Going through it

Trigger warning: suicide

When my dad committed suicide, I was thirteen years old.

He didn’t write any notes,

he was an alcoholic who frequently got in fights with my mom during drunken nights, threatened suicide, told her he couldn’t live without her. a stubborn and proud man, but by the end of the he night would tell her where to pick him up.

The night he died, he called her one last time so the story goes.

He didn’t know where he was anymore.

He stopped talking,

Hung up.

Stopped answering.

It’s funny because this paints him tragic and villainous but

I remember the origami master who would fold paper planes for me perfectly every time.

The magician who juggled for and did card tricks for me, his astonished audience.

The long nights on our front porch

As he tossed another cold one back

And bellowed along beautifully to the country Sirius radio channels

A small town in Kansas, on the corner of our street, lights on until late,

Singing along, listening to whatever story he had for me,

I hung onto every word he said,

But I can’t remember them now.

He saw my name in lights, saw me living the life

He never got himself.

The last time we went on a road trip we listened to Tim McGraw’s album “live like you were dying”

And I, a 12 year old not quite too ashamed to be buddy buddy with their dad, singing along to every song we knew the words to.

When he died, I sat with one of the songs on repeat for days, ironically a song called “kill myself”,

Which I, already depressed and in love with the drama, knew every word to prior to his death.

I sat in our spot,

Sang along,

Wondering how the rest of the world kept moving

How something so shocking could happen to me,

how nobody else could feel it.

How Nobody else could see the atom bomb that hit our house

Even if they talked about it

In hushed tones

Small towns and that gossip,

Tea party central,

Those hungry eyes, begging for a taste

Of even scraps from our broken table, and I’m so glad I’m not there anymore.

I sit here, almost 13 years later, realizing this year is pivotal in the way I’m turning 26,

That he’s been gone almost longer than I had him here.

I listen to that album, breathe in deep

Realize we don’t always get to leave

A note.

We don’t always get

Words to die by

Someone by our side

So we have to live this life

Like we are dying

And that is so cliche

Yeah, you’re right

But if we don’t, nobody knows

How we feel

Or what we want

Or dream about at night

We dont even remember sometimes

And I’m not saying that because I’m high

Because I am but that’s not the point

The point is that

Against all the odds I haven’t drank in over a year and I realize part of the itch is in remembering the good old days instead of the mixture of good and bad

Remembering that

I am so much better

When I’m sober

And I’m not counting my bong