My Dad is Dead

30 years ago, my dad died.

I could go on and on about it was a freak accident. I could go on and on about how he sacrificed his life for our country. I could write paragraphs about his bravery and how proud my family is to be a Gold Star Family.

..but it would only be a part of the story.

I honestly think that the older I get, the more I am aware of how it impacted me. I’m more aware of how it really has an effect on my brain and the way that I plan my family. I don’t know a lot of 30-year-olds that insist on having a kiss goodbye every day no matter what, or panic if arguments aren’t solved before going to sleep. I’m sure that a lot of those symptoms are based in some anxiety, but I also know that they come from a lifetime of being told that my family lost someone extremely important unexpectedly.

I didn’t really get to mourn. How can you mourn something that you never had? Is it even fair to mourn? I have several friends that have lost their dads recently. Do I even get to count myself as part of this group?

I have no memories of him - he was gone before my first birthday. My mom remarried an amazing man that has raised me and my sister like his own flesh and blood for the last 27 years, so it isn’t like we lacked a great father figure. But I weirdly find myself angry at things. There is a hole inside of my heart that I just cannot shake. It is a strange pain - a small and insignificant pain most of the time. It only becomes noticeable when I really let my head and my heart dig into it. It is like when you lose a tooth - at first you notice the hole, and eventually you forget that it existed.

Until you remember.

And you mentally go back over and over again because it feels uncomfortable. You pick and you poke and you prod and you ponder.

I find him in the weirdest places. I started putting sliced tomatoes in the oven - a delicious habit that I thought my brain concocted, until my mom said ‘Your dad used to do the same thing!’. It hit me in a weird way. Like using a blanket at a friend’s house…comforting but new.

My mannerisms. My love of logic and numbers and financial security. All come from him and his interests and his demeanor.

They’re engrained in me - like my fingerprints.

And yet.. I feel such a disconnect from where they come from. It is like pulling at the end of a string expecting there to be a balloon - and then the balloon doesn’t exist. It did… but it isn’t there anymore.

What is this mourning? What is this need to understand myself? My heritage? My family? I find myself really enjoying the family trees my sister finds - like we are all one big piece of a puzzle.

I’m not lost all of the time. I think we all develop coping skills, even if my family’s are a bit darker than others. But I do randomly get angry. I’ll see a scene on tv of a man that stupidly sacrifices himself for his family or his village, and I’ll find myself yelling at the tv ‘What a stupid decision! Does he even know that his sacrifice means nothing when his family is lost and heartbroken without him?’.

…I’m sure I’m very popular with the masses for this reason.

…maybe it is why I’m not invited to movie watching parties..

I don’t think anyone would truly understand this unless they lost someone close to them. It seems so brave and heroic until it is real, and someone is gone, and children grow up with empty spaces they aren’t sure how to fill.

I don’t quite have the answer. For every child that has to grow up with their parent being a mystery, I see you.

I understand feeling like part of your identity and belonging are missing. I understand feeling like there is a hole inside.

I see you if you lost a parent recently. I see you if you lost a parent as a child before you really got to experience and know them.

I see you - and you are not alone.

So for this 30th anniversary, I’m going to hold a space for all of you.

I’ll look back, and mourn what could have been, and let myself feel it.

We honestly all deserve to let ourselves feel it.

XOXO,

Windham