She Told Me I Was Holding Back

I have to be honest about this process. I write these passages often times with tears rushing down my face, gasping for air by the end and praying that I could find some peace. Sometimes the salt from my tears irritates my skin and dries it out. It stings.

I have to tell you what my mother told me a couple of days ago.

First, I want to mention that my mom reads this blog. She knows that some of the most personal ways that she coped is on here for everyone to see. She doesn’t say anything about being uncomfortable about it.

I asked her how she felt. I asked her if there was anything that she didn’t want me to share. She told me that helping others understand is more important than any other insecurity she might have about it.

She also told me that she could tell that I was holding back. I know what she means. I know I have to say it eventually. I know the day is coming when everyone who reads this will want to know how he died, if that isn’t already the case.

As she said this to me, she was so calm.

 But now I sit here listening to the washing machine run and the fan drying a couple of sweaters on this old antique couch and I feel so angry.

I am angry that I didn’t talk about it. I am angry that I didn’t cry for almost two years straight. I am angry I didn’t let people in. I’m angry that I don’t know how to trust myself to make wise decisions. I’m angry that I have these newfound issues that I don’t know how to fix. I am angry that I’ve isolated myself.

I am angry that I still feel the need to search for him in crowds. I am angry that I never find him. 

I want to go back to feeling safe. I want to go back when he was here. I want him to help me out of my debilitating need to make everything perfect. I need him to help me reconnect with the rational side of my brain, wherever that is.

He always told me I needed to conquer my emotions. I’m overly emotional. I know this and I can’t stop myself. I want to know how people feel. I want to feel those same feelings with them.

I know I need to publish this letter I wrote to him a year after he died. It was the first time I wrote down what happened that day.

But I want to be clear about something that has been causing me a lot of anxiety lately. 

I do not write on this blog to receive praise. I write on here because it helps me cope.

I write about him because I didn’t cry about him. I write because I know he won’t be there for everything I thought he was going to. I write to share him with everyone, so they know how lucky I was to be able to call him my father.

I write about him because I loved him so much and when I saw him lifeless it destroyed me. 

It destroyed the safety I had growing up. It destroyed my trust in believing everything was going to be okay. It destroyed who I was.

He wouldn’t want this for me. He wouldn’t want me to be this way.

So now that I have tears stinging my cheeks I think I’ll grab some tissues and sleep.

Goodnight.