The last 3 months have had me living in a grief-stricken fog. I got hit by a freight train, and immediately had to pick up the aftermath piece by piece while my own wounds bled out. For so many years, I feared this theoretical scenario of his untimely death. But what do you do when the worst-case scenario is what actually happens? How do you handle this crippling devastation that could never have been anticipated? My first thought when I received that early Monday morning phone call from his brother... HOW do I tell Mia?
From the day she was born, I felt uneasy. Untrusting that he was capable of keeping her fully safe. As I held her minutes after she was born, it washed over me in this confusing drape of uncertainty. I couldn't put my finger on it at the time, but that, along with so many other things, has become slightly clearer as we unfold more about the life he was really leading over the last 15 years. We'll likely never know much more than the bits we do now, but maybe that's for the best.
What I do know is that in the last 3 months, I have never experienced a grief so overwhelming, painful and unpredictable. “Complicated grief” is what my psychiatrist calls it. Fitting for our complex relationship. It has been a blur of mixed emotions… Intense sadness, deep anger, happy memories. Grief for the loss of hope - hope that he'd get better and be able to be there for Mia. Grief at the loss of our family all over again. Grief from my heart breaking into a thousand pieces because I couldn't fix this, I couldn't help him... I had failed. And now it was too late.
Despite ALL the horrible, unthinkable things he said and did, and emotional torture he'd put us through, I always wanted him to be ok. I always knew it was mental illness that led to his substance abuse and all of the destructive choices. I would feel so angry with him for letting Mia down, and somehow simultaneously so sorry for him that he couldn't pull himself out of the hole to be better next time. Every time I thought he hit rock bottom, he managed to find a deeper, darker cave to crawl to. And that's just from what I know... the full truth of his life was surely so much worse. But in my heart, I truly thought he could be a good man... a loving dad. I thought maybe the glimpses I saw of the man I married so many years before meant he was still in there, and he could get back to that. That maybe, just maybe, one day he would figure it out. How could I feel so much empathy and love for the man who put me and my baby girl through hell and back over the last 8 years? I don't understand my feelings... or why this had to happen. Hasn't my sweet girl been through enough?
With my heart flailing outside my chest, I had to quickly pivot from the shock of the news to put a plan in place to tell Mia. And then focus on how to help her navigate this unknown, eerie open space of the sudden and unexplainable loss of her father. How can I provide any clarity to all the questions? Oh my goodness, the questions. All of which I am myself asking, too. So how do I support her? How do I provide enough love and stability to get her through this - now and forever? How do I reinstate some level of consistency in an environment of normalcy and reliability - to at least prove to her that her intense fear of me abandoning her as well will NEVER happen. At the same time, my headspace is completely consumed. I'm lost is a web of "what ifs" an "if onlys." Desperately seeking stable ground to pull us both up for air. I literally couldn't breathe from the overwhelming despair that lay in front of me.
It's been 3 months. Not an hour goes by that I don't think of him. I miss him. Somehow, through all the insane chaos he put us through, I maintained such deep care for him as the father of my child. Don't get me wrong, I am SO fucking mad at him. Why wasn't she enough? Enough of a reason to do the hard work and find the strength to change. To make one right decision, for once. I have to find myself lucky that I don't understand. I don't understand the darkness of mental illness and alcohol abuse. I don't understand a sickness so severe that literally nothing in life matters. What I do know is this. We are ok. There are still and always will be hard days, but we can find happiness and joy in each day, as well.
It is clear to me now that grief is not something you ever get over, but instead something you move through forever. I find myself feeling so grateful for the strength I know I have, partly because of him, that I am capable of being strong enough for both Mia and me. I am so damn proud of her for the maturity and grace with which she has handled this trauma. And we will continue to keep the good memories of him alive in our hearts and in our stories.
Just me and my girl. Day by day. Together we find our strength.
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Rest in peace. We love you to the moon and back.
January 3, 1980 - June 2, 2024
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