Showing posts tagged mourning
It’s such a shame we both found the courage to say fuck it and do whatever we wanted after he died. I wish I would have done this when he was alive so he could see me happy now.
me

Lately I’ve had this uncontrollable rage over the fact that I can’t, and will never again, be able to talk to my father.

I keep talking about how unfathomable is that he’s not here. That I still believe one day he’ll come back, that this emptiness and distance is not permanent. And then I dream. I dream that he is back, and I hug him so tight knowing never to let go. That for only a brief moment I can touch him, FEEL him, hear his voice. It seems so cruel these dreams. I wake up in a rage that I can’t. I can’t ever get another hug, or see his baby blues, hear him call me “bunny”, or argue with him about the state of tourism on our dismal island.

That I will never again tell him that I love him, that I will never hear that from him either. 

It just seems IMPOSSIBLE that that’s true.

Will I ever believe it?

Lately I can’t seem to stop talking about my father. I try to stop myself, remembering not to overwhelm, but I can’t seem to.
I always feel like I’m making the person I’m speaking to about my father very uncomfortable. I don’t cry, or tear up, I generally enjoy sharing stories of him. It triggers other memories, happy or sad. It keeps him alive, as I know he would love to tell these stories himself.
This has been building momentum for months now. The stories come easier, faster and more frequent. I’ve been trying to figure out why this is happening. This uncontrollable need to talk about him.
Last week, I had the most amazing sail on a 420. I trapezed without a harness, smiling from ear to ear, feeling the rush of wind and salt on my face. After dragging the boat on the dock, I passed a group of men, some were friends of my father. One stopped, said hello, and mentioned how great I looked. I thanked him, and continued on to the bar. Before I made it, I stopped straight in my tracks and had a thought.
The reason why I love sailing, being a member of his alma mater, and seeing his friends on a weekly basis, is because it is a constant reminder of him. Of a time where we as a family had fun. The building holds copious amounts of positive, lovely, scary and frustrating memories. 
I am unable to enter his home, so that is where I mourn him. I mourn him in the club he helped build, grow, where he reached legendary status, where everyone knew his (and as a consequence) my name. Where I constantly hear “I knew your father, he was a fantastic man, we miss him very much.”
It’s a place where he still lives. Where I can feel him, remember him, and keep his memory alive.
21 days and it will be an entire year without him.
How is that possible?

Lately I can’t seem to stop talking about my father. I try to stop myself, remembering not to overwhelm, but I can’t seem to.

I always feel like I’m making the person I’m speaking to about my father very uncomfortable. I don’t cry, or tear up, I generally enjoy sharing stories of him. It triggers other memories, happy or sad. It keeps him alive, as I know he would love to tell these stories himself.

This has been building momentum for months now. The stories come easier, faster and more frequent. I’ve been trying to figure out why this is happening. This uncontrollable need to talk about him.

Last week, I had the most amazing sail on a 420. I trapezed without a harness, smiling from ear to ear, feeling the rush of wind and salt on my face. After dragging the boat on the dock, I passed a group of men, some were friends of my father. One stopped, said hello, and mentioned how great I looked. I thanked him, and continued on to the bar. Before I made it, I stopped straight in my tracks and had a thought.

The reason why I love sailing, being a member of his alma mater, and seeing his friends on a weekly basis, is because it is a constant reminder of him. Of a time where we as a family had fun. The building holds copious amounts of positive, lovely, scary and frustrating memories. 

I am unable to enter his home, so that is where I mourn him. I mourn him in the club he helped build, grow, where he reached legendary status, where everyone knew his (and as a consequence) my name. Where I constantly hear “I knew your father, he was a fantastic man, we miss him very much.”

It’s a place where he still lives. Where I can feel him, remember him, and keep his memory alive.

21 days and it will be an entire year without him.

How is that possible?

It’s a funny thing…

It’s a funny thing that happens when someone dies. It can completely polarize a family. Suddenly there are “sides” to be taken and “battles” to be won.

When you’re on one “side” you automatically believe that your family will naturally take it. You’re blood after all. Yet you’re astonished when they not only “don’t” but they actively spew hate about you. You’re left completely baffled as to why or how this transformation could possibly take place.

For me, it’s a cousin whom has taken my late fathers 5 month old wife’s side. Why, I don’t know, nor care. What I can only deduce from this blatant disloyalty is that he does not respect my father because my father would never tolerate the hate that comes from this man’s lips.

Moving back to Bermuda I knew I would eventually run into these polarized people. I had to decide how I would act, very quickly. What I didn’t expect was complete and utter disregard for my actual existence from this man.

I’ve seen him twice now. Twice he has held his arrogant head high while walking past me. Deliberating ignoring my presence. The first time I didn’t care, the second shook me and I left.

I cried in my mother’s arms asking why? Why would he be so hateful when he apparently loved my father? And I am his child for god’s sake. She said there would always be people like that, you just had to hold your head high.

So I went back and held it high. I ignored him, as he did me, but instead of deliberately walking past without making eye contact (as he did) I just enjoyed myself. Spoke to people honestly and openly, laughed heartedly, and ignored his ever hateful presence.

Some how I feel as if I’ve “won” the battle.

My father would be proud.