Dear Dad,

In my support group they say that it is important not to live with guilt, but rather to frame those feelings in regret. Guilt, they say, will become all consuming, regret is difficult, but in time it is easier to learn to live with. Makes sense…

So, I wanted to tell you a few things I regret.

I regret that we lost six precious years together due to our estrangement. I know we came out of it stronger, we did more than simply survive it. But I do wish it hadn’t taken us so long to find healing, wholeness & renewal. How many more precious memories might we have had?

I regret that I did not recognize the full depth of your suffering.

I regret any time I encouraged you to “fake it until you feel it.” How exhausting it must have been to try…

I regret that when you told me you truly felt depressed, that I didn’t ask you if you ever thought of harming yourself. It didn’t occur to me. You never said it.

I regret that in all of our talks, and there were so many, that I wasn’t able to give you more, to do more, to see more. I tried. I tried to listen, to be present, to validate all that you felt and to encourage you to get help, to keep talking, to continue treading water, rather than sink.

I regret that I did not get to say goodbye one final time.

I regret that I did not get to tell you I love you one final time.

I regret that I didn’t truly understand the signs. People ask often if there were any. The answer is yes, but without a full understanding of the symptoms of depression, without knowing that you were only sharing a part of your pain & suffering, without you ever uttering the words that would set off the alarms–I didn’t see them.

I’m sorry Dad. I regret that I couldn’t do more. I loved you as best as I could. I regret that it wasn’t enough to help save you.

And most of all–I regret that you and I will not have more time together.

Deborah

The criticism that hurts the most is the one that echoes my own self-condemnation. (Hugh Prather)

You condemned yourself–in your final months on earth, in word, in deed & ultimately in death. Was the criticism you inflicted upon yourself that powerful? More powerful than the love & blessings that surrounded you?

I wonder if you are at peace Dad.
Did you end your pain, leave your torment behind.
I wish that for you. I wish for you that you found solace, wholeness, shalom, when you returned your soul to God’s care.
I wish I knew…

But then I think, well that isn’t really fair now is it Dad?
What if you are at peace? That is great for you. But, if I’m honest, that kind of pisses me off. Because you took your life, ended YOUR pain, and you left the rest of us with a mess! We’re not at peace Dad. We are muddling through it, loving one another down this dark & difficult road. But we are going to have to work really hard to MAKE peace with your death. It doesn’t seem quite fair now does it dad? I mean, you were a numbers guy after all. Does this seem like a fair equation?

What a painful irony it is. To wish at once that you are at peace, and that you might be hurting, just a little, for what we, your family & friends, have to endure. To be profoundly sad that I don’t know if you are okay, and to be mad that even if you are–we are not! It’s like a ping-pong game of emotions. Some days it’s exhausting.

I want to know your pain is over. That with God, you are no longer suffering. And I want to know that you have regret, that your heart is breaking just a little at the pain of those you loved & who loved you.

I don’t know what I want Dad. I want you. I want to sit across from you and tell you exactly how I am feeling right now. I want to yell at you and hug you, admonish you and hear your voice. I want to tell you that I love you, and that I’m angry, and sad…

Shalom is peace, a sense of wholeness. I wish for it, for you, for our family, for me. But we would not have to seek wholeness, if we were not left to pick up the broken pieces. The pieces you left behind.

You were broken inside, your soul in such pain, coming apart bit by painful bit. Depression took hold and chipped away at you, leaving a fragment of the person you had been before.

Now you are with God. I pray that there you have found healing. I do Dad. You deserve that, even if you didn’t fight to find it here on Earth.

And I forgive you… most of the time. But I hope you shed a tear or two each time we weep, or struggle or search for you. Because I think that we deserve that too…

It’s not that we fear the place of darkness but that we don’t think we are worth the effort to find a place of light. (Hugh Prather)

Leora & her grandpa

Dear Dad,

Yesterday marked three weeks since we said our final goodbye at your funeral. I miss you. I miss your voice. Throughout my day there are those moments when it hits me, I will never see you again. I will never talk to you again. I will never get to hug you again, hear you laugh, see you smile. And when it hits me it is like a punch in the gut.

I started going to a support group dad. Survivors of Suicide, that is what we are called now. I shake my head in shock and disbelief simply at the words, at the very notion that we can call ourselves that. But we do.

When I sit in that room, surrounded by others who have lost a loved one to suicide, I find some comfort. The comfort of being among people who know, truly know, the loss, the pain, the struggle, the sadness and the shock of losing someone who mattered so deeply to them, to mental illness & suicide. It helps me to know that the things I am feeling, experiencing are “normal”, if one can truly call any of this “normal.” I suppose it is our “new normal.”

I cry a lot, I sit and listen, and I get to talk about what I am feeling with no guard up, no need to soften or hide the rawness of my grief. Most people don’t like to witness grief in it’s rawest form, it makes them uncomfortable. But there, among my fellow survivors, my grief can come out unfiltered.

Dad, I read a quote from Anderson Cooper that said, “That is the thing about suicide, try as you might to remember how a person lived his life, you always end up thinking about how he ended it.” I hope that’s not true Dad. I truly do. But, here’s the thing… right now, it is. It is the truth I confront daily and it’s hard dad, so very, very fucking hard.

I need to tell you something dad. The hardest piece for me in this last week, has been this…

Your last months on this earth were not happy ones. Yes, you had moments of happiness, but they did not linger. You were struggling, suffering. You died sad daddy. There was no last fantastic & happy hurrah for us to savor. It had been a long time since we’d seen you smile, since we heard joy or even contentment in your voice.

You died alone dad. I struggle with that so much. There was no one there to hold your hand. There was no one there to wipe your tears. There was no one there to tell you not to be afraid.

You died with no goodbyes. No final moments for us to tell you we love you.

That is the part that cuts me the deepest as the shock wears off dad. You were in emotional pain, you died alone, and we did not get to say goodbye.

And dad, here is one more of the most difficult truths I grapple with. I know your death was not a peaceful one.

So dad, I hope Anderson Cooper isn’t right. I hope in time, I’ll be able to think of you and reflect on happier times. I believe that if I travel through this grief openly & honestly, hard as it is (and it is fucking hard dad) I’ll find that in time, happier thoughts come to mind. That I’ll begin to smile through the tears, and even be able to smile without them when I think of the journey we shared, the lessons we learned, the hardships we endured, the battles we fought and above all…. the love we shared as father & daughter.

I miss you dad. I miss you so fucking much. And I hate the way you died… I just hate it.
You deserved so much more than that. We all did.
D

Yael and her grandpa