Here I sit on the eve of one of my top two most hated holidays, Father’s Day. Friends Facebook and Instagram posts will be starting early tomorrow, celebrations of joy and thankfulness for 1/2 of their DNA. I of course, won’t be celebrating anything.
I don’t know how I will be spending the day this year. Last year I layed in my hammock in the back yard journaling about how much I hated the day and wrote my plans of suicide. Thinking back to those days is hard. There was so much shame and self hate and wanting to escape this life. That’s not to say I still don’t often think of ending my life, but it doesn’t carry the same urgency that it once did.
Nowadays, I mostly just feel sad. I’m tired of waiting for things to get better and of feeling the way that I do. I’m exhausted from trying to explain why things are the way that they are.
The sadness and the rage that slowly simmer beneath the surface feel like they will consume me some days. Mostly though, I just find myself trying to make sense of things that don’t make sense. I will never understand how or why a father would decide to do the things my father did. And maybe that is how it’s meant to be.
I still don’t know what I will be doing tomorrow. But I won’t be talking about my father. I won’t be laying in a hammock writing thoughts of suicide. And I won’t be telling anyone how much I hate him. I might take C to the beach for the day, and try to make myself smile while the sadness fights for control. I’ll tell myself he’s gone and that he can no longer hurt me. I will at least try to find some comfort in that.