger, and most of it ended up pointed in my direction.  To be fair, I was in high school and dealing with depression on my own and we hadn't exactly been seeing eye to eye on anything lately.  My Mom was upset on how I responded to the news, I basically didn't respond.  I had no emotional response, just shock.  After she told me she got in the car and drove off, less than a mile down the road she was in a car accident.  Another driver ran a red light, but she told me it was my fault.  She explained to me that she was so upset that she had such a cold hearted, callus daughter that she wasn't as aware of her surroundings, and therefore wasn't able to react in time to steer clear of the other driver.  He ran a red light, but somehow it was my fault.  This could easily take us down a different path into the twisted avenues of my relationship with my mother over the years, but that is not for today.  The point is simply that my uncle's suicide had a huge impact on my family, and although everyone reacted in a different manner, the reactions were intense.

Nine years later I found myself once again coping with a suicide, this time my own father.  I've gone through every range of emotions in dealing with my Dad's death.  ANGER, betrayal, sadness, disbelief, and the never ending questions that haunt me.  I don't think about it everyday, but some times when I do it overwhelms me.  Those emotions come flooding back and burn with such intensity like I just hung up from getting the call from the sheriff.  The anniversary always gets me, reflecting on how much my life has changed and how much he has missed.  I don't know how tomorrow will go...but I think I've stirred things up enough for tonight.  I can't push emotion, its all there, I can feel it bubbling, but something is telling me to let it rest for now.

Freaking Happy

Some days I just wake up so freaking happy that I annoy myself.  Today is one of those days.  Just woke up feeling good.  My Mom and I took my son to the most amazing petting zoo and had a fantastic time.  He is 10 months old now and every day he is more and more interactive and responsive to things.  He had a blast, and he wasn't just stuck in a stroller the whole time.

My son is down for the night.  The AC is broken and the temperature in the house is 87 degrees, but there is a very slight breeze.  Supposedly a cold front is coming through tonight, I hope the weather man got this one right.  But despite the sticky oven I'm currently sitting in, I feel like I could jump out of my skin with happiness.  I think if I was confident I could safely do a cart wheel without serious bodily injury, I would cartwheel through the neighborhood.  Nothing phenomenal happened to spark this mood, I just woke up this way.  Well, more accurately it started sometime last night, because I didn't exactly sleep.  My mind was racing.  I spent the whole night thinking about gluten free cooking, pregnancy, what my son should wear for his 1 year photographs which are still over a month away, Christmas, pumpkins, what to wear to a wedding in 3 weeks, and other unrelated and random topics.

I love these days.  The days where I'm overly optimistic and hopeful.  The days where the world is full of rainbows and unicorns and fluffy puppies.  I have to keep myself from calling everyone I know and gushing how much they mean to me and how grateful I am for the good things in my life.  Maybe I should make some of those calls one day, probably wouldn't hurt.  Ironically, on an ordinary day people this happy annoy the crap out of me.  I know the "freaking happy" feeling doesn't go on forever, so I've learned its best to just savor it.
 
Inhale, smile, exhale.........  Yeah, life is good.

The BP Label

My previous post has led me to re-examine a topic I've been avoiding with myself.  I've been diagnosed with bipolar disorder by multiple different doctors at different times.  I think I was in my early college years when I was treated for depression by my primary care physician.  In a matter of weeks after the initial diagnosis I found myself back in his office.  Having been awake for days on end and experiencing a major manic episode, he quickly determined that I needed to seek more "specialized" help.  I go to another doctor, answer a lot of questions, rambling on and fill out some surveys and boom, diagnosis:  bipolar disorder.  That started the prescription writing.  I've been on every anti-depressant, anti-anxiety, mood stabilizer, anti-siezure; anti-psychotic medicine you can imagine.  Often times I was on an annoying cocktail of multiple medicines all requiring different frequencies and timing.  This one makes you drowsy and can only be taken once a day, so it must be taken at night.  This gets you hyped up and is twice a day so I need to take it early morning and early evening.  This one needs to be taken with food.  This one can't be taken within so many hours of eating this...  So many rules to remember.  At one point I had one of those old lady pill boxes with the days of the week and am and pm marked on the little cubbies.  I would get frustrated and go to a different doctor, withhold my previous diagnosis and start fresh, hoping to yield a different result.  Funny thing is, no matter how much information I withheld about previous treatments and diagnosis, they all came to the same conclusion:  bipolar disorder.

Fine, fine, fine.  It made sense, I tried to take the meds, I tried to go to therapy, I tried to accept and embrace what this meant for my life.  I bought the books, I wrote in my journals, I struggled with keeping my extremes in some sort of balance and control.  The tricky thing is, there is no easy fix.  Medications can be helpful, but finding the right ones, the right combinations, the right dosages is a very difficult and LONG process.  Learning which medications do not work can be very scary.

Usually the doctors were most satisfied with my progress and regimen when I was left feeling completely numb.  They could concoct some combination of drugs that left me feeling absolutely nothing.  The worse tragedy could happen and I would feel - nothing.  The greatest joy - nothing.  I would often think that I would feel no different if I won the lottery and could fulfill every dream than I would if some natural disaster wiped out everyone and everything close to me.  I didn't have the extreme manic episodes or the deep depression, but I didn't have the simple happy or sad.  I had indifference and numbness.

What kind of life is an existence of no emotion?  Alternately, what kind of life spins out of control from one extreme to another?  I can't say which is preferable.  They both have their pros and cons.  When I was in middle school I wrote in a journal that, "I seem to feel everything more intensely than most people."  I felt that the volume on all my emotions (good or bad) had been turned up.  When this is what you feel your whole life and then its gone, you feel like you stopped breathing.  Its quite unpleasant.  I think this is common in those dealing with bipolar disorder.

I could write volumes on my experiences at this time, about bipolar disorder, but I'm less interested in the past and more interested in the present and the future.  I have been un-medicated and very "stable" for over five years now.  I've learned to recognize my triggers.  I've learned that routine, diet, exercise, stability and continuity in my life are critical for keeping me centered.  I've learned to recognize when I'm starting to shift towards one side or the other and then how I can bring myself back to center.  I still go through "mini episodes" but they are not as extreme as they once were and I work hard to keep them from spiraling out of control.

This long period of stability has allowed me to lapse into what I am afraid is a false sense of security.  I question if the bipolar label was really right for me.  The more time that passes since my last major episode, the easier it is to convince myself that I was always misdiagnosed, that I was just going through a rough patch, that I've outgrown this.  Unfortunately my research assures me that many people will go through long (years long) periods of stability.  My research also assures me that no matter how long this honeymoon period, eventually these people will once again experience a major episode either manic or depressed.

Oh shit.

I want to throw away this bipolar label and pretend that it was a mistake, that it was a phase and will never impact my life again.  I want to forget all of this and block it out like I have managed to block out so much of my life already - but I can't.  I need to force myself to accept the possibility that things may one day get worse again.  If I accept this possibility than I can be on guard for the signs and seek help early.  If I am prepared, I can minimize the damage.  If I ignore my past, I am bound to be blindsided in the future.

The anger I felt the other day, the urge to destroy the life I worked so hard to build (and in a lot of ways re-build), that anger is my reminder that I need to stay vigilant.  I don't want the BP label.  I don't wear it on my sleeve, but its still there tucked away inside and it can not be forgotten.

"I've fallen and..."

I may or may not have some serious anger issues.  For the sake of argument lets say I do, and while we are at it, lets say my issues go well beyond anger.  My little angel is taking his afternoon nap, my husband is mowing and I am practicing deep breathing to try and calm myself down as I pound away on the keyboard.  Why am I so angry?  I really don't know.  But I do know the trigger - the lawn mower broke.  That's right the lawn mower broke and this prompted my current melt down.  Within minutes of hearing the news (no I wasn't even the one mowing) I suddenly keyed in on every dirty dish scattered about the house, the two loads of clean laundry that were still waiting to be put away, the sheets on the unmade bed that needed to be changed and well it continued to spiral down from there.  Next thing you know I'm storming around the house working on cleaning up various piles of clutter all the while muttering nasty comments under my breath.  Even worse, in my head I'm having flash backs to my Mom storming around the house muttering the exact same words.  "We don't deserve to have anything nice, if we can't take care of it," or "I guess I'm the only one capable of putting anything away around here."  It sends a chill up my spine when I sit back and see what I'm doing.  I remember thinking as a kid that my Mom just needed to relax a little bit.  The world wouldn't end if something was out of place and these episodes put so much stress on everyone else in the house.  But this isn't the worst of it for me.  The worst part is how I feel when I start riding the angry train.  Its like something snaps inside of me and I'm swept by a hot rushing wave of pure hate.  The thoughts that are going through my head that I do NOT verbalize are horrible.  It takes a concentrated effort for me not to start destroying things.  I want to physically break things.  I fight the urge to open the cabinet, remove the stack of plates and just start throwing them across the room.  (I did this once when I was 22 and although it was somewhat satisfying at the time, the cleanup was a pain, and then I had to buy more plates when I was already broke).    What's worse than the desire to destroy the house and all our belongings within?  The desire to destroy relationships.  I know how to emotionally hurt the people closest to me and at these moments I want nothing more than to spit out that phrase I know will drive the dagger deep in their heart.  The only person who has ever been safe from this is my son.  I have never felt even the slightest negative emotion towards him, not in the early days when we were sleep deprived, not ever.  I can be spitting fire at the rest of the world, but will never show it around him, never speak the evil words if he is in the room, never let him feel anything but love when I hold him.  Honestly I probably would not have gotten so worked up right now if it wasn't for the fact that he's napping.

I have to give myself the tiniest shred of credit.  I have over the years recognized that I do this and learned how to control my actions and words in these moments much better, how to calm down faster and most importantly how to apologize.  I hate apologizing.  By the time I have calmed down enough to apologize I feel like I am making amends for someone else, like I am two separate people.  There is the damaged side of me that takes control and wreaks havoc in my life and then there is the responsible side of me that cleans up all the mess.  I try to keep the responsible well adjusted side of me running the show most of the time, but sometimes crazy just takes over.

Its been a couple days since I started this post and I am now in a completely different state of mind.  I'm happy, I'm optimistic, I'm relaxed and everything is in prospective.  But even reading what I had previously written I can recall that feeling.  Honestly, it scares the shit out of me.  I have no worries that I will ever physically harm anything or anyone.  But I do worry that I will hurt my relationships, and even though their is always forgiveness from my friends and family, I worry that one day it will just be too much.  There is also the big elephant I choose to ignore, what if at some point in my life it starts to get worse?  What if instead of recognizing my actions and working diligently to improve my control, I start to lose it?  What if i revert back to that time in my life where I was an unpredictable ball of chaos?  The "what ifs" haunt me, but I try to keep them under wraps.  If there is one thing I have learned, feeding my already overwhelming anxieties and insecurities is of no benefit to anyone.

Sometimes, I find myself following the mantra of a 12 step program "taking it one day at a time."  Its really all I can do.  I know that I will have these episodes of overwhelming all consuming anger again.  They will happen and I must accept that.  What I do not have to accept is how severe they are, how long they last, and how much damage they do, those things I can control.   As much as I want to categorize everything into neat little boxes and plan for the future, I know that it is unrealistic to live life so rigidly.  Besides, what's the fun?  So I make my lists, I plan ahead, and then I constantly remind myself that I need to relax and enjoy life, not be angry at it.

Finding vs Defining

I have to laugh at the image that pops in my head when I hear someone express their desire to "find themselves."  I picture headless mummies walking around in a dense fog.  Occasionally a floating head passes by and the fingers of the mummies grasp desperately in an attempt to see if that is the head that fits.  What exactly does a person mean when they are trying to find themselves?  Are they lost?  Is this a glorified search for our missing car keys?   Will we one day open the pantry, move the chicken stock and suddenly realize "this is who I am!"  I certainly hope not.  That seems to imply too much left to chance.

I think more accurately we are often trying to "define ourselves."  We already exist with our own personality, our likes and dislikes, attributes, flaws, and quirks.  What we are looking for is a definition of who we are.  If there was a human dictionary with an entry for every person walking this Earth, what would it say after our name?  If I read my entry, would I want to meet me?  Would I be someone I would like?  And lets not forget the BIG question, why is all of this so important?

One of the first things you learn in a basic philosophy class (well from what I remember) is the importance of defining terms.  If you are going to have a discussion, you must make sure every participant defines their words the same.  Otherwise its impossible to come to any conclusion.  There is something in us that values knowing how we are defined both in our own eyes and in the eyes of others, and to really be successful in society those definitions must be the same.  The problems erupt when your definition of yourself is the complete opposite of how another would define you.  In a broad sense, this is the root of many of our interpersonal conflicts.  We are not "defining our terms" the same.

What prompted this long rambling train of thought was kids.  Kids are the ultimate game changer.  Once you are a parent you must begin the process of redefining yourself.  I've decided it is virtually impossible to predict what type of parent you will be and how you will feel as a parent until you are in fact a parent. I looked at one of my friends while she was pregnant and felt fairly confident she would be the overprotective, strictly regimented, classic helicopter parent controlling every little thing (or trying).  I couldn't have been more wrong.  Her son runs wild, and frequently runs wild - naked.  Never saw that one coming.  She is still very much the same person I knew pre-kid, but as a parent, I have had to come up with a new definition.  Now I realize, its not just about figuring out who we are, but who we are in each of our different roles.  Our dictionary entry would have to have numerous definitions because  who we are is different dependant upon the role we are playing, spouse, parent, child, boss, employee, or random Kmart shopper.  I can't think of a single person I know that I would describe the exact same regardless of their role.  Just to add to the complication, we are continually evolving (at least I hope) and so how we define ourselves and those around us must also continue to evolve.

I stopped trying to "find myself" a long long time ago.  It was an unfulfilling journey to nowhere.  My focus has moved to trying to better understand myself, and trying to understand how others define me, then using this to improve my relationships.  It becomes critical to accept that this process of defining never ends.  I would not define myself today the same as I did ten years ago, and I will not define myself the same in another ten years.  There is nothing "definite" about these "definitions."  Every day has the potential to mold another aspect of my being.  This is where hope begins, if I am unhappy with myself, I can begin the process of change.  If a relationship is suffering, there is hope that both of us can evolve to a place where that relationship is once again fruitful.  Nothing about ourselves and others is set in stone, some things are just a little more difficult to move around then others.

Much of the chatter running through my head lately has been focused on my new role as a parent.  The last 9 months have been filled with me struggling to adjust to the drastic change in my life.  Going from working 60+ hours a week, to quitting my job to stay at home with my son, and just recently starting to work part time (although mostly from home).  I am still trying to process how so much love can come out of me, how every fiber of every muscle can ache with this intense love for my son.  I hope every parent knows that euphoric feeling.  I also realize that to be a strong role model and a good parent, I need to maintain my own identity.  I am a Mom, but I also have many other roles, and all the varied aspects of who I am are important.  It all comes back to this daily balancing act, and keeping my little dream in sight.

Picket Fences

I think as we progress out of college and further into adulthood, many of us our working towards our own little American Dream.  It may be the house in suburbia with white picket fences, 2.5 kids or whatever the current average is and a cat or dog.  It may be the loft in the city that is simply a landing pad for when you are not traveling.  It may be hundreds of acres in the middle of nowhere surrounded by crops and cattle.  Whatever that vision is, I believe we all have it.  This little dream of the "perfect life" is what drives us, what gives us hope, and the closer we get to achieving it, the bigger we make that dream (consequently pushing it further away).  Because of this perpetual evolution, we are forced to constantly adjust.  Life is a balancing act, if we lean too far left the dream drops out of sight, lean too far right and its gone again.

I am not delusional enough to think anyone has a perfect life and my goal is not to attain "perfection."  I am not even sure how I would define such a thing.  However, I believe that we can find what is "perfect for us".  A life that challenges us in the right ways, that pushes us to make ourselves better, that allows us to fully appreciate how rewarding the little things can be.

My daily struggle is to maintain that fragile balance and not lose sight of the dream.  Some days I fail miserably, some days I achieve more than I imagined, and some days I take a break from looking ahead to reflect on the journey so far.