The Bipolar Blogging Mom

21 years have passed since my dad died mysteriously in our family home, where my brother, my childhood best friend, and I found him: lifeless, naked, and hanging off the edge of his bed. We waited for him at the pick up spot like we did every Sunday as my parents were divorced. He never showed. Something felt wrong, deeply wrong, but maybe he forgot? My mom felt in her hopes that maybe he was hung over, and that would be the nuisance legacy he continued to live, but he’d be okay. She told us, “let me know when you’re inside” because she had the same sinking feeling we did. And she was right. I turned the corner to his room, his TV was blaring an channel with no service, and his fan was on. He was dead. I knew it immediately. I screamed his name in question still, hoping he was asleep. My brother raced away and shouted for mom and I heard him talking to dispatch telling her something was wrong with my dad. What felt like seconds later, we were sitting outside with our pastor all crying and a cop was asking me detailed questions about needles and letters. If my dad made any weird statements when I last saw him. They handed me a bear from the back of their car and the neighbors stared and gawked. The rain poured that night. We ate dinner at country buffet. A fucking buffet. Can you imagine the weight of a tragedy over a 10 year olds mind while they decide what foods to put on their plate? I remember calling my other best friend that night to tell her what happened. She loved my dad like her own. She wasn’t home, but her dad answered and I cried to him. I think he cried too. I never thought he could cry but we did together and later that night my friend called me back and she cried with her mom on another landline. Some years it doesn’t bother me. Sometimes I am late to the anniversary and it’s already passed and I nod to my dad whenever he is, and I move on. This year has been heavy in my friend. It’s like I’m searching for him in a crowd with the defeating conclusion that he wouldn’t be there but I’d never stop searching. Everything I do is stitched with his colors; I see him in my sons. I even see him in my husband but only his best traits. See, my dad was a true man’s man. He was serene, quiet but confident, wise, and he felt warm and healing but also protective. He was very troubled though. By many complicating things that I never was able to fully understand but gathered from many family members who tried to understand him. That last year he suffered a lot of addiction and many different kinds. He talked to himself in dark corners of the house, and paced like the lions I’ve seen in zoo cages. He smoked a lot of marijuana and would hide alcohol use but his frequent hangovers were enough to make my childlike curiosity suspicious. Some years I’m angry about these issues and choices he made and I want to mourn in rage and disappointment. Anger that he left me without a parent. Left me without structure and guidance. I had skewed ideas of men and was not safe in many instances and was exposed to very traumatizing things as a child. Other times, I heroize him and fantasize of a version of him that was like some cancer warrior who fought some battle against an internal demon. But unlike a cancer victim, he was his own demon, and he chose not to fight many times. He succumbed to his demons August 11th, 2001 and according to the police it was either accidental overdose or suicide. My whole life was upside down for a long time. Holidays are different, we lost a whole piece of our family, and the images of that day have burdened engraved and graphic fears deep into my conscious. My son asks who his other “peepaw” is and I try to explain him through pictures and enhance him as an angel of sorts but in reality, I doubted everything years after he died and knew the chances of him reaching a happy afterlife could be dismal due to his toxic ending. Sometimes I have a kindred spirit with him, like “oh okay I understand what you must’ve went through, Dad.” Because my soul is so heavy with mental burden and I can now see it in the memories of his tense face, and I can now see it in my own. He tried really really hard. And being a good parent is not easy. He kept secrets, gave a fake smile many times, and made purchases to compensate for his mistakes. He did what many parents do to try to mask the very complicated and adult level stress they want to keep separate from their children. But me, being the kid social worker, could see right through it. It’s weird; when I think of that day I see it through the same lens I live life through now. It’s like I’ve stuck in that maturity level sometimes. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad, but it’s like a person first view that I continue to live in. I have a hard time seeing myself as a third person little Ariel that was struck by trauma that Sunday morning. Instead, I’m still the same present person I am now. There has to be some psychological explanation for that.

So my point is, grief is weird. It’s not liberal or cyclical. Have you ever seen a toddler scribble all over a while wall with a crayon, knowing they only have seconds before they’re caught and can never do it again? It’s that. It’s that chaotic messy scribble with no sense to it. Some days it’s sitting drinking a beer for your loved one at their tombstone, sharing a conversation. But I have found that many times, it’s being stuck in traffic on a Thursday, you’re listening to a new playlist and a line like, “I’m still crying you out, you’re in every drop that hits the ground” rings and you find yourself in a pool of sorrow and loss, makeup is running down your face, and all you have is some crinkled fast food napkins to wipe yourself up. That’s been me more times than I can count to be honest and that’s what I try to explain to my families dealing with grief. Give yourself those moments because crying is so so cathartic. Don’t let someone tell you it’ll be okay, or to stop crying; ugly cry anyways. Why? Because we someone tells us a joke we don’t tell them to “man up” when they burst out into laughter. So why do we do that with crying? Too often I see a medicated person who just needs a good, uninterrupted cry. And I’m here to tell you, you’re allowed and welcome to do that and you’re not alone. Probably a good idea to keep some tissues in your car, though.