Death is commonly seen as an objective experience. I also saw it that way for many years. However, recent events in my life have changed my way of thinking. Nothing seems normal anymore, and yet, simultaneously, it feels as if nothing has changed at all. I had already been grieving the loss of my father, who is still very much alive.
I am currently 18 years old. From the time I was about 3 years old I started showing signs of an anxiety disorder. I was constantly wandering out of my room to go make sure our front door was locked and our candles blown out. At 3 years old I was concerned with just about everything that should not be my burden. Neither of my parents made these things my burden, I created it myself. As I grew older, the anxiety grew worse. It consumed me. Not only was I suffering from anxiety, but I had also developed clinical depression. When I reached middle school I also developed an eating disorder. I was very good at hiding all of my struggles. My father never noticed anything was wrong. On the other hand, my mother sensed something was wrong. Her motherly instincts were correct. I was hospitalized 3 times for reporting suicidal ideations as well as self-inflicted harm. My mother made sure I always got the help I needed. My father took a different approach to this situation.
My father tried to deny everything. He repeatedly told the mental health professionals working with me that I was doing it all for attention. In his twisted mind, because he never saw any of the warning signs, that meant that none of it was true. It was his way or the highway. So when he visited me while I was admitted to the Behavioral Health unit at the hospital, he told me something not surprising. He took my hands, looked me in the eyes, and uttered these unforgivable words: “Maybe you wouldn’t be here if you worked on being a little happier.” With this seemingly simple statement, I knew immediately that he wasn’t really on my side. The funny thing is, he was also hospitalized when he was young. I guess it matters less when it happens to your child.
Since the first time my father betrayed me, there have been numerous other betrayals. I have never quite felt comfortable in my father’s care, if you can even call it care. The night before my 18th birthday was the last time I spoke to my dad. After that night, I no longer consider him my dad. He became a stranger, ripped out of my life with almost no warning. Since then, I have had to deal with grief. Nights spent crying instead of sleeping; days spent sleeping instead of living. This grief is very disconcerting. I never thought I could grieve the loss of someone who is still very much alive. The grief has not come to an end and I do not see an end in sight. Even though he hurt me more than anyone ever has before, I still love him.