Friday, June 1, 2018

I was only 12

From a journal entry May 31, 2001

"Today I found out my family thought I was just acting when I cried... [...] I have been having the most serious suicidal thoughts... I think the best way to kill myself would be to sufficate (sp?) myself with a pillow... not that painful and it's not messy or hard."

Thursday, February 22, 2018

Thursday, December 14, 2017

...and who are we, the betrodden?

To many, the "story" of my life begins with the murder suicide - as though before that moment, no publisher would deem my life worthy of writing memoirs.

But what story ends in any form of suicide whose beginning is pristine?

My childhood was unhappy. My family was dysfunctional. The first 19 years of my life culminated in blood and fire.

I have spent my life fighting against the odds, trying to be a good person. Yet whatever I do, I am held against the same standards as everyone else. I am expected to struggle and make sacrifice as though I haven't already done more than my lifetime's share of just that.

I spoke on the phone with a friend today. A friend with similar circumstances, similarly struggling against society's expectations of being a "good person" - trying to reconcile the raging desire to finally, finally live on one's own terms with the rules that are dictated by what everyone else decides is "fair".

But we grew up in unfair worlds, and unfair situations. We were young and innocent and pure, and we were dealt a losing hand. And by still living and still striving, we see ourselves now as successes - but everyone else, who compare us only to the situations that are familiar to them, see us as weak and lazy and cruel and lacking.

And who are we, in this world?

Are we children of this universe, destined to come into our own as has never been given to us?

Or are we bleak anomalies, dark smudges to balance out those with glittering lives?

If the latter -- I'm ready for the revolution.

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

Road test

It never ceases to amaze me just how unexpected a moment of grief can be.

After a few months of learning to drive, I passed my road test today. I was absolutely giddy. I was so proud of myself. And then as steadily as the giddiness wore off, it devolved into grief.

I suppose in my mind my father was already associated with learning to drive. Even from a very young age, when I was a passenger he would point out aspects of how the car works and rules of the road that would be important for me to know as a driver. I remember being very small and being amazed when he demonstrated that the wheel doesn't make the car move forward. I remember the massive blackout of 2003 when he taught me that an intersection with traffic lights that aren't working should be treated as a 4-way stop.

And I suppose in my mind I'd already associated my instructor with my grief. In the hours we logged in the car together, we had already had conversations about losses we've had and suicides we've experienced. With my study topic and his wife being a mental health counselor, we both had a lot to say about the importance and the role of mental health in society.

So I suppose the setup was already there.

But I never expected that on the day of my road test, his teenage daughter would tag along in the car. How sweet, I thought, that on a day she had off from school she wanted to spend with her father. How nice, I thought, to meet a family member of someone I had gotten to know over the course of our lessons. And then I passed my test, and he told me he was proud of me. I drove back home, and gave him a hug, and thanked him for his support in getting me to this point.

And then he drove off with his daughter and I went home alone with no father to tell about my accomplishment.

And it's not until you're alone that you actually realise that your heart wasn't warmed by watching a happy family interact. It wasn't cute to witness that father-daughter banter. It's not until you're alone that you realise that the quip he made about having no alcohol tolerance, and your response about your father being the same way, wasn't humorous small talk.

It was all an atmosphere of hurtful reminders to make you vividly aware that your own dad wasn't there to witness yet another important moment in your life.

...Damn it.

Friday, February 26, 2016

Another Feb 26

Happy Birthday, Daddy.

You were a good man. I wish you had had more people in your life to tell you that.

I'm off to an isolated cabin today without electricity or running water. Just a fire, some food cooked on a wood-burning stove, and books to read for the weekend. You would love it. I thought it would be a great way to spend our birthday.

I love you so much. I've been thinking about you a lot lately. I wish I had had more opportunities to learn from you. More and more as I age I look to your advice and wisdom about how to be a good person and what to take out of my life.

Don't be afraid of joining me at the cabin, Daddy. There will be a lot of quiet to fill. Maybe if I listen really carefully I will be able to hear your voice again.

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

A Valentine's Elegy

Daddy, it's our month again.

My pillow was barren next to me on Valentine's morning. I miss the days when you would come into my room while I slept and place a poem on my pillow, so that from the moment I awoke I would feel loved. (The days when I felt safe and secure enough to sleep through the night, let alone through the sounds of someone entering my room, are long gone now.)

When I left my bed there was no stack of pancakes waiting for me in the kitchen, so that even if I had to go to school I could still start the day feeling pampered. (The days when I could even eat your pancakes, made with milk as they were, are long gone now.)

And the rose on the table waiting just for me - well, I suppose I can't comment on that this year. A friend brought a perfect, red rose just for me. (But, goddamn it, the days when I could get a rose on Valentine's and feel a loving warmth instead of the aching void you left behind are long gone now.)

Would you ever have imagined that your successes as a father would have someday caused me only hurt? A friend, when I relayed these Valentine's traditions to her, commented that I at least have these memories to keep me warm. There's no warmth in them, Daddy. Only an aching. Only a longing. You showed me what it was to feel loved and then you took away everyone who loved me.

Daddy, do you want the truth?

The days when I felt worthy of anyone's love are long gone now.

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Stuff 2.0

Many years ago I wrote a blog post on the pain of having and losing the "stuff" of my family - the physical, tangible reminders of them. I wrote about how hard it was to have had all of my family's belongings lost in a fire, to have a lifetime of memories drowned in soot. I wrote about my envy of others who cope with their loss by smelling an old sweater, or wearing a mother's old dress, or sitting in a loved one's room.

I wrote that post because I had lost one of a pair of earrings that my mother had made for me. At the time, it was absolutely devastating. It was maybe a year, no more than two since she had died, and even the most insignificant things could still hurt me profoundly.

I remember a few years back when I lived in London, I recognised that the physical reminders of my lost family no longer mattered as much. On a night out in town, I lost the iPod that my mother had had engraved for me. I was hurt, yes, very much so - but I was also excited, because it was outdated and I relished the excuse to put behind me a relic and move on. It was an expensive, personalised gift from my mother, and my getting past that loss was, for me, a major turning point in how I viewed my remaining relationship with them.

I am now immune to "the stuff," I thought.

Fast forward to today.

"Your coat caught fire."
"What, what do you mean?"

(And so it goes.)

As they say, you don't know love until you've lost it.

The last time I properly went shopping with my mother (her favourite pastime) was to buy me a coat. I knew exactly what I wanted going in: a double-breasted, black-and-white houndstooth coat, with a belt. My mother told me again and again that I would not find exactly what I was looking for. I was adamant. And - we found it. Not only did it fit exactly my requirements, but it had an incredible red and gold Chinese-inspired lining, which for the next 8 years I would receive compliments on.

One thing my mother always expected of me that I could never quite obey was that I take care of my material possessions. I'm clumsy. I break things, spill things, tear things - I've come to terms with this aspect of myself. But I took care of that coat. That coat lasted me over 8 years, and was nowhere near falling apart. It was one thing I treasured and really treated well.

The irony is not lost on me. One of the few things from her that I saved from the sooty destruction of my home has been lost to its own idiosyncratic fire.

The memories flooded in. The emotion flooded in. My mother's smile, her touch, her warmth. I didn't think I could still break like this.

I broke.

(It makes me wonder: what other tiny, physical things in my life have so much power over me? Power that I will never know about...until it is wielded?)