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the end of february marks four years since my dads suicide death. i know, what a drag.
in short, life keeps on going. i have had many adventures, some mishaps, wild joyful rides, and a few “oh, shit fucks”.
in short-long, my dads death launched me into ptsd, suicidal thoughts, grieving, mourning, depression, and a shake down in my life and my very existence like i’ve never experienced before.
it tore my family apart. i haven’t spoken with my mother in three years. my brother and i keep trying to rebuild an adult relationship after some serious post-mortem fractures. i’m learning forgiveness, for myself and my family. (i’m not there yet so i have no pointers.)
each year since ritchie died, i’ve marked the day with… something. the first was a fire, food and fireworks with me and a pal. the second, was a fire and most of the bottle of red wine, by myself. the third, a small gang of pals joined me in a sparkler sharing circle of our dead loved ones. this year, a group of gals gathered to remember and celebrate those who’ve died over a fire and… yep, more sparklers.
i was asked at this years fire, what has my dads suicide death been for me? the best i could do, as cliche and trite as it sounded rolling off my tongue, is that it’s been a gift. mostly.
the part where i walk in and find him: that’s terrifying, horrific, and traumatic.
the part where i lose all of my life to the post-mortem aftermath ~ job, sense of self, beliefs, opinions, ideas and dreams for my future, certainty and all comfort: that’s a goddamn fucking mess.
the part where i’m launched from the familiar safety net and lose any connection or relationship with mother, brother, or extended family: that’s a silent, solo wreck that feels like a core fear come realized. abandonment.
the part where the layers of my being are stripped, cast away, burned, ashes drowned ad nauseam, leaving behind molds of myself, each one just a bit more authentic, a bit more me: that’s the gift.
if i were to see the gift in my life after suicide, what’s left of my life, and of me, is the gift. i can see each fracture, each tear, each dynamic destruction (those resolute, righteous bitches) to be the precise extraction of what did not belong, was not serving me, was not my true self, was a lie, or a safety blanket that i had been clinging to, lest i go out on that limb and show up as who i am in the world.
in complete honesty, i can’t say that i’m 100% landed “there” in the gift space of this cluster fuck that sometimes feels like my life after suicide existence. you won’t find me saying “this is a gift, i am so blessed” about my life after suicide experience. for me, it’s been more like “well what in the fuck” and “are you fucking kidding me!?” or “well shit. when will this pain end?!”.
though, this small crack in my perception that arrived around the fire, this small crack in accepting this smidge as a gift? it feels ok. and that, for now, is enough.
on february 23, 2017 my dad ritchie completed suicide. ritchie’s choice to take his life has done a double-reversie-1080-backflip-super-spin into a gift; layer after layer, the gift of showing me to myself.
i love you,
xxo ~k 🤎