Father’s Day has always been a hard one. It’s 40 years since he died and this is the first FD since my mother’s suicide.
My girlfriend is off working with my son and her daughter, so I’ve been left alone with my thoughts. And my grief.
I haven’t busted my father’s grave since covid began. He’s a few hours drive away but across border lines I’m currently not allowed to cross.
I need to tell him about her death. That’s one of the things that’s been keeping me alive since her suicide. That, and that indomitable urge I have to beat this thing.
But suicide is in my genes. Half my mother’s generation died by it. From early childhood till late teens, my mother told me my father had died by it. My first attempt was at 11.
I do everything I can to survive these urges – therapy, honesty, medication – but I know with almost certainty that one day I won’t be this strong.
And I fear it will be a day like this. A significant holiday, celebrated very visibly by those with intact family structures. It will be a day when my body can’t fill the dopamine gaps and my brain can’t see alternatives.
I understand why my mother chose a holiday, just still can’t believe it was Halloween. That was the only visible mainstream holiday that she hadn’t tainted with trauma during my childhood and now it’s her other anniversary. The one where the suicide in her genes won.
I’m okay, today. I did the dishes and cleaned the kitchen to prove it.
Keep going. You’re worth it.