My dad would have been 65 today, and I donāt know what to do about it.
As you might know if youāve read my writing before, he took his own life when I was 5 years old. Iām now 32, which means Iām five years away from being older than he ever was.
And I donāt know how to feel about that.
Every year this date comes, and I spend the day grumpy, or with a forced smile, or trying to distract myself. But I think itās time to confront the tornado of feelings I get on days like this. Maybe itāll help me, or other people. Maybe it wonāt. But I need to get it out.
I say “days like this” because itās not just his birthday that makes me feel this way. Itās also the date he died, and Christmas, and my birthday, and any significant event in my life. The problem is, I canāt feel ‘justā sad about him missing these events, because the knowledge is always there that he chose this. He didnāt have a debilitating disease like Robin Williams. He wasnāt hit by a bus or taken by a tumour. He sat in our family car, in our family garage, and breathed carbon monoxide into his healthy lungs until his healthy body couldnāt cope anymore. And he did it on purpose.
Or at least, thatās the logical way to look at it. The emotional way is to understand that depression is a disease like any other, and that in a way, it was a biological condition that took him. Maybe. Because we donāt know for a fact that he was depressed, and putting together the story of something that happened when you were a child is like trying to reassemble a window that smashed 20 years ago. The fragments have been ground into powder.
I try to apply the most generous interpretation of the facts I have. He must have been very unhappy to take his life, which suggests he probably was depressed. He didnāt seek help for it, other than talking to my mum, which is not unusual for men in our masculinity-obsessed culture even now. If he had seen a doctor, he might have been saved. If cars had catalytic converters then (they were implemented not even a year later), he might have been saved. If we hadnāt been out of the house, if I hadnāt been too young to help, if his company hadnāt been going under, if if if.
I have more ‘ifsā than memories of my own father. And itās difficult not to feel some level of anger at him for that. Rationally I know heād probably be beside himself with sorrow if he knew how much his decision has impacted his two daughters all our lives, but rational thought doesnāt come easily on the date your father should be celebrating his happy retirement.
Itās this mixture of feelings that is so hard to cope with. I want to say “Happy birthday, I love you so much, you absolute bastard.” I want to buy him a card and rip it up. I want to hear him say how sorry he is, just so I can say of course itās OK, I understand, and hold him and cry.
I wish I believed in an afterlife. He didnāt either. He once asked my mum to bury him with his backside sticking out of concrete so he could be used as a bike park. Thankfully she didnāt honour that wish — he was cremated, and the ashes were lost some time back.
It doesnāt matter. It wasnāt him. I have one video and some photos and a handful of memories.
Perhaps the nearest I have to him is his watch. Engraved on the back is “I love you Daddy. From Holly xx.” It was a birthday present. I love that it still has a kink in the strap from where he wore it — an imprint of him still left in the world. There are so few. Sometimes I put a new battery in just to watch the hands move again.
Truthfully, the closest thing to my dad left in the world is me. My sister has long since moved on, made her own family, overwritten the tragedy that dogged us for decades. I try to see bits of him where I can: his lopsided smile in mine, the obsession with gadgets, the terrible short-sightedness he gifted me. And I feel happy and sad and angry all at once. I miss you. I love you. I hate you. I need you.
Itās been so long since he died that I find it hard to imagine he ever lived. But if I take anything from this, itās that none of us is ever truly gone. None of us walks through life without leaving a path, however short. But my dad has retired now — from work, from the world — and itās up to me to walk the rest of the way for both of us.