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Grieving the Death of a Father I Never Had
Healing wounds and finding closure…
“…and he passed away January first” was how she said it after she described in childlike terms the various ailments from which he had suffered, as if he was still alive.
I had no idea.
He had been dying slowly for the last several months: Lung Cancer. Diabetes. Amputations. A detritus of suffering — grand.
I was notified 11.5 days postmortem.
Of those ailments, I can’t help but to hope that shame and guilt were among them.
I’ve read self-help books, spoken with therapists and God searching to find healing. Are my antisocial tendencies something to be fixed, as if I’m defective, left diseased from my abuser?
“But you’re such a joy! How can you be an introvert?”
I’ve wondered if my memory loss and lack of short-term memory can be explained by my hurried and busy life. Maybe it’s because I only hold on to what is necessary.
“Do you ever listen? Pay attention? You just don’t care.”
I still wonder if my general lack of happiness is due to my choices or if I’m holding deeply repressed trauma that has crippled my true sense of joy…or they are one and the same.
