I figured since my first post included a little snippet into my world and relationship with my father, it only seemed right to continue that story now. Day two, post two, and we are diving in!
I’ll try to keep it short (or at least long and interesting).
I grew up a daddy’s girl. This means, I wanted to be just like him. I wanted to spend all of my time with him. This also meant there were times I hated him. But what girl doesn’t hate their parents sometimes?
I was 14 when he died. Now, for those of you who don’t remember what it was like at 14, or haven’t gotten there yet… 14 years old, is probably the worst time to lose the person who means everything to you. This is when you’re going through puberty. Kids make fun of you, you have acne literally ALL OVER YOUR FACE, you think the world is out to get you, and life is mostly a miserable mess.
Not only was that going on, but I didn’t have a very open and well-comunicating family (still don’t). I’ve never had a good relationship with my mother. My parents were married, but I don’t think they were ever in love. And my siblings; an older brother and older sister; were off in their own worlds. Moving in with their boyfriends/girlfriends, all grown up compared to me. It was me, my mother, and my daddy. Who was I to turn to when he died? The mother who I hated? Or the siblings who had their own partners to turn to.
So I decided to ..well, turn to myself.
When everyone expected me to fail in school that year, I thrived. I turned all of my attention to proving the world wrong. And I did. I got high honor roll in high school and even joined the National Honor Society. I started playing sports and won some awards there too. So with all of this success, why was I still miserable when I went home? Why did I still cry myself to sleep at least 4 or 5 times a week?
Because I never talked about his death. Sometimes I couldn’t even admit to people he died. “Are your parents divorced because you never talked about your dad?” I would say “Yes, he lives far away.” “I never see him.
I learned that acceptance is key to actually making a change in your life to make yourself happier. I started seeing a therapist. This was years later though. I was 18 or 19 when I made this decision. And it worked. Although I jumped from therapist to therapist over the course of a year.. I was able to tell my story. finally.
I was able to tell someone of the moments etched in my memory. How, at the hospital, the doctors said “He has a 2% chance of survival after surgery.” How, I remember days before I spoke to him on the phone before he was transferred to a new hospital. How, when I hung up, I immediately called him back because I “forgot to say I love you,” I told him.
Being able to share these memories then, and now with whomever is reading this,.. that is acceptance. That is healing power. And I hope by sharing parts of my experiences in this world, with those of you who actually read this whole post, it can help you now or in the future.
Love until Later,